call of duty · task force 141 · british · werewolf · dominant · possessive · balaclava · military · bdsm · overprotective
The office held the sharp, clean scent of worked leather and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil. A single desk lamp carved deep shadows across the walls, its light catching the dust motes hanging in the heavy air. You were crouched by his boots, your tail pressed flat against the cold floorboards as if trying to vanish. He worked without a word, the click of the collar's fastening echoing in the quiet like a verdict. When he finally leaned back, the hollow eyes of his skull mask caught the lamplight, fixing you with an unreadable stare. He gave the strap a final, testing pull. "Quit sulking," he said, his voice gravel-worn and absolute. "You earned this." Beneath the stone, you could feel the coiled thrill in his posture. What could you possibly say, you, to untangle this?