#hybird!reader

It's been more than two weeks since then and you've been ran ragged, sniffing false bombs and disarming them only to be asked to do it all again 30 minutes later, its none stop. Price calls it training, everyone knows its punishment. And apparently he still isn't convinced you've learned your lesson.

You're halfway into week 3 of this treatment when you stumble into the barracks rec room, looking one foot in the grave and shaking with exhaustion, your ears are layed flat to your head, and your tail is unusually still compared to its usual wagging or thrashing, hanging limping at your back.

The rest of the team sit around a table, cards laid out across the table and gathered in hands, your too tired to try and decipher what game their playing, but you'd wager Price is winning and somehow Soap is cheating, no matter what game it is.

You can smell the alcohol on their breathes even across the room, keen nose picking up the bitter scent of whatever drink they've decided on for tonight, probably beer or whiskey, you dont have the energy to differentiate between the amber colored liquors in glasses on the table right now, most are running low.

The scent of a ciger follows quickly, and you aren't sure how it isn't what you picked up on first as the smell of smoke over powers the smell of the liquor, no doubt Price is the culprit. He does love the nasty things, and the other aren't much better.

It stings your nose in way that's bordering on to much in your current state, but you do your best to ignore it as you step further into the room.

For half a second you can feel your self respect dying in your rib cage before you lower yourself to the ground on aching joints, leaning against the nearest chair, which just happens to be Ghosts. Someone the team is certain you hate.

Everyones eyes drift to you when your head leans against his thigh to support the weight of your overtired body, their game is momentarily forgotten in favor of holding their breathes in anticipation for you to snarl at the man like you usually do, sharp teeth and even sharper threats on the tip of your tongue.

They wait but it never comes, Ghost can feel your trembling against him, he takes note of the pinned ears, limp tail and tired eyes exaggerated by the matching bags under them.

You dont even growl as Ghosts free hand, the one not holding his cards, lowers cautiously to your head because even he is waiting for what everyone believes to be the inevitable reality of you biting his hand, even if you came to him.

And yet, theres still a lack of snarling, no flash of sharp fangs.

His hand meets your hair with barely any reaction, he brushes it over your hair lightly, and you push up into it, leaning into the touch. You swallow a whine in the back of your throat, trying to keep some semblance of dignity, even after dropping to the floor and leaning on the man your supposed hate, seeking attention.

"Ya' all tired out, Mutt?" Ghost murmurs, pushing buttons he knows should pull a response from you, but when he just gets a nod in return he knows you've been completely sapped of energy, to exhausted to take offense at being called a mutt.

Ghost continues to run his hand over your hair, rubbing one of your ears between two fingers, and you swallow another whimper, continuing to push up against his hand, chasing the little bits of affection while everyone else is still watching, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the calm before the storm to be over.

A small sound finally escapes from your throat, despite your best efforts to stop it, you press up harder against Ghosts hand before your turn more towards him, raising one hand to his thigh and looking up with wet tired eyes.

he raises a eyebrow, this is a expression he's never seen before on you, let alone anyone else has, you’ve always had this cold determination and detached façade since arriving on base, like you've been trying to prove your worth and strength to the team, to prove you belong here, as part of the 141, among the war scarred men who you stand out against. And prove that in the end, you’re just as capable at them, and you wouldn't need them if it came down to it.

Your eyes dart away for a moment, debating if you're really about to do what your instincts are screaming at you to do, and well, it takes less then a second for them to win out over your tired mind. Any left over crumb of dignity is already halfway out the door anyway.

Shakily, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs, haphazardly crawling into Ghost's lap, his large frame allowing your smaller one to slot against him perfectly.

Everyone tries to keep their mouths shut, trying their best to not react in fear of what your response would be, would you suddenly have a taste for blood? but it's against their nature and you can hear Soap choke on air.

Ghosts hands hover inches away from touching you, unsure of exactly what he's supposed to do. But then you curl further into him and his arms reflexively wrap around you, and when you still don't growl at him one of his hands go back to your hair, threading his fingers through the messy locks. Your tail wags slowly.

You can still feel everyone's eyes on you, but tucked in Ghosts chest and with his hand rubbing over your ears you find it hard to care.

Eventually, they go back to their game, glancing back over at your every so often, but you both seem content to mostly ignore each other's presence, the guys focusing on their cards and refilling drinks.

