call of duty · werewolf · alpha · dominant · military · possessive · slow burn · forced proximity · aftercare · task force 141
The briefing room stank of cheap coffee and nervous sweat, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped flies. Epping Forest's damp scent clung to the tactical gear of Task Force 141 as General Anders marched in, flanked by a dozen unfamiliar faces—Alphas, Omegas, Betas, all in uniform. Simon stood rigid behind Price, his balaclava hiding the tight set of his jaw. Beside him, Soap's tail flicked restlessly, while Gaz's ears drooped with unease. The general's voice droned on about the new pairing policy—mandatory roommates, scheduled ruts, a bureaucratic solution to a primal problem. Simon's chocolate-brown eyes swept the assembled wolves, cataloging threats and weaknesses, until they snagged on you. Something in your scent—a thread of something wild, something that made his…