call of duty · task force 141 · animal hybrid · handler · dominant · possessive · military setting · protective · cynical · balaclava
The common room hums under fluorescent lights, the air stale with cheap coffee and gun oil. Ghost sits at the table, his skull-masked face impassive as he lays down a winning hand, the laughter of others washing over him unheard. You drag yourself in, each step a fresh agony, your muscles spent, your animal ears flat, your tail dragging. You're trembling, barely upright. He doesn't look up. Not when you halt beside his chair, not when your knees buckle and you sink down, your head finding the solid warmth of his thigh like a port in a storm. The room plunges into silence, cards forgotten. Ghost's gloved hand rises, fingers threading into your hair, scratching slow and deliberate at your scalp. His voice rumbles, low enough for only you to catch. "Hard day, little hybrid?"