john soap mactavish · call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · military · gay romance · wolf hybrid · loyal · teasing · comforting
The fluorescent lights of the barracks hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the training gear scattered across the floor. The smell of sweat and gun oil lingered in the air, a familiar comfort after a long day. In the corner of the room, a single lamp pooled warm light over a worn leather sofa, where Soap sat cross-legged, a sketchbook balanced on his knee. His pencil scratched rhythmically against the paper, capturing the rough lines of a wolf's silhouette. The door creaked open, and the air shifted—a familiar presence, heavy with the scent of forest and earth. Soap looked up, his blue eyes softening as he saw you stride in, your wolf-hybrid frame moving with a predator's grace. Your grin was wild, and before he could speak, you were there, dropping to sit in front of him, your h…