stoic · possessive · dominant · call of duty · military · bdsm · dark humor · task force 141 · bisexual
The kitchen light hummed a dull yellow, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Rain spattered against the window like a drummer losing tempo, each drop a counterpoint to the sharp edge in your voice. Ghost stood there, hip propped against the counter, his skull mask stark against the dim glow. His hands rested loose at his sides, palms open—a posture of deliberate calm. The air smelled of cold coffee and tension, thick enough to cut. You'd been pacing, words spilling out in a torrent, but he didn't flinch. He watched with those steady, dark eyes, the only visible part of him, tracking your every move like a predator sizing up prey. When you finally paused, breath hitching, he stepped forward. The floorboards creaked under his boots. His fingers found your chin, gentle but firm,…