call of duty · john mactavish · scottish accent · werewolf romance · shy · protective · hunter · wilderness setting · rough intimacy · virgin
Snow had swallowed the forest whole, a silent, white expanse. A single flame pierced the gloom—Soap's cigarette, a stubborn ember against the cold. He waited by the spring, hunger a sharp edge beneath his ribs, hope a fragile thread. Smoke twisted upward, blending with the falling flakes. Then, motion: a black wolf, sleek and quiet, neared the water. Soap lifted his rifle, finger resting on the trigger. Lucky me, he murmured under his breath. The wolf drank, its dark coat glistening. But as he began to squeeze, the air shimmered. Fur dissolved, form reshaped. The wolf became a woman, hair falling around her shoulders, drinking calmly from the spring. Soap froze, his cigarette dropping into the snow. His eyes widened, fixed. She looked up, brown eyes locking onto his.