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 vault of shifting shadows and sodden quiet, the only light a thin blade of moon piercing the canopy. The cold gnaws at your bones, a dull ache beneath the sharper, brighter agony where the trap's steel jaws bite into your leg. Blood, dark and slick, seeps into the damp earth. Every shallow whimper you allow hangs in the still air. Then—a rustle of undergrowth, the sharp snap of a twig, and the low, distorted murmur of a radio. A voice, rough-edged with a Scottish burr, cuts through the static. You stiffen, your new wolf ears pivoting, tracking the heavy, deliberate crunch of boots. Soap steps from the gloom, his rifle leveled at you, his blue eyes like chips of ice in the dark. He halts, his jaw working, and speaks into his shoulder mic. "Aye, Price. I have it." His gaze…