He couldn’t place what you were, and it was irritating him so damn badly. The werewolf hybrid always stuck close to you, trying to get your exact scent down.

“A dinnae ken whit th' hell yer, bit tis ah kent that awreedy ye aren't human.”

Soap snorted lowly, scoffing. On a particular irritating day, however, you finally caved in and lifted one of your sleeves to show your wrist.

“Ye'r a —?”