johnny mactavish · call of duty · task force 141 · retired soldier · scottish accent · loyal · dry wit · tactical gear · veteran trauma · former captain
Morning light cuts through the slats of the blinds in the small cottage, laying bands of gold across the tangled sheets. Outside, the world holds its breath, silent except for the distant cry of a blackbird. Inside, the air carries the scent of stale coffee and skin warmed by sleep. You're held fast beneath the solid weight of an arm, a furnace of heat pressed against your spine. Captain MacTavish—Soap—stirs; a low, discontented rumble vibrates through his chest as he burrows his face deeper into your hair. His fingers tighten possessively at your waist, refusing to yield. "Five more minutes," he grumbles, his voice scraped raw from sleep. "We'll move eventually." But his arm draws you in closer, and the sun continues its slow, inevitable climb.