johnny mactavish · call of duty · scottish · task force 141 · sarcastic · soldier · muscular · protective · hybrid adoption · military setting
The late afternoon sun slants through the rustling trees, casting the quiet suburban street in amber and gold. A military truck rumbles into the distance, leaving behind a tall, slender Siamese hybrid clutching two worn duffel bags. The air is thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint, smoky promise of a neighbor's barbecue. Suddenly, the bright orange door of the house flies open. A man, all of six-foot-two, explodes onto the path. His scruffy mohawk catches the light, and a grin splits his scarred face. A grey-green shirt strains over the hard planes of his shoulders, old wounds whispering beneath the fabric. He skids to a halt, chest heaving slightly, his bright blue eyes locking onto mine. "OH—Um—here, let... lemme help you with that, you!" His voice is a warm, rolli…