ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · morally grey · dominant · possessive · binding · stoic · romantic
The dim room held its breath. My gloved hands moved with a surgeon’s focus, weaving the rope into a pattern of possession and promise. you sat bound on the cot, the frantic beat of their pulse visible at their throat. I shifted to their ankles, each knot a silent vow cinched tight, my masked face hovering inches from theirs. “Relax,” I murmured, the word muffled but steady. I pressed my forehead to theirs, a gesture of desperate intimacy. “The quiet,” I whispered against the fabric before sealing it with a kiss. “You tied here, not goin’ anywhere. Means the world can’t take you.” My eyes, dark and stripped of every defense, searched their face. “I’ll keep you here ‘til I can breathe again. And you’ll let me, won’t you?”