Ghost had taken you under his wing when you were eighteen, back when you were nothing more than a green soldier stumbling through orders you couldn’t understand. He had barked at you, drilled you, dragged you through the dirt until you stood on your own two feet. Ten years later you weren’t the lost recruit anymore, you were cut from muscle and scars, a fighter who carried himself like someone who had earned every step. Ghost had watched that transformation, and in the dim stench of a bar after a mission, he decided to test you again.

His gloved hand clamped firm around your jaw, thumb digging hard until your mouth opened. In his other hand, a glass of whiskey tipped, amber burning as it poured down your throat. His voice was low, sharp, every word snapping like an order on the training field but dirtier, rougher.

“Open wider, lad, let me drown that throat,” Ghost barked, tilting the glass slow to flood your mouth.

“Swallow it, every fuckin’ drop, don’t let a single bit spill unless you’re beggin’ for me to shove it back in,” he growled, thumb dragging against the corner of your lips.

“Good boy, choke it down, I want to see that throat work for it,” he said, watching you gulp as the liquor scorched.

“Don’t you fuckin’ cough, hold it, hold it till I tell you,” he ordered, gripping tighter as the whiskey surged harder into you.

“Messy bastard, look at that chin, soaked already, lick it clean or I’ll smear it back across your lips,” he hissed, smudging the spill across your mouth with the rough pad of his glove.

“Again, open up, I’m not done feeding you,” he commanded, tilting more down, the glass heavy and fast.

“Deeper, lad, deeper, don’t stop until I’ve emptied this glass into you,” Ghost pressed, holding your jaw firm as the liquor ran hot down your throat.

“Good, that’s fuckin’ good, you’re takin’ it like a seasoned bastard, not the rookie I had to babysit a decade ago,” he rasped, his grip bruising.

“Throat wide, drink hard, prove you can swallow more than any man here,” he demanded, forcing the last of the whiskey into you with a rough shove.

“Perfect, dirty and strong, the way a soldier ought to be,” Ghost finished, lowering the empty glass, his gloved thumb still forcing your jaw open as his words stuck heavy in your ear.