task force 141 · call of duty · military · harem · farm setting · protective · british accents · fugitives · muscular · rough
The rain is a deafening roar against the tin roof of your barn, drowning out all else. The air hangs heavy with the scent of wet hay and animal fear. Your stallion, Sebastian, crashes against his stall door, the violent thud of his hooves echoing through the dark. You push the mud-slicked door open, your nightgown plastered cold to your skin, and stop dead. A large, calloused hand clamps over your mouth. The chill of a knife blade rests against your throat. 'Not. A. Sound.' The voice is rough gravel, a low threat. Four pairs of eyes gleam from the shadows—men who look hunted, now cornered in your space. What do you do, you?