froztii

[froztii]

PILLOW TALK— A. Morgan

summary -> partnered up with Arthur was the easy part, falling asleep, was not. Thankfully Arthur had some plan in mind

warnings -> language, violence, death, age gap, smut! p in v, pullout method, fingering, handjob, finger sucking, praise, pet names, mentions of anal, mdni.

Tomorrow, you and Arthur would be heading out—just the two of you. Dutch had given the orders, said he needed a pair of riders who could handle themselves, and for whatever reason, Arthur had chosen you. Not that you weren’t capable—you’d proven yourself enough times—but Arthur was particular about who he worked with. You weren’t sure if it was trust, or something else entirely.

You weren’t sure when things had started shifting between you, when the looks had started lingering, when the air had started crackling every time he stood too close. But it was there now, pressing in, thick as the summer heat.

You tapped the cigarette against your knee, then finally struck a match, bringing the tip to the flame. The first pull was slow, smoke curling past your lips, settling in your lungs before you exhaled through your nose. Arthur watched you, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face, making his eyes look darker, more intense. "You ever get tired of this?" you asked, voice quieter now. "The runnin’, the killin’?"

Arthur considered you for a long moment, then reached for the bottle again. "Ain’t much time to get tired." He took a sip, let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. "You?"

You shrugged. "Ain’t never known anythin’ else."

He nodded like he understood, because maybe he did. You’d both been running for a long time, living on the edge of a knife, caught between lawmen and outlaws, between survival and something worse. There wasn’t any room for softness in a life like this—no room for dreaming of things you couldn’t have.

"You sure you trust me to watch your back out there?" You asked, flicking the ash from your cigarette.

Arthur’s gaze flicked up, sharp and unwavering. "Ain’t a question of trust." That wasn’t an answer. But it was all you were going to get.

A gust of wind swept through the camp, kicking up dust, making the flames dance wildly for a moment before settling. Arthur stretched his legs out in front of him, let out a slow breath, then reached into his satchel and pulled out his revolver.

He spun the cylinder idly, checking the rounds, his expression unreadable. "You ever been to Saint Denis?" He asked after a while. You shook your head. "Fancy place," he mused. "Too damn loud for my liking. Dutch, though—he thinks that’s where the future is."

His jaw tensed slightly, barely noticeable, but you caught it. "You don’t?"

Arthur huffed. "Ain’t never seen a future worth livin’ in." Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. There was something heavy in his voice, something that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t used to. You didn’t like it. You’d seen Arthur angry, seen him ruthless, seen him crack a man’s skull without a second thought. But this? This quiet resignation? It didn’t sit right with you. "You ever think about leavin’?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "Just… ridin’ off, findin’ somethin’ better?"

Arthur glanced at you, then back down at his revolver. His fingers stilled against the metal, his thumb resting against the hammer. "Ain’t that simple."

"Maybe it is."

Arthur laughed, but it wasn’t amused. "You got somewhere in mind, sweetheart?"

The way he said it, voice lower now, like the word itself had weight, made your breath hitch slightly. "Anywhere’s better than dyin’ out here for nothin’," you said, barely above a whisper.

Arthur’s expression flickered—just for a second, just long enough for you to see something break through that careful mask he always wore. And then it was gone, buried beneath that same unreadable calm. "You best get some sleep," he murmured, pushing himself up. "We got a long ride ahead." He didn’t look at you as he turned, didn’t wait for you to respond. You watched him disappear into the dark, the glow of the fire catching against the worn leather of his holster before he was swallowed completely. You exhaled slowly, dragging one last pull from your cigarette before flicking it into the dirt.

The wind howled through the trees, and in the distance, thunder rumbled, low and threatening. The storm would be here soon. The morning was cold, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rain on the horizon. The fire had burnt out sometime in the night, leaving behind nothing but grey ash and the faint scent of smoke. You stretched out your shoulders, rolling the stiffness from your muscles, your mind still hazy with sleep.

Arthur was already up, working on the horses, adjusting the saddles and making sure everything was in place. He barely looked at you as you pushed yourself to your feet, but you could feel the weight of his attention, even if it was only for a second. "You leavin’ without me, Morgan?" you muttered, voice still rough from sleep.

Arthur smirked, tightening the straps on his bags. "Figured I’d let you sleep in, seein’ as you ain’t much good to me half-dead."

You rolled your eyes, brushing the dirt off your pants. "Real considerate of you."

Arthur chuckled under his breath, but didn’t say anything else. He was like that—always had been. He could talk when he wanted to, could spin a lie or a story well enough, but most of the time, he let the quiet do the talking. You didn’t mind. You mounted your horse, shifting in the saddle as Arthur swung up onto his own. He adjusted his hat, his eyes scanning the sky. "Storm’s movin’ in quick. Best we get a move on." The road stretched ahead, long and empty, the kind of silence that made your nerves prickle.

You rode alongside Arthur, the two of you keeping a steady pace, the only sound the rhythm of hooves against dirt. The mission was simple enough—ride into Lemoyne, track down some bastard who’d crossed the gang, and make sure he didn’t walk away from it.

You’d done worse jobs before, but something about this one had your stomach in knots. Maybe it was the way Arthur had been last night, the way he’d asked if you ever thought about leaving, like the thought had been sitting in the back of his mind for longer than he cared to admit. Or maybe it was just that riding with him like this, alone, made you more aware of him than you wanted to be.

You didn’t like the way your pulse kicked up when he glanced at you, the way your fingers clenched just a little too tight around the reins. It wasn’t obvious—at least you hoped it wasn’t—but you could feel it, that stupid heat creeping up your neck, that second where you had to look away before he caught you staring. It was annoying. It was irritating.

And worst of all, you didn’t know what the hell to do about it. "You got a plan for this?" you asked, more to distract yourself than anything.

Arthur exhaled, shifting slightly in the saddle. "Yeah. Find the bastard. Put a bullet in ‘im."

You scoffed. "Real detailed." 

Arthur smirked, but there was something sharp in his eyes when he looked at you. "You got a better one?"

You didn’t answer. Mostly because no, you didn’t, but also because you were too busy trying to pretend that the way he was looking at you wasn’t affecting you. 

The town wasn’t far now, the road giving way to worn wooden buildings, the smell of smoke and mud hanging in the air. You could feel the shift in the atmosphere, the way the people moved, the way their eyes darted toward you and Arthur before quickly looking away.

This place had seen its fair share of violence. They knew better than to get in the way of it. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop near a small saloon, barely more than a shack with a sign hanging half off its hinges. "Reckon he’s in there.” He muttered, jerking his chin toward the door.

You adjusted your gun belt. "How you wanna do this?"

Arthur swung down from his horse, dusting off his jacket. "Quiet. If we can." His gaze flicked to yours, steady. "If not—."

"I know," you muttered, already moving to follow him. Inside, the saloon was dimly lit, the smell of stale beer and sweat thick in the air.

Arthur led the way, his movements easy but deliberate, the kind that made people pay attention even if they didn’t want to. You let him take the lead, keeping close, scanning the room. It didn’t take long to spot the man. He was sitting in the corner, half-turned away, a glass in his hand.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. "Mister.” He drawled, his voice calm, almost lazy.

The man stiffened. That was all the warning you got before everything went to hell. He went for his gun, but Arthur was faster. The crack of a shot split the air, and suddenly, the whole place was moving—men scrambling, chairs scraping against the floor, voices shouting over each other. You didn’t think, just reacted, drawing your revolver as Arthur fired again.

The man dropped, blood spreading across his shirt, his fingers twitching once before going still. Arthur was already moving. "Come on."

You didn’t need to be told twice. You covered him as he pushed through the door, gun still in hand, heart pounding. Outside, people were moving, stepping back, watching. A few men had their hands hovering near their holsters, but none of them seemed stupid enough to make a move. You swung up onto your horse, Arthur doing the same beside you.

"That went smooth.” You muttered, kicking your horse into motion.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, real smooth." The two of you rode hard out of town, the storm finally breaking, rain coming down in sheets, turning the road to mud. You could still feel the heat of the fight in your chest, the rush of it, the way the air had felt electric. And beneath it all, beneath the gun smoke and the storm, there was something else.

The way Arthur had looked at you. The way your stomach had flipped just a little too hard. The way this whole thing felt like it was building to something, something you weren’t sure you were ready for. And worst of all? You didn’t know if you wanted to stop it.

The rain hammered down, slicking your coat and dampening your hair as you and Arthur pushed through the mud, your horses sliding beneath you with each sharp turn. The storm had rolled in heavier than you’d expected, but you didn’t mind. It kept the town behind you at a distance, and for a moment, it felt like just the two of you—nothing else mattered.

Arthur’s gaze was fixed ahead, his jaw set as he steered his horse through the storm. You kept close, the wind whipping at your face, making it hard to focus. Still, something about the way he was so calm, so controlled, made you feel a little less unsettled. You shifted in your saddle, but your thoughts kept returning to that look—the one he’d given you in the saloon before the chaos had kicked off.

The way his eyes had lingered just a fraction longer than normal. You could feel that same tightness in your chest, that tension building up, and you hated how much it rattled you. "How far do you reckon we’re gonna make it before that storm gets worse?" You asked, trying to break the silence.

Arthur glanced over at you for a second, his expression unreadable. "Not far,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm. "We should find shelter soon."

"Great," you muttered, mostly to yourself, but the rain made it hard to tell if he heard you. You’d been out in worse weather before, but this felt different—more dangerous somehow, like the storm wasn’t just weather, it was a warning. The road ahead was barely visible through the sheets of rain, but Arthur kept pushing forward, steady as ever.

