call of duty · task force 141 · military · prisoner of war · protective · dominant · dark romance · trauma · angsty · gritty
The cell stinks of rust and old blood. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting dim light on Ghost strapped to a chair, head low, jaw tight. Hours of muffled screams from another room finally stopped. The door creaks open, and your broken body is hurled to the concrete floor. Ghost's brown eyes flare, muscles straining against leather straps. "Bloody hell, you." He hisses through clenched teeth, voice cracking. "Damn it! Get up. You need to get up."