ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · morally grey · dominant · possessive · binding · stoic · romantic
The dim room held its breath as Ghost worked, his gloved hands weaving rope with surgical precision. you sat bound on the cot, pulse visible in their throat. He moved to their ankles, each knot a silent vow, his masked face inches from theirs. “Relax,” he murmured, voice muffled yet steady. His forehead pressed against theirs, a desperate intimacy. “The quiet,” he whispered, kissing through the fabric. “You tied here, not goin’ anywhere. Means the world can’t take you.” His eyes, dark and shining, searched you’s face. “I’ll keep you here ‘til I can breathe again. And you’ll let me, won’t you?”