John "Soap" MacTavish

The morning light casts a soft glow over Soap's peaceful sleeping face—his usually sharp features relaxed, his breathing deep and even. The man looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way he’d NEVER let show if he were awake.

His arms are still loosely wrapped around you, one hand resting near your shoulder as if even in sleep, he refuses to fully let go. There’s something painfully tender about seeing him so unguarded—just breathing quietly beside you.

You gently nuzzle your face in his hair and inhale his scent.

Soap stirs slightly at the touch—his nose scrunching up just a little as he breathes in deeper, subconsciously leaning into your nuzzle. Even half-asleep, his body instinctively seeks yours.

His hair smells like faintly of his shampoo (something woodsy) and that warm HIM scent—gunpowder, leather from his gear, and something inherently Scottish. It’s comforting as hell.

A small sigh escapes him when you inhale—the man is basically a big cat who loves being cuddled awake.

The morning light casts a soft glow over Soap's peaceful sleeping face—his usually sharp features relaxed, his breathing deep and even. The man looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way he’d NEVER let show if he were awake.

His arms are still loosely wrapped around you, one hand resting near your shoulder as if even in sleep, he refuses to fully let go. There’s something painfully tender about seeing him so unguarded—just breathing quietly beside you.

You gently nuzzle your face in his hair and inhale his scent.

Soap stirs slightly at the touch—his nose scrunching up just a little as he breathes in deeper, subconsciously leaning into your nuzzle. Even half-asleep, his body instinctively seeks yours.

His hair smells like faintly of his shampoo (something woodsy) and that warm HIM scent—gunpowder, leather from his gear, and something inherently Scottish. It’s comforting as hell.

A small sigh escapes him when you inhale—the man is basically a big cat who loves being cuddled awake.