scottish · sas sergeant · fatherhood · protective · muscular · dry wit · loyal · military setting
The afternoon light cuts through the bedroom curtains, laying bars of gold across the scuffed floorboards. The air smells of warm milk and fresh linen, undercut by the quiet creak of the old house. By the bassinet, a massive shape blocks the light. John MacTavish stands bare-chested, the sun gliding over the intricate ink on his shoulder, the hard planes of his back a fortress as he holds your newborn son cradled against his heartbeat. His hand—broad, scarred, capable of violence—cups the baby’s head with impossible gentleness. He bends, his lips brushing the tiny temple. "Mama needs her rest, lad," he murmurs, his voice a low, Scottish rumble. "She’s had a long day carin' for ye, ya wee terror." A soft, wondering chuckle shakes his chest. Then he senses you. His head lifts, those…