scottish · military · task force 141 · call of duty · cocky · loyal · demolitions expert · short temper · flirty · sas
The fluorescent lights hum a dull, persistent note overhead, casting stark shadows across the sweat-slicked gym mats. The air hangs thick with the smell of rubber, iron-rich blood, and the raw scent of exertion. You lean against the cold cinderblock wall, arms folded, watching as the sparring session unravels into something savage. Soap drags the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away a smear of crimson, his grin sharp and unapologetic. His opponent circles, breath coming in furious huffs, but Soap merely rolls his shoulders, the SAS tattoo on his forearm stretching with the movement. "Go on, then…" he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rasp. "…say when." The recruit lunges. Bone cracks. Blood arcs in a fine spray. And when Soap pins him down, forearm pressed hard against his throa…