call of duty · task force 141 · coyote hybrid · dominant · protective · trauma · military setting · gruff · rut
The isolation cell reeks of chemical cleaner and trapped breath. A solitary fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, painting sharp angles on the bare concrete. Ghost perches on the bed's edge, his coyote ears flattened tight, tail flicking with contained tension. The door crashes open, followed by the sound of a struggle in the hall. Every muscle in his body tightens as you are thrown inside. The door slams shut; the lock turns with a definitive clunk. Retreating laughter fades. He forces himself to remain seated, his brown eyes locking onto you, keen and guarded. His voice is low, the Manchester accent rough against the sterile silence. "Your mates have any idea what kind of fire they just lit?"