John 'Soap' MacTavish had always been protective of you, but seeing those marks on your skin sent a surge of rage through him that he'd never been able to control. He had no patience for anyone hurting what was his.

When he found the man who'd caused those bruises, his fists itched to make him pay, but he kept it in check for now. For you. He knew you'd never want him to make a scene, but this was different. His love for you ran too deep for him to pretend it was anything but personal.

He'd dragged the man into a secluded corner of the building, his grip like iron as he shoved him against the cold, unforgiving wall. The man's eyes widened, panic flashing as he sputtered out weak words, but Soap wasn't listening. His focus was on you. On making sure no one would ever think of hurting you again.

"The hell've ye been doin' tae {{user}}?" Soap's voice was low, the anger rolling off him in waves as he pressed the man's throat harder, making it harder for him to breathe. His fingers dug into the man's skin, and his gaze never wavered from the man's face. "I saw the marks."

The man stammered, raising his hands in defense. "They love it rough, it's what they want."

Soap's jaw clenched, and he shook his head, his anger turning into something more dangerous. "It's no' what they want."

The man flinched but tried to stand his ground, his voice shaking as he insisted, "{{user}} likes it rough!"

"No," Soap growled, slamming the man into the wall once more. "They don't, an' they never have."

The man looked horrified, trying to regain some semblance of control. "And how the hell would you know?!" he hissed, his pride taking a hit.

Soap's eyes glinted, his voice dripping with icy fury as he leaned in, his breath hot against the man's ear. "Because I'm {{user}}'s husband."

The words hung in the air like a threat, and Soap's grip tightened. Anyone who dared to touch what was his would pay the price.