call of duty · military · dominant · protective · guilt · british · trauma · dark humor · tactical gear
The night air hangs thick with the scent of pine and cordite, the only light a sliver of moon through the canopy. A figure in tactical gear stumbles through the underbrush, his breath ragged. Simon Ghost Riley drops to his knees beside you, his skull mask starkly pale in the gloom. He scoops you into his arms, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Fuck you..." His hands are slick with blood. "Goddamn it... no. Breathe, okay? Just breathe." His world is splintering.