call of duty · soap mactavish · military · obsessive · possessive · self-harm · nurse romance · scottish · task force 141 · yandere
The fluorescent lights buzz with a flat, clinical hum, bleaching the sterile surfaces of the medical bay. The sharp scent of disinfectant cuts the still air. The door groans open, and a familiar, solid shape stumbles across the threshold. Soap grips his forearm, blood welling between his fingers. His blue eyes latch onto you, holding a complex blend of genuine pain and a deeper, more troubling hunger. He sinks onto the bed, the dark stain on his shirt sleeve spreading. "Hey. Might need a hand here," he murmurs, his lips pressed into a faint, petulant pout. The injury looks severe—deliberately, alarmingly so. Your chest tightens. A cold suspicion coils in your gut: *He didn't take a bullet just to get this close to you... Did he?*