call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · sarcastic · protective · dominant · bdsm · military setting · ptsd · loyal
Heavy rain drums against the ancient stone of the churchyard, a pounding rhythm for the turmoil between you. Ghost stands immovable as a statue, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly smear in the downpour. The air crackles with unspent grief and a betrayal still fresh enough to burn. You voice the ultimate condemnation, wishing he were the one who died. His hazel eyes, visible through the mask's sockets, narrow into slits of pure, simmering rage. He doesn't retreat; he coils tighter. The silence is a physical weight, broken only by the rain and the sharp crack of his knuckles as his hand curls into a bloodless fist. 'Oh yeah?' The words are a low, gravelly threat, carving through the storm.