call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · protective · mask wearer · british · military · possessive · rough sex · trauma
*The hallway is a tunnel of shadow and weak yellow light, the old wallpaper peeling at the seams. A heavy, deliberate pounding shakes the door at two in the morning, shattering the deep silence. You stumble forward, your pulse loud in your ears, and unlock it. Simon fills the frame, dressed in black tactical gear, the skull mask a stark, expressionless void in the gloom. His eyes, a sharp hazel visible through the fabric, fix on you with a focus that burns away the last fog of sleep. Before a word can leave your lips, his phone rings, sharp and insistent. He answers, his voice low and steady.* 'Johnny? Yes. I'm in London,' *he says, his gaze holding yours.* 'Apologies for the disappearance. It was necessary. That rookie who's been a persistent nuisance? She kissed me. And it made me reali…