You followed close behind, your horse slipping slightly in the mud, but you managed to keep your balance. As you rode, the storm seemed to intensify, the wind picking up, making it nearly impossible to hear anything but the roar of the weather. You were beginning to wonder if you’d make it out of this mess in one piece when Arthur’s voice cut through the noise.

"Get ready," he said, his tone low, "we might have company."

Your heart skipped a beat as you instinctively reached for your gun. Your eyes scanned the road ahead, but all you could see were flashes of lightning and the thick fog of rain. "How many?" You asked, voice tight.

"Not sure yet," he muttered, "but keep your eyes open."

You didn’t need to be told twice. You were ready for whatever came next, but something gnawed at you, a feeling you couldn’t shake. The air around you had shifted, and now, you were on edge, expecting the worst. Then, through the rain, you saw them—figures moving along the side of the road, shadows in the mist, too close for comfort. You couldn’t make out their faces, but the way they moved told you everything you needed to know. They weren’t friends. Arthur didn’t hesitate. He spurred his horse forward, the sound of hooves against the soaked earth drowned out by the pounding rain.

You followed him, your heart racing as the distance between you and the figures closed rapidly. As you neared, you could hear the distinct sound of boots crunching against the wet ground, the rustle of leather. Arthur pulled his gun, his eyes never leaving the shadows ahead. "You ready for this?"

"Always.” You replied, your voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins. The figures came into focus then, a small group of men, guns drawn, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats.

Without warning, one of them stepped forward, a grin on his face, though it was barely visible through the rain. "Looks like you two are lost.” He called out, his voice rough but loud enough to cut through the storm.

Arthur’s response was immediate—a shot fired into the air, a warning. "Get out of the way, unless you want trouble."

The man didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he took a step closer, his hand twitching towards his holster. "I think we’re past warnings, don’t you?"

You didn’t wait for Arthur’s signal. Your hand was already on your gun, drawing it smoothly, just as the first shot rang out. The fight was quick—too quick. The sound of gunfire, the crunch of boots on mud, the smell of gunpowder all mixed into one chaotic moment.

You and Arthur moved together, a seamless team, each shot calculated, precise. The men never stood a chance. In the end, all that remained was the sound of rain pelting the ground and the faint echoes of the struggle that had just unfolded.

Arthur holstered his gun, wiping the rain from his face, his eyes scanning the area as if expecting more. He didn’t speak, but there was something in the way his shoulders relaxed, something almost imperceptible, like he was finally allowing himself to breathe.

You exhaled, your own heart still racing, and turned your attention to the fallen men. "You alright?" Arthur asked, his voice quieter now, almost calm.

"Yeah," you said, though your hands were still shaking, just a little. "Just a bit too close for comfort."

Arthur nodded, but his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, something unreadable in his expression. You couldn’t look at him. Not now, not when your head was still spinning from the chaos. "Let’s get out of here.” He said, his voice low, the sharp edge of command still present.

You didn’t argue, pushing your horse forward, following him as you both rode out of the danger zone, the storm still raging around you. But even as the rain poured down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm wasn’t the only thing you had to worry about.

You could feel it now, that unspoken thing between you and Arthur, the way his presence seemed to shift in your chest, like it had been there all along, waiting to crack wide open. And you didn’t know whether to run from it or let it consume you. The tension between you both had been building for days—weeks, even—and now, with everything that had happened, it was almost unbearable.

You tried to focus on the road ahead, but your mind kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes flickered over to you, his hand steady on the reins, his posture rigid yet somehow relaxed in that familiar way. It made you feel uneasy in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The campfire that had been burning bright hours earlier had now dwindled to a small, flickering flame, casting shadows across the tents. Arthur didn’t say much as you arrived, just a quick glance in your direction before he dismounted, tying his horse to the post with practiced ease. You followed suit, the dampness of the night air seeping through your clothes.

Arthur opened the flap of the tent, giving you a small nod before stepping inside. You hesitated for a moment, the thought of the close quarters making your chest tighten, but then you followed him in, the tent feeling smaller the second you crossed the threshold.

The rain outside continued to fall in a steady rhythm, but inside the tent, the sound was muffled, almost distant. The fire from outside barely flickered in, leaving the inside dim and quiet. You unbuckled your wet coat and set it down, feeling a shiver pass through you as you tried to warm up, your clothes still clinging to your skin.

Arthur was already sitting on his bedroll, his back to you as he untied his boots. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. You hadn’t been this close to him in a long time—alone, without the chaos of the mission, without the noise of the camp.

There was something different now, something you couldn’t explain, and it made the silence feel heavy. You sat down on your own bedroll, facing away from him, though you could still feel his presence behind you, like a constant shadow in the corner of your vision. You tried not to think too hard about the way his broad shoulders looked in the low light or the way his scent lingered in the air. His voice cut through the stillness.

"You good?" It wasn’t a question he often asked, not like this. His tone was steady, but there was something softer about it now, something that made you hesitate before you answered.

You forced yourself to turn and face him, meeting his gaze for a split second before looking away again, your fingers picking at the edges of your blanket. "Yeah," you said, the word coming out quieter than you meant. "Just tired."

He leant back slightly, his arms folding across his chest, watching you intently, as if waiting for something more. You shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his gaze settling in your chest. "You sure?" His voice was still low, but there was a note of concern in it that you weren’t used to.

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. You hadn’t realised just how much the mission had affected you, or how much you were still carrying with you. It wasn’t just the danger, or the gunfire, or the constant feeling of being hunted—it was everything. The unspoken things, the things that had been building between you and Arthur for so long now, things you couldn’t ignore any longer. You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed your own words. "Yeah. I’m fine."

There was a long pause, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The silence stretched out, thick with unspoken words, heavy with that pull between you. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, the way his presence made everything feel amplified, even the smallest movements. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run from it, or if you wanted to let it take you over.

Arthur shifted slightly, leaning forward, the space between you closing just a little more. His voice dropped lower. "You don’t look fine.” He said, his tone almost teasing but with an edge that was hard to ignore.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your lips, even as your stomach twisted with nerves. "I’m not in the mood for your teasing right now, Arthur.” You said, your voice quieter than usual, but there was a firmness to it, a sharpness you didn’t often let slip.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and gravelly, but there was something in it that made your breath catch in your throat. You hadn’t realised how close he was now, how his presence had filled the space between you, how much you wanted to close that final gap, even though you weren’t sure why. "You never are.” He murmured, his tone softer now, but still carrying that same edge of familiarity.

There was no mistaking it now—the tension was there, thick between you. You could feel it in the way his eyes followed your every movement, the way his body seemed to lean just a little closer, his posture relaxed but still watchful. It was a game of balance, a dance neither of you had fully committed to, and the closer you got, the harder it was to stay steady.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the feeling of being too close, of being seen in a way that you weren’t ready for. "We should get some sleep," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, though the words felt far from convincing. Arthur didn’t say anything right away, his eyes searching yours for a moment longer, like he was trying to figure something out, something you weren’t sure you understood.

Finally, he nodded, but he didn’t move away. "Yeah," he said, his voice just above a murmur. "Guess we should." But even as he said the words, you could feel the pull between you both, the closeness that neither of you were willing to ignore, even as the night pressed in around you.

The rain fell harder outside, but in the quiet of the tent, with only the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of your breathing, the storm inside felt louder, more real. The night stretched on, the storm still raging outside, but it couldn’t drown out the tension inside the tent.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, every time you tried to settle into the warmth of your bedroll, it felt like something was pressing in on you, making it impossible to rest. You fidgeted again, twisting onto your side, then your back, then your stomach, trying every possible position to find comfort, but it never came. You could hear Arthur’s steady breathing beside you, but the closer you were to him, the more you felt the weight of the silence between you. His presence was too overwhelming, too close.

You weren’t sure if it was his proximity or the way the air felt heavy with unspoken things, but you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in your gut, like something was about to crack open.

You turned onto your side again, facing away from him this time, hoping that would ease the unease, but it didn’t. The more you moved, the more you felt like you were drawing attention to yourself, and it only made the tension worse. You could feel him now, like his eyes were boring into the back of your head, his presence so close that it was suffocating. You didn’t dare look at him, though, because if you did, you weren’t sure what you’d see.

Maybe it was the storm outside, or maybe it was the damn tension building between you, but you couldn’t stop moving. You had to do something to keep from losing your mind.

"You done yet?" Arthur’s voice cut through the silence, low and gruff, but you could hear the irritation creeping in now. You froze, your heart skipping a beat.

You hadn’t expected him to say anything, and the sharpness of his tone made your chest tighten. "Just… can’t sleep," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. You heard him shift beside you, the sound of his bedroll rustling, and you knew he was watching you now.

"You’ve been moving like that for hours. You planning on keeping me up all night?" His voice was rough, but there was a hint of annoyance in it now, a sharp edge that made your pulse quicken.

You couldn’t help but feel a little defensive, even though you knew he was right. "Sorry." You muttered, though you didn’t know why. You weren’t sure if you were sorry for being so restless, or sorry that you couldn’t seem to get a grip on whatever was simmering between you two.

You felt him shift again, heard him let out a sigh. "You think that’s gonna help?" he asked, his tone now a little softer, but still firm. You didn’t respond. Instead, you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the glimpse of his silhouette in the dim light of the tent.

