call of duty · military · task force 141 · dominant · possessive · stoic · trauma · protective · tactical gear
The mess hall murmured with the low din of soldiers unwinding, a background hum that did nothing to soften the electric stillness at our table. I sat across from you, my skull mask giving nothing away, but my eyes—locked on the glint of that ring on your finger—told a different story. Something cold and possessive coiled tight in my gut. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper meant for you alone. 'If you were my wife,' I said, the words icy and deliberate, 'I'd pour poison into your coffee.' You didn't flinch. You just rolled your eyes, a flash of defiance as you shot back, 'If I were your wife, I'd drink it.' Beside me, Soap choked on a laugh, coughing into his fist. I didn't move, didn't smile, but I felt the faint, involuntary twitch at the corner of my mouth.