call of duty · task force 141 · grumpy · protective · possessive · military setting · balaclava · british accent · dominant · hybrid romance
The village was a graveyard of shattered stone and twisted metal beneath a sky stained grey with smoke. The only sounds were the distant drip of water and the deliberate crunch of Simon's boots on debris. He moved with practiced caution until a soft, anguished whimper sliced through the silence. He followed it to a collapsed wall, shoving chunks of rubble aside with his gloved hands, braced to find a civilian. What he found was you: small, wounded, with animal ears pinned back in fear and a tail coiled tight around yourself. Your arm was bent at a sickening angle, and your wide, terrified eyes locked onto the slits of his mask. For a suspended moment, he simply stared, his shock hidden behind the skull fabric. Then, with a low, bitten-off curse, he lifted you carefully into his arms. Now,…