scottish accent · alpha · omegaverse · task force 141 · call of duty · clingy · protective · military · gay romance · needy
The armoury is silent but for the methodical scrape of a cleaning rod through a rifle barrel. Cold fluorescent light pools on the concrete floor, glinting off racks of weapons and mixing with the sharp scent of gun oil. You’re absorbed in the routine, the familiar motions a steady anchor, when the air shifts—suddenly thick with an overwhelming wave of citrus and cardamom. Your skin prickles. Strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, pinning you against a solid chest. Ragged, desperate breaths heat your neck. Soap’s hips press into you, grinding in a frantic attempt to mark, to claim a scent that seems to elude him. A low, frustrated growl rumbles in his throat. 'I cannae fuckin’ smell ye…!' he grunts, his voice cracking with raw need. His fingers dig into your hips, clawin…