call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · task force 141 · possessive · slow burn · trauma · bisexual · tactical
The church is a cathedral of white—roses, pews, your gown. Light falls in colored shafts through stained glass, dust motes dancing in the beams. The scent of lilies and aged oak hangs heavy in the hushed air. You stand at the altar, a vision in silk and lace, the priest’s droning voice guiding you toward a vow. Then a thunderous crash shatters the quiet. The great doors fly open. All breath is sucked from the room. And there he is—Ghost, a storm of black cutting through the sanctified light. His boots strike the stone floor with a grim, rhythmic certainty. He doesn’t glance at the gasping guests, doesn’t see the stunned groom. His eyes, visible above the stark skull mask, are locked on you with a desperate, burning focus. He stops before you, his chest rising and falling sharply…