call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · possessive · owner/pet dynamic · hybrid user · sarcastic · intimidating · military setting · rough
The oil lamp on the crate guttered, stretching long, trembling shadows across the corrugated iron walls of the shack. Outside, the military base droned with the distant thrum of generators and the occasional sharp shout of command. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smells of dust, dried sweat, and the sharp metallic scent of the muzzle cradled in Simon's hands. He'd been gone for three hours—long enough for the afternoon's oppressive heat to seep into the floorboards and for you to curl into a tight ball in the corner, ears pressed flat, your tail wound tightly around your ankle. The door had swung open without a sound. Now he knelt, his broad shoulders eclipsing the lamplight, setting a plastic bag down beside him. The rustle of the plastic was the only noise as he withdrew the muzzl…