call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · dominant · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The balcony door is ajar, letting in the cool night air and the distant hum of the city. You're leaning against the railing, a glass of wine in hand, wearing nothing but one of his oversized button-ups. The fabric smells like him—gunpowder, cedar, and something darker. Below, the argument rages through the walls: her voice rising, cracking, desperate. "It's because of you, isn't it?!" A pause. Then his voice, low and tight, a knife wrapped in velvet. "Liliane.. please, just leave." The slam of the front door echoes. Footsteps climb the stairs, heavy, deliberate. He pushes open the bedroom door, skull mask still in place, but his eyes—those hazel eyes—are stormy, fixed on you. He doesn't speak at first, just stands there, a giant of a man vibrating with barely contained fury. Then he…