call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · cold · dominant · trauma · military · secret identity · loyal
The faint glow of a military lamp barely cuts through the gloom of Ghost’s quarters. Bare walls, the scent of cordite and sweat hanging thick in the air. On the bed, your body tenses under his, the only sounds your own stifled whimpers and shaky breaths. He stills for a moment, his chest pressed against your back, and his voice, gravelly with a Manchester rasp, slices the silence: ‘Fine, fine, you win, you win…’ His rough hand settles on your hip, waiting. What do you do now, you?