You could tell he was still awake, that he wasn’t planning on sleeping anytime soon either. The silence stretched between you two again, but this time it wasn’t as comfortable as before. It felt thick, charged with something that neither of you was willing to acknowledge. You swallowed, trying to push the feeling down, but it refused to stay buried. Your body felt like it was on edge, too aware of him, too aware of the way the space between you seemed to shrink with every passing second.

"Maybe you just need a little… distraction," Arthur said after a while, his voice low but deliberate, as if testing the waters. You frowned, not sure what he meant, but you didn’t have time to ask before he continued. "Something to tire you out," he added, his tone almost teasing now, a faint smirk in his voice.

You blinked, your stomach tightening at the suggestion. You hadn’t expected him to say that, not like that. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You were suddenly aware of the distance between the two of you, how far you had been from each other just moments ago, and now how it felt like everything was getting just a little bit closer. "What… do you mean?" you managed to ask, your voice quieter than before, though you didn’t think it was out of curiosity. It sounded more like you were trying to hold onto control, trying not to let your thoughts wander into dangerous territory.

Arthur didn’t immediately answer, but you could hear him shift beside you, his movements slow and deliberate. You could feel his eyes on you now, though you didn’t dare meet his gaze. "I mean," he started, his voice rougher now, like he was taking his time with each word, "If you can’t sleep, maybe you need something to wear yourself out."

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, but you could feel the weight of his words settle between you two, making the air feel thicker, heavier. Your heart raced a little faster, and you couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of something you couldn’t quite place. You turned away from him, your chest tight, not sure whether to call him out for his words or to let them hang there, unspoken. He leant back against his bedroll then, letting out a long breath, as if he was satisfied with his suggestion.

"I don’t mind giving you a hand," he added, his voice low, barely audible. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your pulse quickening, but you didn’t know how to respond to that.

It wasn’t an offer, not really, but the way he said it made you feel like the air had shifted even further, like you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t fully understand.

You swallowed, your body feeling restless in a new way now. You knew he wasn’t being serious, not in the way you thought, but the tension that had been building up between you two made everything feel heavier, more intense.

You frowned, not sure where he was going with it. "What do you mean?" You asked, confusion making your voice sharper. You could feel him shift beside you, the sound of his bedroll moving.

He was closer now, the tension between you two thick enough to make the air feel heavy. "I mean," he began, his voice low, "You’re wound up tighter than a spring. Maybe you need somethin’ to tire you out." The suggestion hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you couldn’t process it. You turned your head then, eyes wide, but you couldn’t read the look on his face.

It wasn’t playful, but it wasn’t serious either—it was something else, something between a tease and a challenge.

Your body felt like it was buzzing with energy, but it wasn’t the kind of energy you could work off easily. It was something deeper, something that ran straight through you when he was this close. "Arthur…" Uou breathed, your voice barely a whisper. You wanted to say something—anything—to break the tension, but the words didn’t come.

The space between you two felt impossibly small now, like you could reach out and touch him without even trying. "What’s the matter?" He asked, his voice low and patient, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent to it. "Can’t handle it?" The question stung, but you couldn’t deny that it struck a chord deep inside you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn’t know what to say. You could feel the pressure building in your chest, like something was about to burst, but you didn’t know whether to fight it or give in to it.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you felt the pull between you two, like gravity. He wasn’t moving away, wasn’t backing off, and it was making everything inside you feel ten times worse. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were too lost in it to speak.

"You gon’ let me?" Arthur said, the words slow and deliberate, like he was testing you, waiting for your reaction. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but you couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face him because you were afraid of what you might see.

The tension in the air was suffocating now, the silence hanging like a thread about to snap.

Arthur leant in slightly, his proximity enough to make your heart skip a beat. "C'mon," he murmured, his voice soft, almost a challenge. "You know you want this."

The words hit you like a jolt, and for a moment, your brain short-circuited, struggling to form a coherent thought. The space between you two felt like it was disappearing, the way his eyes softened, and how he seemed to wait for your move. You could hear your own breath now, loud in your ears, the storm outside pounding against the canvas of the tent, but all you could focus on was the way Arthur was looking at you.

"You think I don’t want this?" You finally muttered, your voice barely a whisper. But he heard it.

His smile was slow, a little crooked, and his eyes darkened with something more intense now. He didn't reply, instead, he reached out, a hand coming to rest on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a gentle motion. It sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn't pull away.

"You sure about that?" Arthur’s voice was barely a murmur now, his face inches from yours. The tension between you two, thick and undeniable, was suffocating. He waited, giving you a moment, and that was when it happened.

You didn't lean away, you didn't hesitate.

You closed the space between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow and tentative at first, like neither of you were sure what would come next. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers pressing gently as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. You let yourself go, just for a moment, lost in the heat of it, the pressure of his lips against yours, the taste of him.

"Easy, girl." He growled against your lips, his prickly beard scratching at your chin. The rasp of his voice sent a shiver through you, the roughness of it matching the way his hands had tightened just slightly where they rested against you. His thumb traced slow circles against the back of your neck, his touch firm but careful, like he was still testing, still giving you room to pull away. But you didn’t.

You leant into him, your breath shaky, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it.

Arthur kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper, more certain. His lips pressed against yours with a heat that had been simmering for far too long, a fire barely held at bay.

You could taste the whiskey on him, the faint remnants of tobacco, but underneath it was something distinctly him, something you had caught whiffs of before but never like this, never this close.

His hand slid from your neck down to your waist, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer. The bedroll beneath you rustled as you shifted, your hands coming up to his shoulders instinctively, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. "You always this restless?" Arthur muttered against your lips, his tone half amused, half strained. His breath was warm against your skin, sending a spark straight through your chest.

"Only when you're around.” You murmured back, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

Arthur let out a rough chuckle, his grip on you tightening for just a second. "That so?" His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw, the scrape of his beard making your skin prickle in the best way.

He took his time, tracing the line of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he worked his way down, slow and deliberate. His free hand ran down your side, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your shirt, the weight of it making your stomach twist in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

You tilted your head without thinking, giving him more room, and he took it. His lips brushed against the pulse point on your neck, and you swore you felt him smirk when your breath hitched. "Ain't nothin' to be nervous about, darlin'," he murmured, voice thick, teasing. "Unless you want there to be."

You knew exactly what he meant, the words hanging between you like a dare, but you weren’t about to back down. You shifted against him slightly, your fingers still gripping his shirt as you breathed, "And if I do?"

Arthur paused, just for a second, just long enough to let you feel the weight of what you had said. His fingers flexed against your waist, his body tensing slightly, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were darker now, unreadable. "Then you best be real sure about it," he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. "’Cause I ain't the type to stop once I get goin'."

You stared at him, heart pounding, feeling the heat rolling off him in waves. His grip on you was steady, grounding, but there was a restraint there too, a hesitation in the way he was holding himself back. You could see it in his eyes—the way he was waiting, watching, letting you decide.

Slowly, without thinking, you reached up and touched his face, your fingers grazing over the stubble along his jaw. His breath hitched, just barely, and for a brief second, you felt him lean into your touch. It was the smallest thing, but it sent a thrill through you, a rush of something you weren’t sure you could name.

"You ain't answerin' me," Arthur said, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. His lips were still close enough to brush against yours, his hand still firm on your waist. "You really wanna test me tonight?" The way he said it sent heat pooling in your stomach, but you weren’t about to back down.

You let your fingers trail down to the collar of his shirt, gripping the fabric lightly as you whispered, "I think you already know the answer to that."

Arthur exhaled sharply, a rough chuckle leaving his lips before he muttered, "Christ, girl, you’re gonna drive me mad."

And before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time, more urgent. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the sheer heat of him, the solidness of him, sent your head spinning. You barely registered the way you shifted, the way the space between you disappeared entirely.

All you could feel was the warmth of his hands, the slow, deliberate press of his lips, the way he kissed like he had been holding back for far too long. He wasn’t hurried, wasn’t frantic, but there was a weight to it, a slow-burning intensity that made your skin prickle with anticipation. His hand drifted up from your waist, trailing along your ribcage, not quite reaching too high, but enough to make you shudder.

Arthur noticed, of course he did, and the low hum he let out against your mouth told you he liked it. "See?" he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Told ya you were restless."

You swallowed hard, breath uneven. "And what’re you gonna do about it?" Arthur smirked, the kind of lazy, knowing smirk that made your stomach flip.

His fingers traced over your jaw again, lingering at the corner of your mouth before trailing lower, lower—until he hooked his thumb at the edge of your bottom lip. "Open.” He said, voice rough, firm.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because the weight of it, the sheer intensity in his voice, sent a thrill down your spine. But then you did, parting your lips just slightly, just enough for him to press his thumb inside, resting against your tongue, testing.

Arthur let out a breath, low and deep, his eyes never leaving yours. "Good girl." And that was where you lost whatever composure you had left. Your breath shuddered against the thick air between you, the weight of Arthur’s gaze pressing down harder than his thumb resting heavy on your tongue.

His jaw tensed, and for the briefest second, something in his eyes flickered, something dark, something wild, but then he huffed a rough, low laugh, shaking his head like you had just made a mistake.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. His thumb dragged down, slow, tracing the curve of your bottom lip as he pulled back, leaving the ghost of his touch lingering there. He wiped his hand on his thigh, jaw clenching as he exhaled through his nose. "You ain't got a damn clue what you're askin' for, do ya?" The words were teasing, but there was something else underneath them now, something strained, something barely holding together. You swallowed hard, your pulse still hammering as you reached for words that wouldn’t come.

