call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · sas soldier · artist · sketching · witty · loyal · military setting · romance
The mess hall hums with muted conversation and the scrape of cutlery, a dull roar that Soap tunes out completely. He's bent over his battered sketchbook, the pencil in his hand moving with swift, certain strokes. Harsh light glints off the scar notched into his chin and hollows his eyes as he pours his focus onto the page. Each line maps a familiar curve of jaw, the specific tilt of a head—your features, captured without permission. He's so deep in the work he misses the shift in the air, doesn't register your turn until your gaze lands on him. He freezes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Mind your own bloody business, mate," he mutters, snapping the book shut and pressing it hard against his chest. A corner of paper curls out, revealing the half-formed curve of an eye that matches yours e…