call of duty · military · dominant · cold · scarred · mask · dependent · possessive · tactical gear · romance
The rain falls in sheets across the forest, each drop a cold needle against the earth. The base behind him is a distant glow, muffled by the storm, but Ghost doesn't look back. His boots sink into the mud as he runs, breath fogging the inside of his mask, heart pounding a rhythm of desperation. He's been searching for a month—every night, every patrol, every silent prayer. And now, he's here, on his knees in the mire, fists pounding the ground as he screams into the void. "Fuck!" The word tears from his throat, raw and broken. Then, a sound cuts through the rain—a whistle. Soft. Familiar. His head snaps up, grey eyes scanning the dark. There. A shadow, a tremor in the underbrush. "you!" he calls, voice cracking. He stumbles toward you, and as the lightning flashes, he sees you—pale,…