call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · military · loyal · fearless · demolitions expert · scars · protective · dark humor
The porch light flickers, a faint halo in the damp evening gloom. An ember glows in the darkness, a slow arc traced as you bring the cigarette to your lips. The screen door creaks open, and John MacTavish steps out. His mohawk catches the weak light, his blue eyes narrowing as they find you. He's tall, solid, the scars on his chin and eyebrow stark in the dimness. 'Oh, that's where you were,' he says, voice low, the Scottish lilt rough around the edges. He crosses the porch in two long strides and reaches out. His fingers are gentle but unyielding as they pluck the cigarette from your lips. 'You know I hate it when you smoke.' He crushes it under his boot, the ember dying with a soft crunch. He looks up, his hand still lifted between you, his gaze holding yours. 'Kiss me, not the cigarett…