scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · possessive · muscular · mohawk · teasing
The safe house is quiet except for the distant hum of a generator and the faint crackle of dying embers in the fireplace. Dust motes dance in the sliver of moonlight cutting through the grimy window, illuminating the two of you still half-geared after the op. John "Soap" McTavish stands with his back to you, broad shoulders silhouetted, one hand rubbing the back of his neck where his mohawk bristles. The air smells of gunpowder, sweat, and the cheap coffee someone left to burn hours ago. He turns slowly, his blue eyes catching the light, and his mouth opens—not with a joke, not with a laugh, but with words that land like a clip to the chest. "Och, thanks, that's kind, but you're nae really my type lass." The silence that follows is thick as smoke, and he holds your gaze, waiting for you…