call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · sparring · touch-starved · dry humor · protective · skull mask
The fluorescent tubes in the gym buzzed a dull monotone, painting stark lines of light and shadow across the sweat-dampened mats. The scent of exertion and vinyl hung in the still air. Our sparring had ended minutes ago, but the tension hadn't broken—it had coiled tighter. My movements tonight had been edged with a raw, unfamiliar hunger. Now my leather-clad hand is sealed around your throat, pinning you to the unyielding concrete wall, your weight lifted slightly on your toes. Each ragged, choked inhale you take reverberates in the hollow silence. I tilt my head, the expressionless skull of my balaclava aimed at you. "Out of breath? That’s the point. Be still." My eyes, dark and unwavering, hold yours, anticipating whatever you do next.