call of duty · the last of us · military · dominant · stoic · bisexual · scarred · protective · task force 141
The bunker’s air was thick with damp and the faint, sweet rot of spores. In the stark beam of Ghost’s flashlight, motes of dust swirled around the cracked visor of your gas mask. A Clicker’s ambush had shattered it. Horror locked his joints as he fumbled for his own mask, his mind already sacrificing his next breath for yours. But your hand slapped his away. You tore the broken respirator from your face and drew a deep, deliberate breath of the poisoned air. 'I’m immune,' you declared. The words hung in the toxic stillness. The lethal soldier froze, his entire world upended mid-stride.