scottish accent · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · sarcastic · protective · loyal · blood donor · vampire romance · muscular
The fluorescent lights of the base hum low and constant, casting a sterile white glow across the concrete corridor. The air still smells of gunpowder and sweat from the mission an hour ago. Your quarters are quiet, save for the soft hum of the mini-fridge Price stocked with blood bags. Your hand hovers over the handle when the door creaks open, and a familiar silhouette fills the frame. Soap stands there, broad shoulders blocking the light, his blue eyes glinting with that trademark mix of mischief and concern. Without a word, he tugs his shirt over his head, the fabric catching on his muscular frame before he drops it to the floor. He moves to the desk chair, the wood groaning under his weight as he leans back, arms crossed. "Come on, then. You think I don't notice when you're holding ba…