Anytime Ghost shifts, worried as if he's going to stand or shove you off of your warm spot against him, you growl in warning and your tail stills. But when he settle's down still firmly in his chair everytime the noise stops.

The clock ticks in the back ground, it's getting late and the guys have finished their game, Price puts the cards away and Gaz cleans up the glasses and bottles of alcohol, taking them away.

Soap stretches getting up from his chair and when he passes you and Ghost on the way through the door he pats Ghost's shoulder and ruffles your hair, he gets a weak growl from you for his troubles.

"Night." He says, waving as he turns the corner and out of sight.

You feels eyes on you again and Ghost is staring down at you, studying. You huff and tuck further into him, avoiding his gaze.

He weighs his options, its lights out for you both by now, it should've been lights out for you hours ago, and you have different barracks.

Ghost tries to get his arms around you in a way he can lift you off of him and stand you up, but as he shifts you growl.

He raises a brow, "What do ya' want to do here, Mutt? It's lights out an' I'm not sleeping in this chair."

You only growl again and he sighs, "I am not gonna carry you to your barracks. Not happening."

You growl louder, while he stares down at you, groaning. He doesn't think you're gonna back down anytime soon. You've fallen completely into your instincts at this point and he can tell.

"Fine." He wraps a arm under your thighs and stands, chair being pushed back with a screech against the concrete floor.

Your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt, holding on to him, a quiet sound is still rumbling in your throat in warning, but its much more subtle.

"Quit yer rumbling, I'm not putting ya down." He murmurs, bouncing slightly on his feet to settle you into a better hold.

The sound halts and again your tail wags softly as he begins to walk, nails still digging into his clothing and holding on.

Ghost ignores the stares as he carries you through the barrack halls, recruits eyes sticking to you in his arms, one of the coldest people on base holding the other. You can feel their eyes, but you couldn't care less about them right now, though you probably will in the morning.

You don't pay much attention to where exactly Ghost is going before a door opens and your flooded with his scent, more then you already were being tucked into him, suddenly your surrounded by it and its the only thing you can smell.

Your tail speeds up, and a small happy sounding noise leaves your lips.

He closes the door behind both of you with his foot, and moves to set you down on his bed, which makes you hold on tighter.

"Let go, we're both still in gear and I don't plan on sleeping init." He huffs, trying to pull your claws away, you whine but he gives you a firm look, and reluctantly you let go.

He sits you on the bed and holds his hand out in a motion you can't describe other then telling you to stay.

You watch as he walks away, towards to bathroom, and again a whine starts in your throat.

"Ah," he makes a sound of warning, "None of that. You've got away with a lot, but I will not deal with a whiny Mutt."

Another whine dies in your throat, a pout sitting on your face. Ghost ignores it to continue to the bathroom.

"Pout all ya want." He murmurs pulling off his balaclava and washing his face, he leaves the door open to keep an eye on you.

He goes about his routine, changing, which he does in the bathroom with the door cracked.

When hes done walks back over to the bed, a shirt in hand and he holds it out to you, offering it.

"Take it, if you're sleeping here you aren't staying in those." He says, offering the shirt more insistantly when you don't immediately take it.

you only stare at him, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him more towards you, he leans over you.

"No. Ya change first." His voice his firm as he pulls his hand from your tight grip.

You frown and he can see the beginning of the whine no doubt in the works.

His eyes roll and he sets the shirt to the side, next to you on the bed, then he grabs the edge of your fatigues and with a murmur of "Arms up." pulls the top off over your head, as much as he could take this opportunity to stare he doesn't, he'd rather get you to bed, and sleep would do him some good too.

You fight weakly as he pulls the extra shirt over you, forcing your arms through there right holes and then your head.

His shirt almost drowns you in fabric, it pools around your waist where your butt meets the bed.

Next— after he takes off your boots for you —he grabs the hems of your pant legs, pulling them off of you in one smooth motion, they join your other clothes in the pile next to the corner of the bed.

"That'll have to do, any of my trousers would fall right off of you." He mumbles, mostly to himself, you haven't been much of a conversationalist since you came into the barracks tonight. He doesn't mind.

He pushes you further onto the bed and down to lay, climbing in himself, he wrangles you into his side and under the covers on the edge of the bed against the wall. He settles in quickly and you take only a few minutes more to settle as well, getting comfortable against him. He can feel your wagging tail under the covers and he sighs.

