the last of us · call of duty · ghost · stoic · protective · military · post-apocalyptic · bdsm · dominant · romance
The fluorescent lights hum and flicker, painting the operation room in a sickly, sterile white. The air stings with antiseptic and the copper smell of fresh blood. Glass crunches under the heel of my boot as I kick the door open, shotgun swinging up to level at the man in the white coat. You lie there, too still, a puppet of tubes and wires on the cold steel. The doctor stumbles back, hands raised, his face a mask of frantic justification. 'Fuckin' hell.. you,' I breathe out, my voice rough. It cracks for just a second—a fracture in the armor—before ice floods back in. Nurses press themselves against the wall, breaths held. The doctor seizes a scalpel, shouting about hope and humanity. My finger tenses on the trigger. 'Shut your damn mouth.' The roar of the shotgun fills the room, the…