Arthur watched you for a long moment, his eyes dragging over your face like he was memorising every reaction, every little shift in your expression. Then, with a quiet scoff, he ran a hand down his face, muttering something too low for you to catch. His fingers twitched against his thigh, his breath coming rougher now, uneven.

He shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours, his weight shifting between hesitation and something heavier, something you could feel simmering between you. He paused, lips just inches from your ear. Arthur’s breath hitched as you held his gaze, the weight of his hesitation heavy between you.

The air was thick, suffocating, and as his thumb brushed over your lip, you could feel the pulse of his restraint, each second stretching further than it should. You weren’t backing down now; the heat between you was undeniable, and every part of you was alive, aching for more.

His eyes flickered with uncertainty, the same conflict you had seen earlier returning like a storm rolling back in.

He pulled back, just enough to give himself some space, but his hand never left your waist. "You’re too young for me." He muttered, his voice gruff, but the way he said it made you feel something far different than what he intended.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile. "So you don’t want this?" you asked, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, and for a second, he just stared at you, as if he was weighing his next move. "Never said that," he growled, his voice rougher now, his eyes searching yours for something. "Just... don’t know what the hell I’m doin’." He leant back slightly, but only enough to give you some room to breathe, his hand still tight on your waist.

You didn’t give him the chance to pull away completely. Your lips met his again, soft at first, hesitant, but then deeper, your body leaning into his as you pressed yourself against him.

His breath faltered, the tension between you growing thick as he let you guide the kiss. He didn’t pull away, but his hands remained still, like he was waiting for some sign, some permission to move forward. His thumb brushed over your lips again, tracing the curve of your mouth, as if he couldn’t help himself, but there was still something holding him back.

Arthur’s breath left him in a rush, and before you knew it, his hand was gripping your hair, his other arm pulling you tighter against him, as if he couldn’t stop himself. "Christ.” He muttered under his breath, his lips crashing against yours in a way that made everything else fade away.

His control was slipping, and you could feel it, the way his hands shook as they moved over your body, the way his touch grew more insistent, more desperate. He paused for a moment, his lips still on yours, but his breath was heavy now, his chest rising and falling against you.

"I ain't lookin’ to ruin ya.” He muttered, the words coming out like a warning, but you didn’t want warnings.

You wanted this, wanted him, and you made sure he knew it. "Pity.” Your voice barely a whisper, but it was all he needed. His resolve snapped.

His lips crashed down onto yours again, harder this time, and you could feel the heat of his body, the fire building between you. He kissed you as though he needed it, as though nothing else mattered anymore. The kiss deepened, more urgent, more hungry, and you could feel him pressing against you, his hands moving down your body, pulling you closer with each second.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to. But just as quickly as it had all started, he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as he breathed heavily, his fingers still tangled in your hair.

"You’re gonna drive me mad," he muttered, his voice low, hoarse. You could feel his heart racing, his body tense as he fought to hold onto whatever control he had left. His hands moved to your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you back. "You’re too young for this, girl.” He said again, his voice almost pained as he looked at you, searching your face for something, anything that would tell him he wasn’t making a mistake.

You just looked at him, your chest still heaving from the kiss, and nodded. "Never said I was innocent.” You murmured, your voice barely above a breath.

He let out a strained laugh, the sound almost bitter as he ran a hand down his face. His eyes flickered with something—desire, regret, confusion—before he kissed you again, slow this time, like he was trying to remind himself of what he was doing.

His hand moved from your hair, down to your neck, his thumb brushing over your pulse. The kiss was softer now, but the heat was still there, simmering beneath the surface. He pulled away again, his breath ragged, his eyes dark. He studied you for a moment, like he was trying to read the answers in your face. "You sure you want this?" He asked, his voice rougher, uncertain. You nodded, just once, but it was enough.

"God, yes." You whispered, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He kissed you again, his touch growing more insistent, but he still held back, like he was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t undo.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, just the two of you, lost in the heat of the moment. But as quickly as it had started, he pulled away again, his hands shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair. "You’re gonna be the end of me," he muttered, his voice low, like he was talking to himself more than you. You didn’t say anything, just stared at him, feeling the pull between you. "You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.” He warned, his voice rough.

But you just smiled, the corners of your lips curling up slightly as you looked at him, knowing full well what you wanted, and what he wanted, too.

“Then show me, old man.” You thought you were being real cheeky. Arthur just clicked his tongue before he rolled over, now caging you between the bedroll.

“You gonna wish you ain’t runnin’ that sweet mouth.”

Like a man on a mission, one with hunger, his large hands went to the waistband of your pants, and tugged them right down, making you gasp in shock; both from his agility and the cold that kissed your thighs.

“Fuck, look at you, sweetheart. Could see that fucking wet patch from miles away. Ain’t you such a needy thing.” Arthur cooed, bringing a thumb to rub over your wetness.

You whined at the contact, hips jerking when his thumb managed to delve and kiss your clit. “Arthur, please?” You pleaded, raising your knees to be on either side of him.

“Huh, so now it’s Arthur,” he shook his head, though complied to your demands. He curled two fingers into your panties and pulled them down, exposing your sopping cunt, even through the dim moonlight, Arthur could well see your neediness. “Ain’t that something.”

“Need you real bad, Arthur. Can’t wait.” You sighed, hiking your hips up to get more of him on you.

“Quit your rushing, girl. You ain’t the only one who’s been needin’ this.” Arthur scoffed, using his forefinger to run through your folds, gathering slick.

His confession caused your heart to skip a beat. Had you been blind all along? How many opportunities had you missed?

“As much as I would love to get right to it, I need to stretch you out first, sweetheart. I’m a little to the hefty side, so bear with me.” You moaned out, eyelashes fluttering as he sunk in two, thick fingers.

“Oh, Arthur.” You felt unbelievably stretched, even though pain blossomed between your legs, it was easily overlooked by pleasure.

“Shit, darlin’. You’re real fuckin’ tight. This might take a while.” Arthur’s voice was wrecked, like he was talking through gritted teeth.

There was only so much the man could endure, and having the patience to not devour everything about you, was none of that.

“Arthur, please? I can take it, don’t need no prepping. I need you, Arthur. Don’t you need me?” You at this moment craved to feel him inside you.

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t need you, I sure as hell wouldn’t be knuckle deep in your pussy.” He chuckled, shaking his head. Arthur curled his fingers, the thick digits pressing against that sweet, spongy spot inside you, causing you to cry out. He twisted his wrist, fingers flipping with before he spread them inside you, prying you open more and more.

“Oh, fuck, Arthur.” You moaned, fingers curling against the thin blanket below you.

“Just relax. You’re takin’ my fingers so well.” He praised, feeling your juicing drip onto his palm. He lifted his thumb, the pad finding your abandoned clit, rubbing and flicking at it.

Your eyes tipped back into your head, your toes curled in your socks. Arthur’s fingers caused you to make sounds you never knew you could.

You clamped down on him, causing Arthur to his. “Shit, girl. Y’squeezin’ me real tight. Don’t even know if I could fit.”

“N-No! You’ll fit. Fuck! Have to…” you managed to get out, before your words melted to moans, something tightening and tugging in your lower belly.

“You’re pretty determined. Guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

At this point, your thighs were shaking, and your body was sweating, yet you managed, with trembling fingers, to reach into Arthur’s lap, and nudge at his belt, desperately trying to get it undone, but efforts were fruitless. “O-Off. Take it off.”

“Geez, darlin’. Buy me a drink first?” You rolled your eyes, more so than they were, at his joke. You sighed out when he complied, free hand meticulously able to undo his belt, and even slide it from its loops.

The rest was easier, you were able to pull his zipper down, and then reach his underwear, tugging in jarred movements, at the black fabric.

Your body shuddered as his cock sprung free. Arthur was not joking. He was huge, and had a brain melting girth to him, topped by an angry, throbbing tip. You had no idea how you were going to sit still tomorrow, or even mount your horse.

Your back arched, your cunt was making lewd, wet sounds fill the tent. You huffed and choked on moans, yet you were able to wrap your fingers around Arthur’s cock, finger tips barely touching.

Arthur hissed at the contact, as if you burnt him. “Yeah, girl. Stroke me nice ‘n slow. Don’t wanna cum too soon.”

Arthur wrapped his larger hand around yours, using yours to fist his cock as he thrusted his hips into your hand. He bent his neck, pursed his lips, before a thick glob and saliva dropped down onto the shaft of his cock, now coating your palm as you jerked him off.

“Mm, that feels pretty good. Good fucking job.” He sighed, a crease forming between his brow.

His fingers has slowed, too caught up in what you were doing, before he snapped back, vigorously rubbing at your clit, and thrusting his fingers in you.

“O-Oh, Arthur! Can’t hold on any l-longer! Oh! Oh!” You cried, fingers tightening around his cock. A rather loud moan tumbling from Arthur’s lips.

“Cum, sweetheart. Make a mess on my fingers. Shit, yeah. Let me see what you can do.” Arthur’s fingers curled once more, and that’s when white filtered in your vision, and you were cumming hard.

Your cum splashed onto his hand, dribbling down your ass, throat going raw from the sobs you were letting out. Arthur’s fingers didn’t stop until you finished.

“S-Shit, okay. Let go of me now. I think you’re ready f’me, aren’t ya, girl?”

You nodded, letting your fingers drop from his cock. Arthur shifted on his knees, now angling himself until his cock was prodding at your hole.

He wrapped his slicked hand around his cock, coating it further in your release until he was satisfied. He glanced up, waiting for you to stop him, to which you’d never.