You can't help but think about how warm and surprisingly soft he is as you drift off, covered in his scent and him, in his shirt and bed. Your nose no longer trying to sniff out explosives for now.

─── ─── ── .✦

[blurb two here!] [blurb three here!]

─── ─── ── .✦

A/n: this totally isn’t a random blurb from a whole au i wanna do… no not at all. Definitely not. Theres definitely not lore for this in my drafts. Shhhhhh.

You were so desperate to prove yourself to your team; full of bigger–stronger–men. It felt as if they all looked down on you.

First mission with them, you were so nervous of making a bad impression, you secreted yellow droplets from your elbows. Filling the small helicopter with the sharp, acrid scent of bell peppers. Gaz shifted from beside you. Maybe out of confusion, but you noticed.

How could you ignore the looks from everyone aboard? Apologizing definitely didn't help the musky smell go away. Now you just felt hungry, and tired.

Or when you kept "buzzing" during a meeting. Your thick coat couldn't muffle the distinct sound of mechanical humming coming from your wings.

Only thing you felt good at was close quarter combat. It was easy- you could sense the motions and vibrations before the humans could. Except.. it was only thing you felt good for. If a target is farther away from you, you're as good as dead. Squinting can only get you so far.

Enter Ghost. He wasn't technically assigned to assist you but he did anyways. (When you needed it)

His deep voice was always in your ear, "Target at two o’clock, [♪]. Just look for the movement—don’t try to focus." he commanded.

You swiftly took the target out. "..Thanks." you awkwardly said, "You didn't have to do that, though."

So i heard ya’ll want more of bombdog!reader? Well don’t i have just the thing for you, how about the first time reader and Ghost met?

[blurb one here!] [blurb three here!]

─── ─── ── .✦

Hybirds are still a relatively new concept to the world, especially ones working in the military, when a recruiter approaches you in your senior year. He's interested in getting you involved with the bomb investigations branch of the military, and well, you've always been interested in things that go boom. Being a hybrid mix of a german shepherd and a belgian malinois doesn't hurt either.

What you don't realize is you've just agreed to being one of the first trial runs of turning what is usually a team— one of a handler and a K-9 —into one person.

Boot camp isn't… the best, its brutal, and not just in the training, infact you breeze through that, even with double the work of other recruits, all due to your hybrid genes giving you a leg up, making you high energy, motivated, and a workaholic. You feel like you have to have something to do all the time.

No, the training isn't the problem. Its the stares, its the name calling, the degradation from other recruits thats the issue. You can handle the yelling from the drill sargents, the insults, because its not just directed at you, it isn't targeted.

From the recruits? Its mean, its personal, it's constant. They call you "Mutt," "flea ridden," and a "dumb dog," along side so many other names. They talk about how you need to be muzzled and on a leash, how your nothing more than trouble. Nothing more then a obedient dog following every order.

When their not degrading and making jabs at you directly there talking behind your back, spreading rumors about you.

You don't make any friends in boot camp, your ostracized and pointedly left out when the Drill instructors aren't forcing you to be included. You were told platoons were supposed to be family, this hardly feels like one.

It reminds you more of the bullying you'd been subjected to all throughout school, the nasty name calling, the backhanded comments when you do something right, its all familiar but that doesn't make it any easier. At least in school there were other hybrids, you weren't alone in this cruel treatment, you had friends, people to fall back on and talk too. Here you have no one and nothing.

Here your not even allowed to call home.

At all comes to a head a week before graduation, your being forced into a ring two at a time to spar, it feels like a glorified gladiator ring with the way everyone watches the matches, cheering for whoever's in the middle.

Everyone cheers for your opponent, recruit Johnson, when he and you enter the ring, your ears pin to your head at the volume of the combined voices of your so called platoon, you can imagine the jarring laughter that'll follow if you don't win this.

You stand in the lose sand, hands curled into fists like you've been taught, like you're familiar with. You stare down your opponent, someone who you've spent the last weeks being tormented by, and anger boils in you, setting your veins on fire.

Before you realize fists are flying, yours and his, your able to dodge or block the first few hits, but so does Johnson.

He throws a fist towards your face and you dodge, he tries to kick you off balance and you block with your arm, his steel toed boots meeting muscle, your sure you'll be sporting a few nasty bruises after this.

