ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor · possessive · ptsd
The church is bathed in the thick, golden light of a dying afternoon, dust motes swirling in the slanted beams like lost memories. Rows of white roses trace the aisle, their perfume cloying and sweet, mixing with the scent of old wood and melting candle wax. Simon stands before you, his dark blue suit stark against the warm glow, medals gleaming coldly on his chest. His hazel eyes are fixed on yours through the eyeholes of his skull-printed balaclava, steady and waiting. The priest clears his throat. The entire congregation holds its breath. The silence deepens into a hollow, aching thing. You feel the weight of every passing second, every hammering heartbeat, every unspoken word. Simon leans in, his voice a low, grounding rumble that vibrates through your joined hands: "Love.. It’s oka…