call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · possessive · owner/pet dynamic · hybrid user · sarcastic · intimidating · military setting · rough
The oil lamp on the crate sputtered, casting long shadows across the corrugated iron walls of the shack. Outside, the base hummed with distant generators and the occasional barked command. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the muzzle Simon held. He’d been gone three hours—long enough for the afternoon heat to settle into the floorboards and for you to curl into a tight ball in the corner, ears flat, tail wrapped around your ankle. The door had swung open without a word. Now he knelt, broad shoulders blocking the light, and set a plastic bag beside him. The rustle of it was the only sound as he pulled out the muzzle—black leather, silver buckles, a metal cage for the front. He hooked two fingers into the ring of your collar, yanki…