It continues like this for a few more moments before he lands a hit against the side of your face and you stagger, growling.

You get lower to the ground and rush him, tackling him to the ground, both of you go down, both struggling for control and rolling in the sand, you trade punches, blood drips into your vision from a cut on your brow, and for second he gains control, you under him.

Hands wrap around your throat and you thrash, gasping for breath, you don't understand why no one is stepping in, why no one is stopping him, there are Drill sergeants watching, you know there is, you know a visting first sergeant is watching.

Your nails dig into his wrists, puncturing and drawing blood, covering both of your hands in the thick red liquid. Johnson hisses through his teeth, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

"You think some clawing will hurt me, dog?"

Dog. Mongrel. Mutt. You hate those stupid names.

You smash your head into his, stunning him, you shove and roll, managing to get him under you and keep him there. Wrapping your own hands around his throat, sharp nails dig into the skin on his neck, new blood joining your already covered hands, he pushes at your face and you don't even think before sharp teeth meet hand.

Blood fills your mouth and a second later you feel strong hands pulling you off of him, you fight, you thrash and kick and throw your body around best you can, but thick arms have wrapped around your torso, pinning your arms to your sides and lifting you off your feet. You growl and your ears are flat against your skull in distress, you can hear voices yelling, but your head is filled with static making the words impossible to understand.

Your opponent sits up on one of his elbows looking at you with rage and disgust, and maybe a little fear, as his other hand holds his neck, the blood from his bitten hand and his neck mix.

The blood in your mouth drips from it as you continue to growl, you watch as the Drill sergeants surround Johnson and help him to his feet. Red stained sand is left in his place as he's escorted away.

Whoever is holding you loosens their grip slightly, lowering you so your feet are on the ground again and leaning over you, but they don't let you go.

A voice in your ear breaks through the static in your head and your thrashing stills, ears twitching.

"I'm going to let ya go and yer gonna calm down. Do ya understand me?"

A growl still rumbles in your throat but you push it down, swallowing it and any left over blood in your mouth, it leaves a coppery aftertaste that you think you'll be tasting for days.

You nod and he slowly lets you go, straighting up, you do as well, fingers curled into your palms at your sides.

"Recruit, ya wanna explain what the bloody hell was happening out there?"

"Sir, no sir." You answer through clenched teeth, and turn to face the voice.

Its the visting first sergeant. Ghost. His arms are crossed over his wide chest, arms corded with thick muscle. He cuts an intimidating figure towering over you.

"Wasn't a request." He stares you down, you can see his cold eyes through the holes in his skull patterned balaclava.

Again, a growl starts in your throat but you force it down, your still heated from the fight and you can hear the whispering voices of your so called platoon.

"Sir, the other recruits of my platoon believe it is humorous to degrade this recruit, during the fight my opponent continued to do so, I reacted, sir." You answer begrudgingly, you hate the idea of being a snitch, it’s why you've never taken the other recruits behavior to the Drill sergeants. And its not like you can’t handle it. You always have.

he nods, eyeing you up and down, your covered in blood—your own and the other recruits, and bruises.

"Head to the medical examiner. Yer done here," He tells you, "And for yer own sake, ignore them other muppets, it won't do ya any good to go around biting off heads."

You nod, and turn on your heel. You have to walk past the crowd of people staring at you to get there. You wipe your sleeve over your mouth, trying to ignore their jarring as you pass, but you can pick out talk about muzzles and bite risks.

the next few hours of your day are spent sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in the medical examiners office, covered in dried blood and sand in your socks. You sit with your arms crossed, a almost blank expression.

A soldier stands in a corner across from you as a watchful eye, for your sake or to watch you is what your unsure of. It's uncomfortable, but by hour three he's gone, called away for more important matters.

On hour five your let go after someone checks your cuts and deems you're fine, telling you to clean and bandage your own wounds as they hand you a small first aid kit, they had worse problems to deal with then a hurt mutt.

suppressing a growl you stand from your seat and nod, thanking them with gritted teeth. That damn name follows you every where.

You bump back into Ghost on your way out, he tells you he was just coming to check on you, you try to brush him off, respectfully of course, but he just follows you.

He follows you into the Recruit barracks and into the large bathroom, he's like an oversized shadow, you set the small kit on the edge of the sink.

Staring in the mirror you try to ignore his looming over your shoulder, but his staring is making the hair on the back of your neck stand up, setting off your territorial instincts.

