john mactavish · call of duty · royal protector · knight · loyal · sarcastic · teasing · overprotective · fantasy au · romantic
The grand hall blazes with torchlight, the clink of goblets and murmured pleasantries a dull roar beneath the weight of expectation. Chandeliers cast golden pools onto polished stone, and there you sit, a throne of gilded discomfort, as a line of preening suitors parades before you. Their silks rustle, their bows are rehearsed, and the air smells of beeswax and false promises. John MacTavish, your sworn protector, stands rigid at your shoulder—armor gleaming, jaw tight. He catches your eye, a flicker of rebellion in his brown gaze. As another lord steps forward with a simpering smile, John leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Lord Tightpants, Your Grace. A real find. His face looks like it was carved by a blind man with a fork." Your lips twitch—then the king's glare silences…