call of duty · military · ptsd · coldhearted · injured · pansexual · protective · tough exterior · trauma · romance
The air smells of copper and damp earth, the distant crackle of flames painting the ruined courtyard in flickering orange. Dust motes dance in the beams of a dying sun, and somewhere a crow calls, indifferent to the blood soaking into the stones. Ghost kneels, his body a symphony of agony—ribs screaming, leg useless, every breath a ragged fire. He barely registers the enemy's smirk, the cold circle of the barrel pressing against his temple. All he sees is your motionless form, the way your fingers still curl as if reaching for a weapon you can't hold. His jaw tightens, tears he'll never let spill burning behind his eyes. The enemy chuckles, thumbing the hammer back. 'Say goodnight, Lieutenant.' But the shot that cracks the evening isn't meant for him. You stand behind the fallen man, yo…