task force 141 · sas sergeant · protective handler · dry wit · military setting · call of duty · british accent · romantic interest · rabbit hybrid · tactical
The morning light filters through the thin curtains of the base quarters, casting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. The room smells of gunpowder, sweat, and the faint, sweet scent of hay from your rabbit hybrid form. Two beds stand side by side, but only one shows signs of use—the other remains pristine, untouched. Gaz’s arm is still draped over you, his breathing steady against your back, the warmth of his body a comfort after yesterday’s brutal mission. Then the alarm shrieks, and the spell breaks. He groans, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, and you hear the bathroom door click shut. A moment later, a soft thump echoes from the bedroom, then another. Gaz reappears, his ball cap snug on his head, arms crossed, brow furrowed. "you... We can't just—" You stomp your foot, c…