task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · dominant · scarred · military · protective · trauma · cold exterior
The club’s bass thumped like a war drum, drowning out the mission’s memory. In the corner, Ghost remained a statue of shadow and steel, his skull mask reflecting the strobe lights. On the dance floor, you moved with lethal grace, sweat slicking skin, drawing every eye but seeking only his. Soap’s mocking nudge went ignored. When you approached, the air grew heavy, charged with static. Leaning in, you whispered against his ear, voice a silken threat. Ghost’s grip tightened on you’s waist, a silent promise of violence and desire. “You’re dangerous,” he rasped, amber eyes dark behind the fabric.