The Captain, likewise, doesn’t know how the assessment is being scored, or how to win. But he, too, knows in his bones that whatever the rubric, the winner will be the one who’s punished less.
And he knows, just as deep, that the sounds the Soldier is making sure make it feel like the Captain is winning.
Until, that is, the Soldier gives an unexpectedly hard yank on the leash and the Captain, admittedly feeling a little drunk (does he know what drunk feels like? This must be it) on the scent and taste of him, is caught off guard by it, and then by the foot in his chest. Every inch he’s shoved back makes it harder to breathe — he gasps as his throat strains against the collar and his arms start to lift, as if to reach out for the Soldier, to drag them back together.
But the Soldier has him at a disadvantage. Two, really, between the collar and his locked-out leg. Now the Captain is off-balance, crouched and panting as his chest heaves beneath the sole of the foot pressed against it, his mouth cherry-red and glistening, his eyes dark and blown. The soft pants he’s wearing do little to hide the way they’re distinctly tented at the front, a little damp. The Captain hadn’t noticed before, previously too intent on his task and then too concerned with pulling air into his lungs to pay much attention to the heat that’s been pooling, slow but steady, below his navel. But now the fabric shifts just so and the zing that shoots through him makes his eyes roll back a little and flutter.
He snaps them open a second later and glances down, almost like he’s got to see with his eyes what he can feel, suddenly and almost overwhelmingly, about his own body. His breath rasps harshly in his throat as his eyes flick back up to the Soldier — snagging first, admittedly, on the hard shaft bobbing in the harsh fluorescent light, thick and flushed. Then they finally crawl up to the other’s eyes.
The Soldier says he’s had enough. The Captain feels like he needs… something, now. Right now. Friction. Hard muscle against the aching parts of him. He’s never needed anything more. He does finally reach up now, grips the Soldier’s calf, straining to keep him at a distance. He doesn’t pull yet, though his muscles tense, ready to twist or yank. He waits to see if the Soldier is going to keep him here. If he needs to take the upper hand. The Captain is not usually patient. It feels like patience is the last thing he wants to exercise now. But it also feels like the only measure of control he has in this situation, and he clings to it, stubbornly, just like he clings to the other’s leg.
“Is that really enough?” he asks, voice hoarse and thin with the collar still constricting his throat. “I could do more.”
What, he’s not sure. But he wants to find out. And there’s no alarm blaring, no bell sounding, no one shouting at them to stand down. Why should they stop, until someone makes them? This test isn’t over yet.
no subject
And he knows, just as deep, that the sounds the Soldier is making sure make it feel like the Captain is winning.
Until, that is, the Soldier gives an unexpectedly hard yank on the leash and the Captain, admittedly feeling a little drunk (does he know what drunk feels like? This must be it) on the scent and taste of him, is caught off guard by it, and then by the foot in his chest. Every inch he’s shoved back makes it harder to breathe — he gasps as his throat strains against the collar and his arms start to lift, as if to reach out for the Soldier, to drag them back together.
But the Soldier has him at a disadvantage. Two, really, between the collar and his locked-out leg. Now the Captain is off-balance, crouched and panting as his chest heaves beneath the sole of the foot pressed against it, his mouth cherry-red and glistening, his eyes dark and blown. The soft pants he’s wearing do little to hide the way they’re distinctly tented at the front, a little damp. The Captain hadn’t noticed before, previously too intent on his task and then too concerned with pulling air into his lungs to pay much attention to the heat that’s been pooling, slow but steady, below his navel. But now the fabric shifts just so and the zing that shoots through him makes his eyes roll back a little and flutter.
He snaps them open a second later and glances down, almost like he’s got to see with his eyes what he can feel, suddenly and almost overwhelmingly, about his own body. His breath rasps harshly in his throat as his eyes flick back up to the Soldier — snagging first, admittedly, on the hard shaft bobbing in the harsh fluorescent light, thick and flushed. Then they finally crawl up to the other’s eyes.
The Soldier says he’s had enough. The Captain feels like he needs… something, now. Right now. Friction. Hard muscle against the aching parts of him. He’s never needed anything more. He does finally reach up now, grips the Soldier’s calf, straining to keep him at a distance. He doesn’t pull yet, though his muscles tense, ready to twist or yank. He waits to see if the Soldier is going to keep him here. If he needs to take the upper hand. The Captain is not usually patient. It feels like patience is the last thing he wants to exercise now. But it also feels like the only measure of control he has in this situation, and he clings to it, stubbornly, just like he clings to the other’s leg.
“Is that really enough?” he asks, voice hoarse and thin with the collar still constricting his throat. “I could do more.”
What, he’s not sure. But he wants to find out. And there’s no alarm blaring, no bell sounding, no one shouting at them to stand down. Why should they stop, until someone makes them? This test isn’t over yet.