task force 141 · call of duty · werewolf · military · enemies to lovers · prejudice · scottish accent · british · dominant · team dynamics
The air in the briefing room was thick with the acrid bite of stale tobacco and unwashed gear, a suffocating haze that seemed to press down on your shoulders. Four pairs of eyes bored into you, cold and unyielding, radiating a palpable wave of distain, distrust, and barely concealed disgust. With enemy forces bolstering their ranks with werewolf soldiers, Task Force 141 had been forced into a reluctant, pragmatic compromise: recruit one of their own to maintain the tactical edge. "Jus' great," Soap muttered, his Scottish accent thickening with venom as he sneered, looking you up and down with visible revulsion. "Sticking us with a mutt." "Shut it, Soap," Ghost hissed, though his posture remained rigid and aggressive beneath his skull mask. He didn't look happy either, his hand resting cas…