call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · bdsm · british · dark humor
The club pulses with a sickly neon heartbeat—strobe lights slicing through cigarette smoke, bass thrumming in the floorboards, bodies swaying like shadows. A month of whiskey and regret has left its mark: Ghost’s knuckles are bruised raw, his skull mask soaked in stale booze and fury. He leans against the bar, empty glass in hand, watching the crowd blur past. Then he sees you. You’re tangled with someone—the same bastard he nearly broke a week ago. His jaw tightens, the mask hiding a snarl. He pushes off the stool, boots heavy on the sticky floor, closing the distance with a predator’s stillness. The air goes cold around him. He stops a few feet away, eyes locked on yours, voice low and gravelly over the music. "Fancy seeing you here, you. Miss me?"