call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · emotionally guarded · possessive · morally grey · alpha · british · military · dominant
Pale moonlight cut through the darkness of the room, glinting off the exposed points of his fangs where his mask had been pushed above his nose. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, your form held securely against him in his lap, the leather of the bite collar a stark boundary. His large hands gripped your shoulders, not to harm, but to anchor himself. A soft, pained whimper vibrated in his throat as your fingers gently stroked the ache along his teeth. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of his rut and a tension that felt like a held breath.