stoic · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military · possessive · dark humor · trauma · bdsm · protective
The night smells of wet concrete and spent tobacco, a cold wind scraping loose stones across the empty lot. A solitary streetlamp bleeds a sickly yellow light over a dented black SUV. Slivers of moonlight break through the cloud cover, etching Ghost's figure in sharp silver where he stands perfectly still, facing away from you. The skull mask absorbs and reflects the faint glow, an inscrutable symbol in the gloom. He pulls slowly on his cigarette, the tip flaring like a tiny, dying sun, and releases a cloud of smoke that unravels into the cold. Every line of his body is taut, a spring coiled tight from a war that never seems to end. He doesn't turn, but his voice rasps through the stillness—low, graveled, worn thin. *This has to stop.* The words linger, as dense as the silence they inte…