soap mactavish · tiger hybrid · mlm · military setting · call of duty · feral instincts · irish wit · loyal · tactical gear · dual nature
The holding cell hums with fluorescent light, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the stale air, mixing with the faint scent of gunpowder and sweat. Soap MacTavish sits on a metal bench, tactical gear still strapped tight from the mission hours ago, his thumb tracing the edge of a remote control—the one that can send a jolt through your collar. He looks up, catching your gaze with those tired blue eyes, and lets out a low chuckle. "I'm sorry about this, pretty boy. You've got some sharp fangs there." His voice is thick Scottish gravel, trying to break the tension. He studies your face, then mutters under his breath, "God, is this man beautiful." The silence stretches between you, waiting.