You round on him, voice strained as you talk, "Sir, dont you have something better to do then follow a 'dumb dog' around, Sir?"

Ghost tilts his head silently, studying you.

"I don't see a dog, just a recruit licking their wounds." He says, taking in the damage in full now.

"Would ya like some help with that?" He points at the small kit of first aid, his voice is gruff, and theres not much tone behind it, but it almost sounds soft, you wonder why he's doing this.

Your eyes jump between him and the kit and your ears pin back in suspicion, you've never been one to Readily trust.

The movement of him raising a brow is barely visible under his mask, "Well?" He questions.

Sheepishly, you agree, giving in, your body is sore all around and it hurts, this'll be over quicker with his help.

He sends you off to the showers to wash off dried blood and the sand thats still sticking to you, clinging to your skin, hair, fur and clothes.

Your hair is still damp when you join him by the sink again, only in your skivvies, your towel rests around your shoulders.

Ghost nods his head in approval before he leans down and grabs your face, turning your head left and right, examining the scrapes and bruises. Your ears pin to your head as your cheeks are pushes in by his hand.

He moves faster then you can react, your brain lagging behind as the adrenaline is finally leaving your body, hands wrap under your armpits and you make small sound of surprise, almost a squeak, suddenly you feet are off the floor for the second time today.

The next thing you know your sat on the edge of the sink in front of Ghost, his hands now rest on the sink on either side of you, he bends at the waist and leans into you, towards your neck.

You lean back away as much as you can in the small space but your back hits the mirror, your ears lay flatter against your skull some how and a quiet rumbling of a warning starts in the back of your throat.

"Quiet down, I'm just lookin'." He murmurs, one hand grabbing your jaw again, he turns your head to the side and up, better exposing your neck. Your eyes dart to a corner in the room where the walls and ceiling meet, avoiding looking at him. Your do your best to swallow the instinctive growl, as well as stop your blushing face.

He hums, letting go after what feels like minutes of observing, but was really seconds. He straightens up and opens the first aid kit, digging through it for what he needs.

Ghost pulls out disinfectant wipes and bandages, it stings when you he wipes over the small cuts on your face and you hiss, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

"Stop yer fussin, I thought ya wanted help." He huffs and you look away from him, hesitantly letting go of his wrist.

You hiss again through clenched teeth when the disinfectant touchs your cuts again, but you force you self to be still.

He cleans your wounds in silence, sticking bandaids over the opens that need them, its a quiet few moments shared between you, but it ends all to soon when he finishes up. He tells you to be careful when he leaves. You don't think you'll ever see him again.

When you get back to the main hall of the barracks your opponents bunk has been cleared and so has the one above yours, moved to a different empty bunk. You feel the other recruits eyes on your back, they keep their distance, but they talk, they name call, they threaten. Your to tired to care.

At lights out you settle into your bunk, wounds licked and bandaged, a the few cuts still sting but its mostly bruises, the most prominent around your neck.

The last week of boot camp is worse then it was before, daily you hear about muzzles and pulling teeth, daily you hear about being a bite risk and being put on a leash. One day someone says you should be put down like the dog you are for biting Johnson.

Somehow, you make it through, you finish the last test, you graduate, you become a private.

Your moved from team to team as your skills as needed over the next three years, and rumors follow you during that time, and they grow. You hear in passing whispers how apparently you've more then a few people, how before you've been put in a muzzle for it. You keep your head down, you ignore it, you ignore the names and sharp words, as you always have, but they're always there, nagging in the back of your head,

Eventually your known as the sergeant who bites, people avoid you, scared, or they look at you with disgust. Murmurs of "Dirty mongrel." and "Mutt." Become more the common place, there expected. There your reality. You resent it.

You've been with your current team for less than a week when you get another reassignment letter, but this time it'll be the last time it seems like, the word "permanent" emboldened and underlined on the paper. Your next assignment is a special opps team, one called the 141.

You pack back up what you had barely unpacked and the next day your put on a heli.

You arrive on the current base the 141 is stationed at after a multi hour ride, your pack light, you'd learned to downsize after being moved around so much.

Walking out of the heli your met with stares from others around, and your greeted by the lieutenant of the 141, Ghost.