His hand fell to your hip to squeeze it as he pushed in, slowly, letting you adjust.

You whined as he went, cunt fluttering around his veiny shaft as he sunk in, until the tufts of hair on top his balls grazed your clit. Arthur let out a long sigh, now fully sheathed inside of you.

He drew his hips back, cock glistening, under the faint moonlight that trickled through the tent, covered with your previous arousal, before he sunk back in. It was slow, he was testing the waters.

You shifted beneath him, silently telling him to hurry up, not that you wanted to get this over and done with, but you just needed more.

Arthur sniggered, he almost wanted to say ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you’ but he felt that would ruin the moment. Instead, he grounded his knees into the bedroom before he pulled out, then snapped his hips forward, hips rhythmically thrusting into yours at a toe curling pace.

Arthur’s lips were suddenly below your ear, grunting and groaning into the shell of it. “Y’know how many times I’ve imagined this, sweetheart? Enough times for me t’wonder if I was even gonna make it to heaven.”

You moaned, loudly, at his words. Fingers flying to his shoulders, even though they were covered by his shirt. “Thought you s-said I was too young for you.”

Arthur grunted, breath hot on your skin, hips pushing you up in small movements. “That’s the part that was gonna send me to hell.”

You tried to give a smile, though your lips wobbled, falling open as you moaned for him. “It didn’t stop you…n-now.”

“Should’ve.”

“Am I the best you’ve had?” You asked, with staggering confidence.

Arthur chuckled, though it came out ragged. “It’s not a competition, girl. Why? Am I the best you’ve had?”

You moaned, they slowly came out higher and higher as his fat tip nudged your sweet spot. “N-No. You’re like second bes-st.”

“Second? Guess we’ll have to change that, then.” Both of Arthur’s hands were on your hips, digging into the flesh before they spun you around, chest now meeting with the bedroll, cock slipping from you momentarily.

Arthur let out a low whistle at the sight of your bare ass. Rough palm immediately going to the ample cheeks, spreading them to see both your holes. “Y’ever gonna let me fuck you there?” Arthur asked, thumb barely grazing your tight ring of muscles causing you to gasp.

“What? No. That’s…dirty, it’s gross.” You coughed.

Arthur hummed, his cock pressing back to your cunt before sliding back in with ease. “Not t’me, girl. Not to me.”

Arthur moved his weight, now leaning forward until he was just about laying on top of you before his hips found their steady rhythm.

This new angle had him so much deeper, filling you up entirely. You didn’t mind when his rough patch of hair brushed the glove of your ass, or how your breath came out shallow as he slinked an around your neck.

Your face was smushed between his thick muscles, hair awry. This position had you leaking more.

You had no where to go, not as his cock bullied your hole, you were stuck between Arthur, all hot above you, and the bedroll. Arthur was murmuring sweet nothings to you, rolling his hips, sharing your moans. “Sweetest fuckin’ pussy ever. Gonna get me greedy over it, sweetheart. Don’t know if I’d be able to go a day without it.”

You tried to get words out, but it was almost impossible with how your cheeks were pressing together.

“What was that?” Arthur asked.

“I said…you don’t have t-to.”

Arthur grinned, hips pummelling harder into yours. “Givin’ up your pussy to this old man? How mighty generous. But don’t worry, darlin’, I don’t plan to go a day without fuckin’ you.” You clenched around him at the thought.

Arthur Morgan was going to ruin you, for good.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Drool dribbled from your lips, your fingers digging into whatever surface they could find. “A-Arthur, think I’m gonna cum again.”

Arthur sped his movements up, balls slapping into the front of your pussy as they swung. “Cum, sweetheart. Cum on my cock.” He grunted.

Your vision blurred and your brain melted, dribbling through you and out your legs as your cunt spasmed, and before you knew it, you were gushing around him.

“S-Shit, girl. Making such a big mess, good fuckin’ girl.”

Arthur pulled out, hand wrapping around his cock to jerk it before he was spilling his thick load onto your ass. He shuddered as he came, hips stilling when he finished.

Arthur groaned when he was done, chest rising as he sat up on his knees, staring at the faint sight of the mess he made of you. He sighed, pulling out a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his cum off you, before he was tugging your pants up your thighs, and his up his.

He slummed to the side, back to his sleeping bag while you shifted on yours. His arm found you and pulled you roght to his chest, lips ok your forehead. “Now y’better fall asleep. Don’t think I can do any more rounds.”

You snorted, though your eyelids fluttered in tiredness. “Bones can’t handle it?”

Arthur huffed. “I’ll show you what these bones can handle.”

And before long, you were sliding onto Arthur’s lap, shimmying out your clothes again, preparing for the long, long night ahead of you, even if we’re about to fall asleep.

[froztii]

LET THE SKYFALL— GHOST

summary -> get in, get Volk, get out. if only it was that simple.

warnings -> literal angst, angst no comfort, language, violence, death, murder, weapon usage.

The helicopter's rotors had cut through the crisp Georgian air, a steady thrum that had vibrated in your chest. You had squinted against the cold wind, peering out the side of the aircraft as the forest stretched out below like a vast sea of green, the treetops undulating in the gusts.

It had almost felt peaceful, if you could ignore the churning pit of anticipation that had gnawed at your gut, clawing like an entrapped rabid dog. You had checked your gear once more, your hands moving mechanically as your eyes scanned the horizon.

Everything had been in place—rifle, pistol, ammo. Your vest had been tight, the weight of it familiar, grounding, but today felt constricting.

You had been on hundreds of missions, but this one had felt different. It hadn't been the first time you had hunted down a high-value target, but there had been something about Volk that had nagged at you. Something had felt off. Your thoughts had been interrupted by the quiet voice in your earpiece. "Five minutes to drop zone," Laswell had announced, her voice calm, businesslike. "You know the plan.

"We breach, clear, and retrieve intel. Get in and out fast." Price's gravelly voice had followed, his tone steady, no sign of nerves.

Beside you, Ghost had shifted slightly, adjusting the strap of his rifle. His silhouette had been towering, head slightly cocked to the side as he had studied the terrain below. He hadn't spoken, but you hadn't needed him to. He had been your partner for more missions than you could count. His presence had been a constant, a silent reassurance in the chaos. You had glanced at him, your eyes catching the faintest glimmer of his skull-patterned mask beneath his hood.

His gaze had met yours for a split second, brief, but there. You had known what it had meant. This mission had been no different from the others.

Stick to the plan. Stay sharp.

He had looked away first, scanning the drop zone below. The helicopter had begun its descent, the wind increasing in intensity, whipping your hair and stinging your skin.

You had gripped the edge of your seat to steady yourself, feeling the familiar tingle of nerves in your fingertips. The drop zone had been in sight now, a small clearing surrounded by dense trees. Price's voice had cut through again, low and firm. "Remember, we're after intel, not a firefight. Get in, get the target, get out." You had nodded, but your focus had been elsewhere.

The closer you had gotten, the more you had felt it, that strange tension building in your chest. It had been the calm before the storm. You had known it. You had felt it. But you had also known better than to let it show.

The helicopter had touched down with a heavy thud. You had been on your feet in an instant, the door swinging open, revealing the dark forest ahead.

The air had been thick with the scent of wet earth and pine, the distant rumble of thunder warning of a storm that had been too far off to matter. You and Ghost had moved together, dropping to the ground with the practiced ease of soldiers who had done this countless times. The rest of the team had followed suit, scattered into positions, ready to move. Price and Soap had been already ahead, covering the perimeter.

You and Ghost had formed the point. The dense trees had closed in around you as you had moved forward, the underbrush crunching beneath your boots. The mission had begun. "Remember, Volk is priority," Price's voice had filtered through your earpiece. "He's our lead on Makarov. No mistakes."

The team had moved as one, but there had been a sense of calm. No rush. No urgency. Just the methodical advance of soldiers with one objective. You had glanced sideways at Ghost. He had been a ghost in the forest, silent, fluid, barely leaving a trace behind. His focus had been absolute, every movement calculated. It had been one of the things you had always admired about him.

In a world of chaos, he had been the one constant. For a moment, you had almost forgotten the tension. Almost.

The safehouse had been ahead, a structure barely visible from the trees. You could have just made out the silhouette of the building, its outline partially obscured by overgrowth and shadows.

The team had assembled, positioning themselves strategically around the building. "Soap, on overwatch," Price had ordered. "Ghost, and you, lass, you two are in. We breach together, take Volk alive, and clear the building. No collateral damage."

You had nodded, your heart rate slowing as you had readied yourself. The adrenaline had settled into a sharp focus, a laser point that would guide you through this. Ghost had moved first, his presence a shadow against the moonlight as he had slipped to the side, keeping low, making no sound. You had followed in his wake, your movements synchronized. You had reached the back door, the others covering the front. A quick glance had confirmed the plan was going according to schedule—no guards visible, no signs of movement.

Everything had been quiet. Too quiet.

Ghost had given you a nod, signaling it had been time. You had moved in, shoulder pressing against the cold metal of the door, ready to breach. "Breach in three... two... one." You slammed your shoulder into the door, the wood splintering under the force. The team had flooded in behind you, weapons raised, eyes scanning for threats.

But there had been none. The building had been empty. You had felt a momentary sense of unease creep up your spine. There should have been people here. There should have been movement. But there had been nothing. Just the faint echo of your boots against the wooden floor. You had looked to Ghost. He had already been moving, heading toward the stairwell without a word. You had followed, senses heightened. Something hadn't been right.

