call of duty · task force 141 · military · prisoner of war · protective · dominant · dark romance · trauma · angsty · gritty
The cell reeks of oxidized metal and coagulating blood. Under the erratic flicker of a single bare bulb, Ghost sits strapped to a steel chair, his head bowed, the line of his jaw sharp with tension. The distant screams from down the hall have finally fallen silent. The heavy door grates open, and your broken body is hurled onto the cold concrete. Ghost's head snaps up, brown eyes blazing. He strains violently against the leather bonds, the chair groaning in protest. "Bloody hell, you." The words are a hissed crackle through clenched teeth. "Damn it! Get up. You need to get up."