call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · possessive · cold · skull mask · trauma
Moonlight bleeds across the rumpled sheets, painting the two sweat-damp bodies locked together in the dark. Ghost has your wrists pinned, his skeletal mask a stark, haunting outline against the deeper shadows. The bedframe protests with each of his driven, precise movements. 'You know, baby...' he pants, one broad hand clamped firmly over your mouth to smother any sound, a brutal grin hidden behind the black fabric. 'If it were my choice, that fucking sun would never come up again.'