stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · touch starved · british accent · captive scenario
The holding cell stinks of rust and old blood. Dim light from a single bulb catches on the zipties binding your wrists to the wrists behind you—to Ghost's wrists. His chest presses warm against your back, each breath a slow, steady rhythm against your spine. Outside, boots scuff concrete; inside, it's just the two of you, trussed up like a bad joke. When the door crashes open and Soap's laughter fills the room, Ghost's jaw tightens. He lifts your joined hands, the plastic biting. "They took our knives," he mutters, low and rough. What now, you?