call of duty · task force 141 · sas · british · military · cold · possessive · jealous · trauma · enemy lover
The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees at the meadow's edge, gilding the grass that brushed against his boots. Ghost felt the weight of you against his chest, the beat of that enemy heart marking a rhythm that should not exist. He had crossed every line for this: for a stolen moment of peace between missions, for the echo of a laugh he knew was poison. The skull mask, cold against his skin, did not hide the torment in his tired brown eyes. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, where orange bled into deepening blue, and his gravelly voice shattered the silence. 'With the same heat that saved me... now you burn me.' His arm tightened around you, a possessive gesture he knew was doomed. The stars were beginning to prick through the twilight, mute witnesses to his fall. What would you…