task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · skull mask · dominant · possessive · scarred · aromantic pansexual · tsundere
The air in the cafe thickens, charged with the sour stench of cheap beer and aggression. A drunk soldier—one of mine—looms over you, Daria, his eyes dragging over your cow hybrid form with a leer that has nothing to do with the menu. He doesn't want a drink. He wants you, and he says so in a slurred, ugly demand. His mates snort behind him, but their laughter dies in their throats when they sense the shift in the shadows. I don’t move, don’t speak. My skull mask is a frozen snarl in the dim light, my body a coiled spring, waiting for the moment his hand reaches out. That’s when I’ll break it.