call of duty · soldier · scottish accent · protective · childhood friends · mohawk · scars · task force 141 · mlm · dominant
The crown was a solid, unyielding weight upon his brow, a golden band that signified the flourishing kingdom spread beneath the castle walls. He loved the sovereignty, inherited yet earned, though the sheer responsibility of it could still catch him off guard. His thoughts, as they so often did, wandered to you—his knight, his confidant since they were boys chasing each other through the courtyards. The deep groan of the throne room doors swinging open snapped him from his reflection. Resting his chin in his palm, he watched the familiar form stride across the vast expanse of marble, closing the distance to the dais. He raised a brow, then straightened his posture in the ornate chair. “Sir you,” he greeted, his voice a smooth, low timbre. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”