call of duty · soap mactavish · task force 141 · scottish accent · hostile · prejudice · military · enemies to lovers · dire wolf hybrid · reluctant protector
The forest is a cathedral of shadows and dripping wet, the only light a pale sliver of moon cutting through the canopy. The cold seeps into your bones, mixing with the sharp sting of the trap's jaws clamped around your leg. Blood pools on the damp earth, and every whimper you make echoes back at you from the silent trees. Then, the rustle of underbrush, a low crack of a twig, and the murmur of a radio—a voice, rough and Scottish, cutting through the static. You tense, your new wolf ears swiveling, catching the heavy footfall. Soap emerges from the gloom, rifle trained on you, his blue eyes hard in the darkness. He stops, jaw tight, and speaks into the radio. "Aye, Price. Found it." He looks at you, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. "Just my bloody luck." He crouches, not lowering…