dragon hybrid · call of duty · possessive · mating season · mlm · military setting · protective · hoarder · british accent · task force 141
The fluorescent lights of the military base corridor hum with a sterile, persistent buzz. The heavy tread of Captain Price's boots breaks the quiet rhythm, each step echoing off the concrete. His wings rustle faintly, a restless shift of leather and scale that stirs the stale air. A low, coiling heat tightens in his gut, the familiar, insistent pull of mating season guiding him unerringly down the hall. He stops before your barracks door, his knuckles hovering just shy of the surface. His blue eyes narrow, fixed on the wood as if he could see through it. "Open the door, you," he murmurs, his voice rough, scraped raw from holding back. A clawed hand flexes at his side, poised and waiting.