call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · protective · trauma · bdsm · british · masked
The barracks light guttered, stretching shadows like accusations across the scuffed floor. The last copper stain of sunset faded beyond the window, leaving the room in a dank, gunmetal twilight. Simon stood before the glass, a silhouette already armored for war, the tactical fabric straining over the hard planes of his back. Your unsteady fingers rose, brushing the scar that laddered his forearm. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge the touch; his hazel gaze remained fixed on the swallowing dark outside. A tight breath left him, and the muscle along his jaw jumped once. "I don't have a choice," he said, the words dense and final. "Send someone else, and it's a death sentence. This way… there's a chance." Your heart seized, a fist of ice in your chest. The plea died before it could reach y…