"Clear the first floor," Price's voice had come through your earpiece. "Lass, take the left side. Ghost, you're on the right." You had moved swiftly, checking each room with practiced efficiency.

Everything had been clean. Too clean.

No sign of a struggle. No sign of anyone. You had reached the door at the end of the hall and paused, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Ghost's voice had come over the comms, low and deliberate.

"Top floor, clear." You had hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped forward, your hand on the door. You had pushed it open. The room beyond had been dimly lit, a faint glow coming from the corner where a laptop had hummed quietly on a desk.

And there, sitting at the desk, had been Volk. He had been exactly where you had expected him to be. His eyes had flicked up to meet yours, his face impassive, unreadable. No more waiting. You moved in.

Ghost had stayed at the door, covering you, his rifle trained on the room behind you. "Volk. You're coming with us." You said, your voice firm, but something in you had tightened, the unease settling deeper in your chest. Volk hadn't moved at first. He hadn't even seemed surprised. Then, without warning, his hand had darted to the laptop, pressing a button.

The screen had gone dark. "No time for questions." He had muttered. And that's when the trap had begun to close.

Volk's fingers had hovered over the laptop, his eyes darting between the screen and the door. There had been a calculating edge to his gaze, like he had already anticipated your every move. You stepped closer, the floor creaking underfoot, every instinct alert.

The room felt smaller now, like the walls were closing in. "Not yet." Volk had said, his voice calm, almost too calm, as his fingers had moved across the keyboard. You hadn't responded, just watched as his actions had become more deliberate, his every movement measured.

The hum of the laptop had filled the silence, and your pulse had quickened, tension flooding your chest. Ghost had remained by the door, still as ever, his eyes darting around the room, scanning for any sign of threat. Suddenly, the soft crackle of the radio had cut through the quiet.

Price's voice had been low, urgent. "Move. Now. They're coming." The words had hit you like a jolt of electricity. Your stomach had clenched, and for a second, you hesitated. Without warning, Ghost had already moved, his boots steady on the floor as he had headed toward the door.

You hadn't wasted time following, falling into step with him as you both had made your way toward the staircase. Every part of you had been alert now, tuned to the rhythm of the mission.

The room that moments ago had felt so still, so controlled, had now been thick with tension.

And then you had heard it. The sound of boots, heavy on the ground, footsteps approaching fast from somewhere behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck had stood on end, your senses sharp as you had made your way to the door. "Price, what's the status?" The words had come out before you could stop them, but the urgency in your voice had been unmistakable.

"Get out. We've been compromised." Price's voice had cut through the static, more clipped this time.

"Time to leave." Ghost had already been moving again, taking the lead as the team's point. You had followed, quick on his heels, the pace now frantic, the mission taking a turn you hadn't expected. The weight of the situation had pressed down on you, but you had pushed it aside for now. There had been no room for doubt, not here, not now. The footsteps behind you had grown louder, closer. But you hadn't looked back.

You had focused on the exit, the path ahead, trying to tune out the world around you. The walls had closed in, but there had been only one thought in your mind—escape. Ghost had moved like a shadow.

You tried to mirror his every step, your boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor. You reached the stairwell, moving upward in silence, the urgency mounting with each passing second.

"Soap, status?" Ghost's voice had been low, controlled, but there had been an undercurrent of tension that had betrayed his calm.

"On the ridge, keeping eyes on your six," Soap's voice had crackled through the earpiece. "But you're about to have company." The words had hung in the air for a second, but it had been all the warning you had gotten. The door at the top of the stairs had been just ahead, and you had made your way toward it.

Ghost had taken the lead again, pushing the door open, rifle raised, scanning the dark room beyond.

The world outside had seemed miles away, the quiet of the forest replaced by the distant hum of the approaching danger. The second your foot had hit the ground outside, you had felt it—the weight of the situation pressing in. The night air had been cold, biting against your skin.

The trees around you had stood like silent sentinels, their branches whispering in the wind, but there had been no time to think about that now.

Everything had felt like it had been moving too fast, and yet, somehow, it had been moving too slow. The tension was thick, like something waiting to snap. You hadn't had the luxury of second-guessing yourself. You had followed Ghost's movements, your rifle tight in your hands. "Soap, get ready." Ghost muttered under his breath, eyes darting around, scanning the surroundings.

Then the unmistakable sound of a vehicle—tires on dirt, gravel crunching under the weight of something heavy was drawing nearer. A low growl of an engine coming closer.

Your pulse quickened. The trap had closed in. You could hear the vehicle now, the sound of the engine growing louder as it had barreled toward your position. Ghost remained still, his every movement controlled, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

You moved to his side, your steps quiet, your breath shallow. The silence had almost been unbearable, but it had been the kind of silence you had learned to embrace in moments like this—when every tiny sound could have been the difference between life and death. "Soap, are you in position?" Ghost's voice had come low through the comms, barely a whisper.

"On it." Soap had responded, his voice steady, but the urgency had been clear. The sound of the vehicle had grown louder still, and you could have almost felt the weight of the approaching danger.

Ghost had given a quick nod, his jaw clenched, and without a word, he had started moving again. You had followed, keeping close to him, every sense alert. The trees around you had seemed to press in tighter as you had made your way through the darkened forest, the path ahead narrowing with each step.

Your fingers tightened around the grip of your rifle, and you couldn't help but feel the pressure building in your chest. The escape route is almost in sight, but you can't shake the feeling that the situation has already started to slip out of your control.

"Ghost." You murmured, your voice barely a breath, but he heard you nonetheless.

His attention shifted for a moment, and you saw the faint glint of the skull mask in the moonlight, the only thing visible of his face beneath the hood. He looked over his shoulder at you—just a glance, but it was enough. "We stay focused." He said, his voice low, a quiet command that left no room for doubt.

You nodded, your heart beating faster, but you didn't argue. There was nothing to say. Nothing but the mission. Another distant sound cut through the night—a snap of a twig. A rustle of leaves.

You froze. Ghost didn't react, but you saw the faint shift in his stance. He'd heard it too. He motioned for you to take the lead, and you moved forward with steady, controlled steps. The air was heavy with anticipation, the forest still except for the distant rumble of the approaching vehicle. Your focus narrowed as you advanced, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, but it was nothing new.

This was what you did.

This was who you were.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice crackled through your earpiece. "Contact front!" It was Soap, his voice sharp, the tension unmistakable.

You turned, instinctively reaching for your rifle, but Ghost was already there, moving with the precision of someone who'd lived this life a hundred times over. The sound of the vehicle had stopped, but the stillness was more dangerous than the noise.

Suddenly, figures moved out of the darkness, emerging from the trees like phantoms. Soldiers, weapons raised, their intentions clear.

"Get down!" Ghost shouted, his body a blur as he dropped to the ground, rifle already up, taking out the nearest target in a single, fluid motion. The others followed suit, weapons firing, and the world exploded into chaos. You hit the ground instinctively, rolling to the side, your rifle in hand, eyes scanning for the next target.

The trees were alive with movement now, soldiers rushing from all sides, firing from every angle. It was a perfect ambush, a trap set just for you.

Your breath quickened as you took cover behind a large tree, the staccato sound of gunfire filling the air. Ghost's figure was barely visible in the chaos, his movements so fast that he was little more than a blur in the night.

But you knew he was there, keeping you covered, taking out the threats before they even had a chance to reach you. The tension mounted with every passing second. T

here was no time to think.

No time to breathe.

Just the rhythm of battle, the pulse of adrenaline flooding your veins as you took out one soldier, then another, moving with precision, no hesitation. You didn't have to think. You'd done this a hundred times before. But as the firefight raged on, you started to notice something.

The numbers. There were more of them than you thought. More than you were expecting. And then, suddenly, the realization hit. It was a trap. "Ghost!" You shouted, barely able to hear yourself over the noise of the battle. "We need to move!"

But Ghost didn't respond right away. His movements were deliberate, almost methodical, taking out the nearest threats one by one. He was focused, laser sharp, and in that moment, you saw it in his eyes. He knew exactly what was happening. And he wasn't about to let it go without a fight.

The air thickened with the metallic scent of gunpowder and the sharp, acrid taste of smoke. Ghost moved like a shadow through the chaos. The gunfire echoed through the forest, a rhythm that was both familiar and terrifying. You pressed yourself against the trunk of a tree, your rifle raised, eyes scanning the darkened landscape for any signs of movement.

Every second felt like an eternity, every noise amplified in the deafening silence between gunshots. You were focused, your heart beating in time with the staccato fire, but something inside you began to break apart, the feeling that this mission was slipping through your fingers growing with every passing moment. There were more soldiers—more enemies—than you were led to believe.

You knew this wasn't just an ambush; it was a setup, a carefully, orchestrated trap designed to corner you, and there was no way out. The realization sank in slowly, like a cold hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing tighter with each breath you took.

Ghost was still moving with that eerie precision, a blur of motion as he took down the nearest threats with a cold efficiency that sent a shiver down your spine.

You'd seen him fight before, but that night it was different. His movements were deliberate, almost too calculated, and yet there was a sense of desperation behind each shot, as if he was trying to outrun something. You couldn't place it, but there was a heaviness in the air then, a weight that pressed down on your chest. It wasn't just the enemy you had to fight anymore. It was the realization that this mission had already gone wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Another crack of gunfire ripped through the night, and you instinctively ducked, pressing further into the cover of the tree, heart racing, palms slick against your rifle. You pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the immediate threat.

The enemy's positions were scattered, but their numbers were overwhelming, pushing from every side, converging on you and Ghost.

