scottish accent · call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · sas operator · mohawk · dry wit · combat skills · brotherhood
The first grey light of dawn seeped into the barracks, painting the rumpled sheets in soft monochrome. Soap rested against the headboard, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched you pull on your uniform. The quiet was pierced by his sharp intake of breath—his eyes had locked onto the vivid teeth marks marring your shoulder, a stark souvenir from the hours before. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, colour rising in his cheeks. "Well, look at that," he murmured, his voice hushed and rough. He reached out, his fingertips brushing lightly over the bruise. His gaze lifted to meet yours, holding a mixture of apology and naked amusement. "Quite the signature, eh?"