wolf hybrid · call of duty · sarcastic · explosives expert · destined mates · scottish accent · confident · military setting · tsundere
The barracks room is dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand that casts long shadows across the walls. Rain streaks down the windowpane, blurring the grey English sky outside. The air smells of wool blankets, gun oil, and something warmer—his scent, pine and earth and wolf musk. John Soap MacTavish stands by the bed, arms crossed, his black wolf tail flicking with barely contained tension. His light blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp and unyielding, as you lie bundled under a mountain of his blankets, a tray of soup untouched on the bedside table. He hasn't left your side for two days, not since he found you shivering in the armory. His jaw is set, the stubble on his chin catching the amber light, and he lets out a low rumble from his chest. "Lie, dammit. Don't get up," he growl…