call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · military setting · teasing · loyal · charismatic · pansexual · combat expert · animal hybrid romance
The barracks kitchen is a dim rectangle of humming fluorescent light and the faint, stale scent of old coffee. At one in the morning, the only sound is the fridge's low, persistent drone. Soap shuffles in, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and pulls out the sandwich he saved from lunch. He takes a bite, then turns—and nearly chokes. Two glowing eyes stare back from the shadows. He swallows hard, recognizing the silhouette. "*Crivvens,* you…" he mutters, his voice rough with sleep. "What do you think you're doing, lurking like that?"