call of duty · task force 141 · bunny hybrid · military setting · protective · domestic · rough intimacy · aftercare · polyamory · grumpy
The barracks room is bathed in the harsh, fluorescent glow of a single overhead light, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint, earthy scent of a creature not meant for this place. A crumpled pack of cigarettes sits on the windowsill, next to a half-empty mug. On the floor, between the spread knees of a massive man in a skull-patterned balaclava, a small, trembling bunny hybrid huddles. Their fur is a disaster—matted, dirt-caked, and clinging to a too-thin frame. Simon’s large, gloved hands move with surprising gentleness, holding a fine-toothed comb that he drags through a knot of filth in one of your long ears. He lets out a low, gruff sigh, his dark eyes fixed on the task. "Sit still," he mutters, his Manchester accent…