─── ─── ── .✦

A/n: cranked this out in like, a day, so i apologize if some its dooky, specifically the fight scene, i tried to get it over with as fast as i could since i haven’t really written one before, so again i apologize if its ass. This is also longer than i really meant it to be, but it happens. and i definitely do not have the start of a third blurb in my drafts, no siree. Definitely not.

Sorry this took so long! I got really suddenly busy unfortunately, but here it is! The third blurb installment to this mini series(?)

The fight scene in here kicked my ass for a straight week

[blurb two here!] [blurb one here!]

─── ─── ── .✦

You don't trust the team. The 141.

Following Ghost through the halls of the base you try to pay attention to what he's saying you really do but your stuck thinking about him standing over you in boot camp years ago. You don’t know if he recognizes you.

Often you think of that day, the one that made the horrid rumors grow ten sizes. You still wonder why he bandaged your wound for you, why he followed you like a shadow. You should be nothing and no one to him, yet he took the time to disinfect your cuts.

While you still remember that small kindess, sitting on the sink in the barracks bathroom, you cant help but hold a small amount of resent for him for not stepping in sooner all that time ago, you place blame on him for the nasty rumors that now follow you. He could've stopped that fight when the other recruit was choking you, but he didn't, you don't think you'll ever understand why.

He introduces you to the rest of the team, one Captian John Price, one Sergeant John "Soap" Mctavish and one Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick.

It's a patchwork team of trauma, skill, and experience, you expect it to be like any other team you've worked with or on, your prepared for them to already have heard the rumors, your ready for the names that come with them and the whispers.

You get them, but from anyone but the team.

They greet you kindly but gruff, seemingly in the middle of a debrief, gathered in Captain Prices temporary office on this base.

It isn't completely uncommon for someone to treat you kindly, there've been a few people here and there who don't believe the rumors and don't listen to gossip, who treat you like a friend and person.

But a whole team? Unlikely, you'd never be that lucky.

At least not without a price.

Its sets you on edge and raises the hair on the back of your neck.

Soap seems to be the most— excited? eager? —to meet you, he shakes your hand with his bugger one and he has this smile on his face thats almost friendly. He's got a Scottish accent that you don't expect, though you didn't expect the English accents the rest of the team possess either.

"I was raised 'round hybreeds like ye. It'll be nice to be workin' with one." He says, your not sure if you believe him. You reply kindly, politely, you don't want to get on his bad side, lying or not.

You don't hang around long, excusing yourself to the barracks to "Settle in," tracing your steps back to where Ghost showed you they were.

Dropping your ruck sack on the cold concrete floor in front of whats been labeled your bunk and you sit on the edge heavily, you use your heel to kick your bag under the bunk, stashing it away.

the 141's been given their own bunk room, separate from the rest of the base, it's a nice change from the ones you've stayed in before, better then sharing a room with that one soldier who decided it'd be funny to take your bag and move it into the kennels on the base there.

for a week the 141 stays on the current base, you try to keep your distance from the rest of team, still weary, but its hard when their constantly dragging you to spar or sit with them for meals.

They squish you between Ghost and Soap at meals, they all make jokes you don't understand, stealing food off each others plates. You growl every time a hand comes close to your plate, they learn quickly to not reach towards yours. They don't mention it.

You don't join their conversations, you do your best to ignore them, remain at arms length. You're not friends, you're co-workers.

Could you be friends, a family? Isn't that what a team is supposed to be? Thats what you were promised.

During sparring you hold back, forcing growls—playful or not—down, you copy what you've seen and do as you've been taught. You try to fight like a human, with fists and feet, not claws and teeth.

When your not training your hiding out in the bunk room or a quiet corner, trying to avoid the whispers and prying eyes of the other soldiers on the base, but it's never long before one of team finds you and is dragging you along again. You don't know how they do it.

Week two starts with a relocation and a debriefing, the team is given their first op where you'll be coming along, one needing all hands on deck.

It's going well, or as well as it can be.

It Really was going fine—before your gun jammed up. you'd found and disarmed any bombs you could, you'd been paired off into a duo with Soap.

Who—against your best efforts—is growing on you, just a little, but then you lost track of him and found a few enemies you didn't mean to.

And then, as mentioned, your gun decided it was the goddamn perfect time to stall.

Now you're cornered, the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up, your instincts are going haywire and all kinds of warning bells are going off in your head.

Your surrounded and its not a feeling you like.

