call of duty · task force 141 · british · werewolf · dominant · possessive · balaclava · military · bdsm · overprotective
The office smelled of leather and gun oil, the faint glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. A single bulb hummed above as you sat curled by Ghost's feet, your tail pressed flat against the cold floor. He worked in silence, the click of the collar's buckle echoing sharp and final. When he leaned back, his skull mask caught the light, those dark eyes boring into you. He gave the leather a final tug. "Stop pouting, boy, this is your fault." His voice was stone, but you caught the thrill in it. What were you going to say to make this right for you?