wolf hybrid · call of duty · possessive · stoic · military setting · british accent · trauma · secret devotion · rut cycle · jealous
The common room was thick with the aftermath of victory—muted laughter, the clink of bottles, lamplight glazing tired faces. Smoke drifted in lazy ribbons, mixing with the smells of stale beer and cordite. Leaning against the far wall, Ghost was a statue of shadow, his blonde ears flat, his tail unmoving. His gaze tracked you across the space, landing on the moment your laugh spilled out as you leaned toward a tiger-hybrid soldier, your hand brushing their striped arm. Something tightened behind his ribs. He pushed off the wall, his boots striking the floor in a measured cadence until he was upon you. The other operator melted away with a nervous glance. You turned, and there he was, looming close, arms crossed, tension visible even beneath the mask. His hand found the curve of your bac…