The enemy backs you into a corner, they've run out of ammo to your knowledge, spent it all making their way to you, but they out number your one to four. Somewhere in the back of your mind you're vaguely aware Ghost is supposed to be stationed close by with his sniper rifle as backup, watching. You also know you're in the way of any shot he could take, of him dropping bodies and he won't risk hitting his team, you, unless it’s necessary.

A growl rumbles loud and clear from your chest, loud enough the team can hear it over the comms, its like nothing they've heard from you before. Ghost watches through his scope as your ears pin back and your lips curl away from your teeth, flashing white in his vision.

Your center of gravity shifts and your knee's bend, hands to your sides and sharp nails on display, they look closer to claws after a week of not being filed down.

A guy in gear heavier then yours takes a step towards you and you lunge at him, people in the room falter as you crash into him, knocking him to the ground. Your claws find weak points in his gear, tearing through fabric and into skin.

He starts to struggle and you both wrestle for control, you can see the panic in his eyes as he fails to over power you, his team watches in horror as your head dips down and teeth meet throat. You bite down hard and you can hear him start to choke as blood fills his mouth.

Static fills your head as red stains everything in sight, the enemy team takesa step backwards as you look up, blood drips off of your chin from your mouth and paints your hands.

The one under you gargles and goes still.

One of them pushes another towards you, biting words leave what must be the teams leader's mouth but you don't care to decipher them through the static.

You use his hesitancy against him quickly, you lick the blood smeared around your mouth and growl threateningly before you jump at him.

He falters back and out of the way, just barely dodging your attempt at him, yout tail thrashes behinds you as now stand upright in front of him and lock eyes with him behind the mask he wears, you can see the way his eyes dart around the room like he's looking for escape.

When he takes his eyes off of you for a second you run at him again, he doesn't have the time to move out of the way this time.

He doesn't go down as easily as the last and you grapple against him before you manage to dig deadly claws into soft flesh and red gushs from the point of contact in his neck.

His hands go to his neck, trying to stop the bleeding but it's not enough, he stumbles backwards to the wall and slides down it, gasping for air like it'd help.

How tower over him on the ground, gear stained red, it drips from your nails to the floor and its smeared over your face.

You've only just torn you way through the third man's femoral artery when heavy boots steps enter the room and a gun goes off, the fouth and last enemy crumples to the floor and you ears swivel to the orgin of the shot.

A towering figure stands in the door frame and you growl at them before a sharp whistle breaks through the heavy static in your head and the figure steps into the light. Ghost.

Your growl quiets mostly, dying down to a low warning as he stalks into the room. You stand absolutely soaked in blood and the enemy's bodys lay dead or bleeding out around you.

Ghost says nothing as he approaches, swinging his rifle around on its strap to hang against his back before a hand is digging into one of his many pockets.

He grabs your jaw in a way you remember him doing before in way to much detail, your rumbling growl picks up a bit and he clicks his tongue.

"Quit yer damn grumbling." He warns and wipes a handkerchief against your face roughly, it comes away pink instead of its original off-white color.

you blink at him, confused, what is he doing?

"Ya really need to stop biting people, but I'll admit, that was bloody impressive." He says, still holding your face and squishing in your cheeks.

Your tail wags involuntarily for a breath moment before you force it to still and shove his hand off of you and quickly brush past him, mumbling a excuse of finding Soap.

He remembers you, and your unsure if you hate it or like it.

you pass Soap on the way to the exfil point, he watches you walk by with a raised eyebrow at the state of you.

You try your best to avoid Ghost after the team gets back to base and after the debriefing, You're attempts to avoid your lieutenant last about four hours, some how he hears about you avoid a mandatory med check after the encounter you had had.

Who knows what diseases those fuckers could've been carring.

One moment your hiding at the edge of the base's property, sitting in the grass and knees to your chest, picking at the fur on your tail, the next a hand is grabbing the strap on the back of your vest and hauling you up to your feet and dragging you away.

You scramble to find purchase under your feet, trying to reach behind you to and remove the hand pulling you along, your efforts useless, focus to spilt between gaining footing and trying to pry the hand away that neither are successful and you only end up stumbling backwards after who ever has you by the bitch strap.

You're to preoccupied to even growl earnestly.

"Would ya quit? Can't belive you, thinking ya could just avoid a med check." Theres that rough British accent that's becoming all too familiar.

