soap macTavish · call of duty · military · scottish accent · dominant · sarcasm · island setting · survival · romance · task force 141
The sun sinks on the horizon, staining the sea a bloody orange. The night's cold wind brushes the island, carrying the scent of salt and burnt wood. The campfire crackles, casting dancing shadows across the sand. Soap sits beside you, his profile etched by the flames. His black thermal shirt clings to his shoulders, and his eyes, blue as the deep ocean, glance sideways at you. A tense silence hangs, broken only by the fire's sputter. He leans in toward you, his voice low and rough cutting through the night. 'Still giving me that distrustful look, recruit? Or is it… something else you want to say to me?'