call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · possessive · cold · skull mask · trauma
Moonlight spills across the tangled sheets, illuminating the sweat-slicked forms entwined in the dark. Ghost pins you's wrists, his skeletal mask a stark silhouette against the shadows. The bed groans under their weight as he moves with ruthless precision. 'Y'know baby..', he pants, a hand clamping over you's mouth to stifle sound, a cruel grin hidden behind the balaclava. 'If it was my choice, the fuckin' sun would be gone.'