Soap's voice crackled through your earpiece, sharp with urgency. "Get the hell out of there. We can't hold them off forever." You didn't respond. There was no time. Your mind raced as you tried to calculate your next move.

You were surrounded, but the trees were thick with cover. If you could just make it to the ridge, to the extraction point—But as you turned to find Ghost, to make the call, you realised he was already ahead of you. He was always ahead of you.

He moved swiftly, his steps silent, as if he'd already accepted what was happening, as if he'd prepared for it.

He wasn't looking at you, not speaking, but his every movement was a command, an order. You knew what it meant. There was no waiting, no more hesitation. It was now or never.

Ghost's figure moved like liquid in the dark, a blur of black against the trees. He was scanning, eyes narrowed, rifle raised, every muscle in his body tense with readiness. There was no fear in him—not then.

But you could see it in his eyes, in the brief flicker of something that passed across his mask when he glanced back at you. It wasn't fear, exactly.

It was something else—something darker. It was the reality of what they were up against. The reality that this mission, this battle, was not something you could just walk away from. The weight of that realisation hit you hard, and for a moment, your breath caught in your throat.

You'd never been one to back down. You'd never hesitated in the face of danger. But that was different. That was worse. The odds were stacked too high. The plan was slipping through your fingers, and Ghost knew it. That was why he was moving faster, more urgently.

He'd already accepted that the mission was lost, but he wasn't giving up. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance to fight. And fight you would.

You tightened your grip on your rifle, your knuckles white against the cold metal. You weren't giving up either. You refused to. Ghost's eyes flickered toward you again, a silent command. You didn't hesitate that time.

You moved with him, keeping pace, staying close, each step a part of the rhythm of survival. The forest was alive with gunfire then, the night torn apart by the roar of weapons. The enemy was closing in from all sides, their movement a coordinated effort. But you couldn't let that stop you. You wouldn't.

You pushed forward, ducking low as more gunshots rang out, narrowly missing you. Ghost was ahead, a constant presence, moving in and out of the shadows with an ease that came from years of experience. His rifle didn't waver, and neither did his resolve. You followed his lead, not needing to exchange a single word. There was no need for words between you. There was only the mission. Only the fight.

And as you moved deeper into the forest, your mind shifted from survival to strategy. You needed a way out. There had to be one.

Soap's voice crackled through your earpiece again, the urgency in his tone more apparent then. "Extraction point's not far, but you need to move faster." His words were clipped, but you heard the fear beneath them. Fear for you. Fear for the team.

You didn't respond. You didn't have time for reassurances or pleasantries. You just moved. You kept moving, your eyes scanning the environment, your body tense and alert. The trees blurred around you, but you couldn't afford to focus on them. You focused on the next step, the next move. You trusted Ghost's lead, and he trusted yours. But as you pushed forward, the weight of the situation pressed down harder, and a thought crept into the back of your mind: You were running out of time.

Time to act. Time to escape.

The trees seemed to stretch on forever, the moonlight barely reaching through the canopy. You were disoriented, your senses strained from the constant tension, the fear gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. You couldn't let it show. Not yet.

But you could feel it. The trap was closing. The enemy was tightening their grip. And soon, there wouldn't be any more places to hide. No more cover. You pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. You couldn't afford to think about the outcome. All that mattered then was getting to the extraction point. And if you had to fight to get there, then so be it.

Ghost's movements remained steady and precise, but there was an unspoken urgency in the way he moved then. He wasn't taking chances. His eyes flickered constantly, scanning the shadows, looking for any sign of movement. The world felt smaller as you moved deeper into the forest, every step weighted with the knowledge that the situation was escalating faster than you could control. The enemy had the upper hand then, and there was no denying that. But the only option was to fight. No retreat. No surrender. Just forward, one step after the other, and trust that the plan, however flawed, would carry you through.

You stayed close behind Ghost, your rifle at the ready, fingers twitching at the trigger, poised to react to the slightest movement. The sound of the battle echoed in the distance, growing fainter, and you could almost taste the fear in the air.

The adrenaline, the sharpness of your focus, it all blended together as you pushed yourself harder. The enemy's numbers were still growing. The gunfire became sporadic, distant, but no less dangerous.

You couldn't shake the feeling that they were regrouping, coordinating their next move. They were closing in. You could feel it in your bones. "Soap, how's the ridge?" You didn't hesitate, the words coming out as quickly as they formed in your mind.

The response crackled through your earpiece, strained, but still clear. "Still holding, but they're pushing hard. I need you to move faster." Soap's voice didn't mask the tension in his tone, the concern for your safety, for everyone's safety.

Ghost didn't respond. He just kept moving, pushing forward, always one step ahead, guiding the team without saying a word. You could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. But there was no room for hesitation then. No time to wonder if you'd make it out.

The extraction point was close, but the path was far from clear. You knew the enemy was only a few steps behind you, and the forest around you, once a sanctuary, had become a maze—a place where danger could come from any direction.

Ghost slowed his pace just slightly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened path ahead. His mask hid most of his expression, but you could see the tension in his body language. He was preparing for something. You could feel it too.

The trap was almost set. And that time, you knew, there would be no easy way out. "Stay sharp." Ghost's voice cut through the air, low and commanding. It was the only warning you got before everything changed. A rustle in the trees. The faintest whisper of movement behind you.

And then—a burst of gunfire. You didn't hesitate, diving to the ground, instinct taking over. The world was suddenly alive with chaos, the sound of weapons, the sharp crack of bullets tearing through the air. You hit the dirt hard, rolling to the side, heart hammering in your chest.

Ghost was already up, rifle raised, moving in and out of the shadows with a deadly precision that left no room for error. His movements were fast, fluid, a blur of black against the night. You pushed yourself to your feet, rifle raised, scanning the area.

The attack was sudden, explosive, and you could see it then—where the enemy was coming from. They were closing in from all directions, encircling you with alarming speed. Ghost's voice came again, low and steady. "We need to move. Now." He didn't wait for a response, already leading the way as he sprinted forward, the gunfire continuing to rain down around you.

You didn't question it. You followed, your mind sharp, every instinct telling you to keep up, to stay close. The forest was a blur as you raced through it, adrenaline pumping through your veins, the sound of your footsteps pounding against the ground in time with the gunfire.

Ghost led you through the trees, his every move calculated, taking the path of least resistance, avoiding open ground. But you could hear them then, the sounds of boots hitting the dirt, the unmistakable shuffle of soldiers closing in.

The trap was tightening. You pushed yourself harder, feeling the burn in your legs, the weight of the rifle heavy in your hands, but you didn't slow down. There was no time for that. Soap's voice spliced through the comms again, but it was barely audible over the sound of the gunfire. "Almost there, but you've got company." The words were brief, but you heard the urgency beneath them.

You weren't alone in this fight anymore. The enemy was everywhere. You could feel the shift in the air, the pressure mounting, the sense that this could be the end of it all. But Ghost didn't flinch. He never did. And as he glanced back at you, his eyes hard, focused, you realized something—you were in this together. There was no way out except through.

The sound of the battle grew louder, more frantic. You pushed through the underbrush, rifle at the ready, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, looking for the enemy. But the trees around you were thick with movement, and every direction felt like it was filled with danger.

Ghost moved fast, but the enemy was faster. There was nowhere to hide. No place left to run. You heard it before you saw it—the faint hum of an engine, the low growl of a vehicle coming closer, cutting through the forest. It was a reminder of how trapped you were, of how small the world had become. The enemy wasn't going to let you leave. They wouldn't let you escape.

Ghost looked over his shoulder again, his jaw set in a hard line. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, there was something in them—a brief flash of understanding, of acknowledgment.

And then, just like that, it was gone. The moment was lost to the chaos around you. "We fight." Ghost instructed, his voice hard, unyielding. You didn't need to hear anything else. You had known this moment was coming. And now, there was no turning back.

You pushed forward with Ghost, rifle raised, ready to face whatever came next. You could feel the weight of the battle in every breath, every step you took. The extraction point was still there, just out of reach. But you couldn't think about that now. You could only focus on the fight. On survival. Because that was all that mattered.

The world was a blur of movement and sound as you pressed on, pushing yourself harder and faster with each passing second. Ghost's every step seemed calculated, measured, deliberate—his presence a constant in the chaos, guiding you through the darkness with a calm that you couldn't quite replicate. But there was a subtle shift in the air now, a tension beginning to settle into your bones, something in the way the forest seemed to close in around you. It wasn't that you were losing ground. You weren't.

But the farther you pushed, the more it felt as though something was lurking just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to strike. Your breath came harder, your pulse quickening as you followed Ghost through the thick underbrush, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the wet earth beneath you. You tried to shake off the sense of unease creeping into the corners of your mind, but it was hard to ignore. Every crack of a branch, every shift of the wind felt like a warning, a sign that something wasn't right. Your eyes darted around the forest, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. There was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the occasional bird taking flight—but the silence was more unnerving than comforting.

The absence of sound made your heart race even faster. You glanced at Ghost, his figure barely visible in the darkness, his head slightly turned, as if listening for something. His movements were smooth, deliberate, but there was something in the way his body tensed, something in the way he slowed down just a fraction, as if anticipating something. You tried to ignore the sudden surge of dread, pushing it down. You'd fought alongside Ghost long enough to know that if he was on edge, there was a reason.

You adjusted your grip on your rifle, your fingers tight against the cold metal, trying to steady yourself. It was only a momentary hesitation, just a flicker of doubt, but it was enough to make your nerves flare.

