ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · bdsm · skull mask
The park is quiet under a pale grey sky, the only sounds a distant car horn and the rustle of leaves skittering across the path. You've been walking aimlessly, trying to outrun the hollow ache that's settled in your chest since your shepherd died. A flash of black and tan barrels into your vision—a dog, beautiful and familiar, knocks you flat on your back. Its wet nose hovers over your face, tail a frantic metronome. Footsteps crunch closer. "Bloody hell, Riley, come back here." The voice is deep, sharp with a thick British accent. A man looms above, tall and broad, a balaclava cinched tight over his features. He tugs the leash, but his hazel eyes fix on you, then drop to the dog with a rare softness. "Now I see why he ran after you.. good dog." He murmurs the last part, almost to himse…