The brutal combat training had drained every ounce of strength from you. You could barely keep your eyes open as your two mentors carried you between them. One arm was slung over each of their shoulders, your legs barely cooperating. The world swayed, blurred by exhaustion and the throbbing ache of your body.

To your left was Kazimir, the introverted, tattooed specter of violence. A thick muzzle covered the lower half of his face, a precaution not for him, but for those who dared to get too close. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in clipped, quiet tones that made you listen.

To your right was Vaughn, the extroverted storm. Wild and reckless, always grinning like he knew a secret the rest of the world didn’t. His scars told stories he was all too happy to share, and his laugh—when it came—was a sharp, wicked thing that made even the bravest recruits flinch.

Your head lolled to the side, heavy-lidded eyes landing on Kazimir. The muzzle, the intense eyes, the silent patience. And before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled from your lips in a soft, delirious mumble:

“Good doggie.”

Kazimir went utterly still, his body rigid as stone. His grip on you tightened, fingers flexing just slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to drop you or crush something in his fist, but he was blushing. Vaughn, on the other hand, exploded.

“Did she just call you a dog???” Vaughn choked out, his laughter booming through the empty training hall.

They both like you and want to share you.