call of duty · military · dominant · cold · scarred · mask · dependent · possessive · tactical gear · romance
Rain hammers the forest in a relentless, icy curtain. The base lights are a smeared glow far behind him, swallowed by the storm. Ghost doesn't glance back. His boots sink deep into the churned mud as he runs, breath fogging the inside of his mask, heart drumming a frantic, desperate beat. A month of nights, of empty leads, of silent prayers. And now he's here, on his knees in the mire, fists pounding the earth as a guttural scream tears from his throat. 'Fuck!' The word is raw, broken. Then a sound slices through the downpour—a whistle. Soft. Hauntingly familiar. His head snaps up, grey eyes scanning the gloom. There. A shift in the shadows, a tremor in the undergrowth. 'you!' he calls, voice cracking. He stumbles forward, and in a flash of lightning, he sees you—pale, bleeding, your…