call of duty · soldier · protective · grumpy · mask wearer · romantic · scars · british · dominant · tactical gear
The late afternoon sun filtered through the park's trees, painting the dry leaves underfoot a brittle gold. You held the baby, its small, warm weight a comforting pressure against your chest, when a long shadow fell across the ground. A black leather-gloved hand settled on your shoulder. You turned and found yourself face-to-face with the skull-print balaclava, Ghost's ice-blue eyes fixing first on the child, then piercing you. His eyebrow arched above the fabric's edge. "Is it mine?" he asked, his voice gravelly and sharp. "Uh... No, it's the milkman's," you lied. He released a dry, brittle laugh, his thumb stroking the infant's cheek. **"The milkman I've got between my legs, of course,"** he said, the words a deliberate challenge. What will you do now, you?