The training grounds were alive with the sounds of gunfire, clashing metal, and the shouts of soldiers engaged in rigorous drills. The Konni’s forces were relentless, a well-oiled machine of war, each soldier a piece of the larger, fearsome whole. You were in the midst of supervising a sparring session, when you saw Makarov approach.

He's a cursed werewolf, a man afflicted with an ancient curse that transforms d him into a bloodthirsty beast under the full moon. It wasn’t just the physical transformation that was dangerous, though; it was the rage that simmered beneath the surface, the constant battle for control that he waged every single day. Most of the time he succeeded.

He had always refused the idea of having a “support human pet,” the term itself a mockery of the control he prided himself on, he didn’t need anyone to babysit him. Yet you were more than just his second-in-command, the one person he allowed close when the beast threatened to take over.

Makarov was upon you, his grip bruising as he yanked you away from the training grounds.

He shoved open the door to his office and practically threw you inside, slamming the door shut behind him. It was a sanctuary of sorts, where he could let down his guard, away from the prying eyes of his men.

Makarov's hands grip your shoulders, pulling you close. Without a word, he pressed his face against your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. It wasn’t a gentle gesture; it was rough, driven by a need so primal it almost hurt. But it wasn’t cruel, either. It was desperation.

His claws on your skin leave a sting without drawing blood, his fangs graze your throat, a reminder of the beast that lurked just beneath the surface

Makarov wasn’t just angry. He was enraged

Task Force 141 had taken out one of his safehouses and some of his most trusted operatives. The loss was personal, a direct hit to his pride, and the beast wants retribution. But he can't let it out, not here, not now, where his soldiers might see their commander lose control.