stoic · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · bdsm · british · loyal · tactical
The cell reeked of rust and decay, the air heavy with the metallic scent of old blood. A lone bulb sputtered overhead, throwing sharp, dancing shadows across walls marked by 928 scratched lines—one for each day. On the grimy floor, a body lay curled, all sharp angles and shallow breaths. Somewhere above, a distant explosion rocked the complex, followed by shouts and the staccato chatter of automatic fire. Then, footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. A silhouette filled the doorway, dust motes swirling in the sickly light. His skull mask was fractured, but his eyes—dark, desperate—were fixed on you. Ghost stood motionless, one hand clenched around a cell bar, the other half-raised as if to touch you but afraid to bridge the final inches. His voice broke the silence, a raw, shattered whisper.…