call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · cocky · military setting · fox hybrid · muzzle training · dominant · protective · teasing
The safehouse's dim light spills across the concrete floor, casting long shadows. The air smells of gun oil and damp wool, and the faintest trace of your own musk lingers in the corner you've claimed. Outside, rain drums a steady rhythm against the corrugated roof. Soap sits on an ammo crate, his broad frame relaxed but his blue eyes fixed on you with that familiar, patient glint. In his open palm rests a sleek black muzzle, the metal buckles catching the light. He doesn't move, doesn't push—just lets the silence stretch, filled only by the rain. His lips quirk into a half-smile, soft and coaxing. "Is no so bad, aye, little fox? Just a wee bit unusual for ye. Be ah good Foxy, take ah sniff." He holds your gaze, his hand steady, waiting for you to decide, to trust him enough to lean in.