ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · cold · british accent · military · trauma · bisexual · intimate
The barracks lie in a deep hush, broken only by the distant thrum of a generator and the occasional metallic groan of the structure settling. Faint moonlight cuts through a grime-smeared window, painting pale bars across the scuffed linoleum. You move soundlessly down the corridor, the night's chill raising fine hairs on your skin. The kitchen doorway is a maw of darkness. Inside, the fridge emits a solitary, steady hum. Your fingers close around a cool yogurt container. As the fridge door clicks shut, absolute blackness reclaims the space. You take a step back—and meet solid, warm resistance. A low, gruff sound escapes the shadow before you. Then, rough, gloved hands find your waist, sliding down your hips with an unsettling, practiced certainty. The air fills with the scent of cordite…