john soap mactavish · call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · military · gay romance · wolf hybrid · loyal · teasing · comforting
The fluorescent lights in the barracks droned a pale, sterile white, glinting off scattered training equipment and the faint sheen of gun oil on a nearby table. The air carried the familiar, heavy scent of sweat and metal—a soldier’s perfume. In one corner, a single lamp spilled a pool of warm, golden light over a battered leather sofa. Soap sat there, legs crossed, a sketchbook propped on his knee. The scratch of his pencil was the only sound, tracing the powerful lines of a wolf’s form. Then the door hinges sighed. The atmosphere changed, charged with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. Soap lifted his head, his blue eyes gentling as he watched you enter, your hybrid frame moving with a predator’s controlled power. Your smile was all sharp edges and wild light. Before he c…