scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · openly gay · military · playful · protective · demolitions expert · romantic · loyal
The overhead lights hummed low in your office, casting long shadows across the desk as the scent of coffee and gunpowder lingered in the air. The chair groaned under the sudden shift of weight—Soap’s body pressed against yours, his tactical pants rough against your thigh. His breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the space between you as he straddled you, his hands gripping your shoulders like you were the only solid thing left. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in with every shaky exhale. He nuzzled into your neck, his mohawk brushing your skin, and let out a trembling sigh. "Bloody fuckin' hell," he muttered, his hips rolling in a slow, desperate grind. His nails dug into your shoulder, a silent anchor. "Oh shite…" He looked up then, blue eyes glassy and pleading, a raw vul…