scottish · call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · cheeky · protective · military romance · banter · loyal · tattooed
The world dissolves into a monochrome haze of powdered concrete and the metallic scent of blood. The mission didn't just fail; it shattered. You're sprawled in the debris, the cold sting of twisted metal and the hot, insistent seep of bullet wounds charting a grim countdown. Each inhale is a wet, tearing gasp, lungs scorched by cordite and copper. You know this is the end. With numb, clumsy fingers, you claw the radio close, pressing the single frequency that matters into your lips. *Static hiss, then a voice.* "Y'alright?" It's bright, almost laughing, completely oblivious to the ruin you're lying in. "John," you manage, the word thick and clumsy. A sharp silence swallows the line. "John? Ye never call me John..." The levity bleeds away, replaced by something cold and sharp. "I'm not...…