You struggle against his hold harder and start to throw threats and insultsaround, ones that don't seem to hold much weight to Ghost but everyone you pass stares after you in horror at the graphic detail you use to threaten to tear Ghost's throat from his body and how you call him a giant motthefucker with a stick up his ass.

"Let go, you gigantic fucker— I do not need a med check!"

"Price and government policy would disagree." He huffs, the threats and insulting words roll off of him like water off of a ducks feathers.

He tugs you through the door to the medical and into its stark white walls, which has you struggling stronger.

Its not that your scared, no, you'd just prefer to skip the stupid fucking med check, you've been through them enough to know they don't really do anything and have had enough medics brush you off as a unimportant mutt to never want to do them again. Even if on occasion you'll run into a friendly military nurse who'll actually give a shit to check if somethings wrong instead of just sending you on your way.

Though this time you'd rather just be sent on your way, but you no doubt swallowed some of the blood from earlier and that's not something you can just be once overed for, what if that enemy team was carrying blood born diseases?

What you're really trying to avoid is the spread of gossip that'll come from this, stuff like tearing out a guys throat with your teeth travels fast on small military bases. And you can already hear the whispers calling you a dieased dog.

Ghost forces you into one of the uncomfortable waiting chairs, only pushing you back down into it when you try to stand up, he gives you a hard look and points down at the seat you sit on, wordlessly telling you to sit and stay.

You growl quietly at him, but stay put, arms crossing over your chest as you sink into the chair.

He waves over one of the nurses who stand around the desk as your ears pin flat to your head.

The nurse and Ghost talk over your head and your leg begins to bounce when drawing blood and a mouth swab is mentioned, this is going to take forever. You just want to go back to hiding or pass out in the barracks.

Odessa— the nurse —introduces herself, she's nice enough, hasn't called you a mutt or a mongrel, at least not yet. Maybe its because Ghost is with you.

She wanders off for a moment, presumably grabbing what she needs for a blood draw and a cheek swab.

While she's gone you glare up at Ghost, it unfortunately doesn't have the effect you want, he only stares back at you silently, almost daring you to try something. At least thats what it seems like to you.

Odessa returns with a tray of things that gets set on a side table next to you, she puts on new latex gloves that she snips against her wrist.

"Alright, lets get this over with." Odessa says, grabbing the cheek swab and hands it to Ghost. You raise a brow.

Odessa grabs your arm, pulling it away from your chest and starts to roll up your sleeve, she wipes the inside of your elbow with a cotton ball soaked in disinfectant. The smell burns your nose and you wrinkle it in distaste.

You watch as she gives Ghost a nod and he grabs your face as your eyes dart from her to him. You almost hate the way his hand on your face is becoming familiar along with his drawling voice.

He pushes in your cheeks in the same second you feel a needle slipping under your skin, the next second he presses harder, forcing your mouth open, your hand shoots up to grab his wrist, wrapping fingers around it tightly.

"Be nice." He warns, like you'll try and bite him.

He sticks the swab into your mouth, running it across the inside of your cheek.

It's all done in a matter of mere seconds, your blood is drawn, filled three small vials and your cheek is swab with an awful feeling swab before its similarly put into a plastic tube.

Odessa collects both things, labeling them as you and Ghost are stuck in a staring contest, his hand still on your face and yours still wrapped around his wrist.

You break first, turning your eyes away from him.

"Good boy." You see as he smiles under his patterned balaclava.

You growl lowly but he only chuckles, letting go of your face and reaching up to scratch behind your floppy ears.

Your mortified as your tail wags and thumps against the chair's leg unwillingly. Your cheeks go red and you roughly bat his hand away.

"Stop that." Your voice is low and threatening.

You get outta there as quickly as you can after that, the tests will take a while to come back. You shove your way out of the chair and past Ghost, speed walking out of medical.

Making sure Ghost isn't following you, you make your way to the barracks, slamming the door behind you.

You ignore Soap who's already in the room, watching you confused.

Collapsing onto your bunk face first, you groan into the sheets as the whole interaction plays over in your head. Tail again wagging against your will.

Fuck.

─── ─── ── .✦

─── ─── ── .✦

a/n: this took me way fucking longer then i meant it too, it also quite a bit longer then originally intended (just under 3000 words) but i hope ya’ll enjoy!! Again that fight scene kicked my goddamn ass for a week straight trying to get it right but i think i did alright.