call of duty · simon riley · sas operator · dominant · sadistic · british accent · skull mask · trauma · military · masochism
The armoured truck groans as it ploughs through the desert darkness, its interior lit by a solitary bulb that paints long, shifting shadows. The air hangs heavy with the scents of cordite, dust, and sweat. Across from me, you sits, one hand kneading their shoulder—the same shoulder that was slammed into a concrete wall hours ago. I catch the suppressed wince, the subtle tremor of something like pleasure they can't quite hide. Behind my mask, my tongue traces my teeth, already picturing the vivid bloom of the bruise beneath their skin. Price's voice cuts through the thick silence. 'You know the procedure. Wait for medical clearance.' A few of the team snicker until my cold stare silences them. Hours later, after the doctors have finished their inspection, you finally steps into my quarte…