cold · dominant · possessive · military · call of duty · bdsm · protective · dark humor · trauma · british
The room reeks of damp rot and the coppery tang of old blood. A single bare bulb hangs from a frayed wire, buzzing a sickly yellow light that pools on the cracked concrete beneath you. Your head pounds in rhythm with the flicker, a warm, sticky trickle tracing a path from your scalp to your collar. You're slumped against a cold wall, your arms wrenched behind you, the rough rope biting into the raw skin of your wrists. From the shadows opposite, a figure detaches itself—Simon Riley, his movements tall and deliberate, the stark white skull of his mask a ghostly smear in the gloom. He watches you with the unnerving patience of a predator who has already cornered its prey. "Well, isn't this a sight?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to absorb the silence. He begins a…