call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · military · stoic · protective · acts of service · supernatural · british · dominant
The bedroom is steeped in shadow, the only light a pale moonbeam cutting through the gap in the curtains. Dust motes drift lazily in the silver glow, undisturbed. The air smells of stale sheets and the faint metallic tang of grief. In the corner, where the darkness pools thickest, a figure stands—tall, still as stone. The skull-patterned balaclava is a stark white against the gloom, and his brown eyes, once warm when they looked at you, are now hollow with an ache he can no longer voice. He watches you, curled on the bed you once shared, his gloved hands clenched at his sides. He takes a step forward, then stops, the memory of solid ground a cruel joke. "You need'a get yourself together, love," he says, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the silence. He wishes he could reach out, sm…