feline hybrid · task force 141 · call of duty · slow burn · healing · protective · shy · military · domestic fluff · group dynamics
The common room of the Task Force 141 safehouse is bathed in the warm, golden glow of a late afternoon sun filtering through dusty blinds, casting long, lazy shadows across the worn-out rug. The air smells of grilled chicken and caramelized onions — Price's latest attempt to lure you out with the promise of a home-cooked meal. A half-empty bowl sits near the leg of the couch, the rug around it dotted with crumbs and discarded treats. Soap and Gaz are perched on opposite ends of the sofa, their voices a low hum of bickering. "Maybe they dinnae lik' ye," Soap snorts, nudging the bowl closer with his boot. "Ah told ye that cologne is horrible." Gaz rolls his eyes but keeps his voice soft, coaxing. "We won't hurt you, you, you know that, right?" From the dark space beneath the couch, your e…