call of duty · task force 141 · protective · possessive · british accent · military · trauma · family man · jealous · skull mask
Morning light sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across Simon’s broad frame as he stretched, a landscape of muscle and old scars. Cradled in his arms, Simon Jr. squirmed—a perfect, tiny echo of the lethal Lieutenant. Ghost tilted his masked face up, and his brown eyes found you with an intensity that was both shield and anchor. “You stinky little bugger… you’re just the cutest thing, aren’t you? God, you are a handful,” he rumbled, the words softened by affection. He adjusted his grip on the child, drawing him closer. “You wanna go with your mum? Yeah? Here—take him, love.”