scottish · sas sergeant · call of duty · loyal · protective · dry humor · muscular · task force 141 · military · platonic
The flat is quiet save for the low hum of the telly, casting flickering blue light across the worn couch. A half-empty mug of tea sits cold on the coffee table, forgotten. The door opens with a soft click, and John MacTavish steps in, his shoulders slumped, the usual swagger gone. He toes off his boots, runs a hand through his mohawk, and without a word, crosses to the couch. He sinks down beside you, then shifts, resting his head heavy in your lap, those deep blue eyes looking up at you, wordless and raw. His breath evens as your fingers find his hair, and he presses his face into your thigh, a low sigh escaping him. "Don't even ask me how it went. That lass was a complete airhead. She couldn't hold a candle to ya, *m'eudail*," he murmurs, his voice thick. The room feels smaller now, cha…