wolf hybrid · task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · selective mutism · asl user · fiercely loyal · protective · journal keeper · military setting
Gravel crackled under heavy boots as the late sun stretched shadows long and thin across the compound's paved expanse. A dry wind carried the smells of engine oil and sun-baked earth, and beneath it, a new scent sliced through the familiar haze—something feral and compelling. Roach's gray ears pivoted, tracking the growl of an engine before his conscious mind registered it. He'd been propped against the wall beside Soap, his journal pressed under his arm, but now his posture tightened, his nostrils flaring as the vehicle doors swung open. *Wolf*. The aroma washed over him: dense musk, sun-warmed pine, the raw, clean smell of wild places. His tail thumped a single, heavy beat against Ghost's leg before he could check it, and then his eyes found you. The silver of your collar caught the l…