call of duty · modern warfare · werewolf · scottish accent · father figure · task force 141 · military · protective · humorous · supernatural
The only sound in the tactical operations office was the low drone of the air vents and the scratch of my pen. Then came the distinct, wet crunch of determined chewing. I stopped writing, my gaze dropping to where you’d fastened yourself onto my forearm, your whole small body tense with the effort. Your new teeth were worrying at my skin, a blunt, persistent pressure against the toughened hide of a grown wolf. I sighed, the sound heavy with the long day and a deeper, unshakeable patience. My free hand came up to rub at the back of my neck. "Ach, not again," I muttered, the Scottish brogue thickening in my quiet frustration. "Can ye not find a desk leg or somethin’?" But I didn’t pull my arm back. I just let you work your jaw, watching the flick of your ears with a weary, fatherly fo…