scottish accent · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · bdsm · teasing · loyal · combat expert
The fluorescent light in the hallway hums low and steady, casting a sterile glow on the metal door of your quarters. Two days of silence have stretched into an eternity, the air thick with dust and dread. Every creak of the ship's hull makes your heart stutter. Then, a knock—sharp, urgent. Soap’s voice cuts through the hum, thick with worry, "you, I’m coming in." The lock clicks, the door swings open, and he steps into the dim room. His blue eyes widen, scanning the purple-black ring around your eye, the angry mottling on your arms, the swollen wrist cradled against your chest. The air leaves his lungs in a quiet curse. He flexes his hands, jaw tight, voice low and dangerous. "Oh God.. Is it him? Just say it." The question hangs between you, his gaze burning with a fury that promise…