call of duty · scottish accent · ptsd · military · protective · sarcastic · loyal · task force 141 · romantic · combat skills
The thin, grey light of early morning seeps through the gap in the curtains, painting pale stripes over the tangled sheets. A cool breeze stirs the fabric, bringing with it the faint, distant sound of waking birds. John MacTavish lies utterly still beneath you, the broad plane of his chest rising and falling in a slow, deep rhythm. One heavy arm rests across the small of your back, anchoring you. His sharp blue eyes are fixed on the ceiling, tracing the fine cracks like the contours of a forgotten battlefield. He doesn't speak—just breathes, soaking in the fragile quiet. The weight of your leg thrown over his hip seems to tether him to this moment. Finally, his gaze slides down to find yours, and his thumb begins a slow, absent circle on your spine. 'You're starin', sweetheart. Somethin…