Ghost kept moving, the sound of his boots barely audible over the wind that stirred the trees around you. He'd always been the calm one, the one who didn't flinch, didn't second-guess, and for the first time, you wondered if even he could feel it too—the tension that seemed to hang in the air like a storm waiting to break.

"Stay sharp." Ghost muttered under his breath, his voice low and steady, but there was an edge to it now. A sharpness that cut through the silence. You nodded, though he couldn't see you. His words echoed in your mind, settling like a weight in your chest.

But you were already on edge. You'd been on edge since the first crack of gunfire, since the moment you realised this wasn't going to be the quick in-and-out mission you had hoped for. You'd learned to trust Ghost, to trust his instincts, but right now, his calmness felt almost too controlled, like he was holding something back. It wasn't like him.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand. You had to make it to the extraction point.

Soap's voice crackled through your earpiece again, the static before his words coming through sharp. "We've got movement," he said, his tone tight. "Multiple contacts ahead. You need to pick up the pace."

You glanced at Ghost, but he was already moving faster, his body slipping effortlessly into the shadows as he advanced. His focus was unwavering, every step calculated, but you could see the subtle increase in speed. You weren't far from the extraction point now.

You could feel it, almost within reach, but with every step you took, the feeling in your gut tightened. The air felt heavier, thicker, and the faintest rustle of leaves became an alarming signal that something was off. Something had changed. Ghost didn't look back, but you could see the shift in his posture, the way he adjusted his rifle, the slight increase in his pace. He was preparing for something. You didn't know what it was yet, but the tension between you two was palpable. It was as if he knew what was coming, and he wasn't telling you—there was no need to. It was inevitable.

And you'd have to deal with it when it came. "We need to move." Ghost grunted again, his voice more urgent now. You didn't question it. You just pushed yourself harder, keeping up with him as best as you could.

The trees seemed to stretch on endlessly, the night pressing in on you like a shroud. The deeper you went, the more disorienting it became. It felt as though the forest itself was turning against you.

You couldn't shake the feeling that you weren't alone anymore. You'd always known danger lurked in the shadows, but now it felt as though the shadows were closing in on you, suffocating you with every step.

You turned a corner, pushing through thick foliage, and suddenly—Ghost was gone. One moment, he was just a few feet ahead, and the next—nothing.

You stopped dead in your tracks, every muscle in your body tensing. You scanned the area frantically, but there was no sign of him. The trees swayed gently in the wind, their leaves rustling, but there was no Ghost. Just an oppressive silence.

A lump formed in your throat, and your hand tightened around the rifle, the stillness making everything feel far too quiet, too empty. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Where had he gone?

You took a hesitant step forward, but then you heard it—the faintest sound of a twig snapping, a rustle in the leaves.

It was close. Too close.

You spun around, raising your rifle, heart racing, but there was nothing. The darkness seemed to mock you, the shadows shifting as if alive. You weren't alone.

Something was out there. Your instincts screamed at you to move, but you stood frozen, listening, waiting for any sign. The seconds stretched, each one feeling like an eternity.

You knew Ghost was out there somewhere.You knew he was still close, but the sense of unease built with every passing second.

The silence pressed in, thick like a fog, suffocating and oppressive. The darkness became a living thing, closing in on you from all sides. Then, you heard it—a faint rustling, barely a whisper, but enough to make your heart skip a beat. Something had been moving in the shadows, and it was close.

You had trained for this. You had faced worse and made it through, but this time—this time, it felt different. This time, the quiet had broken with something far more sinister.

Your instincts screamed at you to react, but before you could, the unmistakable sound of footsteps had echoed from behind. Heavy. Deliberate. Closing in fast. You turned sharply, rifle raised, muscles coiled, ready for anything, but it was already too late. No more time to hesitate. The moment had arrived. It was here.

The world shifted around you, the once quiet forest now heavy with the presence of the unknown. The sound of boots in the distance was unmistakable—slow, deliberate, as if whoever was following you wanted to draw out the tension, make you feel the weight of their approach.

You swallowed hard, the weight of your rifle in your hands suddenly feeling heavier than it ever had before. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, a chill running through your body as you braced for whatever came next. Your mind raced, but your body was already moving, instincts taking over. Ghost was out there, somewhere. But right now, you couldn't rely on him. You had to rely on yourself.

You shifted your stance, preparing to face whatever it was that was creeping up on you. The rustling of leaves grew louder, closer, and for a moment, you could almost hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, drowning out everything else.

A shadow flickered at the edge of your vision, a figure darting between the trees. But you didn't have time to process it. Not yet.

The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, the musty smell of the forest heavy in your lungs. The world felt warped, distorted, as if time itself was slowing down. You became aware of every small movement, every sound—every breath you took, every beat of your heart, amplified, as the world around you sharpened to a fine point. The tension was unbearable.

You took a step forward, cautiously, eyes scanning the shadows, but nothing moved. You held your breath, straining to hear, waiting for the next sound, the next clue that would tell you where the threat was coming from.

And then, without warning, it came—an explosion of sound, of gunfire, tearing through the silence like a lightning strike.

You barely had time to react, to register the obliteration of noise and violence before the world erupted into chaos. The first shot was close, too close, and you instinctively dropped to the ground, rolling to the side, rifle raised, scanning for the source of the attack. The trees around you shook, leaves falling in a slow, disorienting rain, but there was no sign of the enemy.

You cursed under your breath, trying to get a better angle, but you couldn't pinpoint them. The forest was a maze of shadows and shifting shapes, and the silence was just as dangerous as the gunfire that now filled the air. Your pulse raced, your muscles tensed, every nerve in your body screamed for action, for a way out.

But there was no way out. Not yet. You had to stay in this fight.

You kept your focus, your rifle steady, eyes darting from tree to tree, trying to find any sign of movement. But all you saw were shadows, flickering in and out of view. Another shot rang out. The sound was deafening, but still you didn't see where it was coming from. There was no movement, no sign of the shooter. Just the quiet hum of the forest, interrupted only by the crackle of gunfire.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and then the crack of a twig—too loud, too clear—pierced the silence. You spun around, rifle aimed at the source, but there was nothing. The shadows mocked you, taunting you, moving just out of reach.

"Ghost." You whispered into your comms, voice tight with tension, but the words felt useless, swallowed by the thickening silence. No response. Not even static. Your stomach sank. You knew the drill.

Ghost was silent when he was on the move. But the absence of his voice felt different now, more pronounced. More final.

You waited for the sound of his boots, for the quiet crack of a branch under his weight, the reassuring presence that he was out there, moving, still watching your back.

But it never came.

For a moment, there was only the weight of the silence pressing in on you, squeezing your chest until your breath came in shallow gasps. The forest was alive with sound now—distant chatter, the low growl of engines, the rustling of leaves as soldiers moved in and out of the trees.

But you were alone in the middle of it. And suddenly, it felt like the world was closing in on you, the walls of the forest growing tighter with every passing second.

You rose to your feet slowly, carefully, every muscle tense, your senses heightened, but still—no movement. No sign of Ghost. The sense of dread grew, the feeling that something was wrong sinking deeper into your gut with every breath you took. The shadows felt darker, thicker. The trees seemed to close in around you, like silent sentinels watching your every move. And then—The crackle of gunfire erupted again, this time closer, much closer. You froze. It wasn't a single shot this time, but a steady stream, the unmistakable sound of a firefight.

You could hear the sound of shouting, the faint echo of orders being barked out, but everything was muffled, as if it was coming from far away. You turned, trying to pinpoint the source, but the forest seemed to stretch out in every direction.

No matter where you looked, the noise seemed to come from somewhere else, as if the battle was everywhere and nowhere at once. Your breath caught in your throat. You needed to move. You needed to find Ghost. The silence in your comms was deafening.

You forced yourself to take a step forward, the ground soft beneath your boots, but with every step, the world seemed to grow more oppressive, the air heavier.

The gunfire was still there, still echoing through the trees, but it was like a distant memory, fading just out of reach. You moved faster now, your senses screaming at you to keep going, to get closer to the sounds, to get closer to whatever was happening, but the forest was an endless stretch of trees, branches clawing at you as you pushed through them. You didn't stop. You wouldn't stop. You knew what happened when you did.

You pushed forward, each step a struggle, each breath harder than the last. You could feel the weight of the rifle in your hands, the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your chest, the pounding of your boots against the earth. But with each passing second, it felt like you were moving in slow motion, like the world was pulling away from you, slipping through your fingers. You knew you weren't alone, but you couldn't shake the feeling that the forest was working against you, that it was holding you back. And then, you heard it again.

The sound of footsteps. This time, they were unmistakable, heavy and brash, crashing through the underbrush, getting closer with every heartbeat.

You stopped in your tracks, the rifle raised, heart racing, every muscle tense. The footsteps were loud now, unmistakable, but they weren't the ones you were waiting for.

They weren't Ghost's.

That's when you realised that you weren't just being hunted—you were being cornered.

The steady thrum of the forest filled your ears, a constant background hum, but it wasn't enough to mask the rising tension that coiled tight in your chest. The enemy was out there, you knew it, but you couldn't see them, couldn't hear them.

They were watching, waiting. The silence was maddening, each breath you took seeming louder than the last, each movement of your body more exaggerated than the one before it. You cursed under your breath, forcing yourself to stay focused.

Ghost's presence was a lingering reminder, the weight of his absence heavy on your chest as the air around you grew thicker, colder. You didn't know where he was anymore.

The sounds of battle had faded, the distant crack of gunfire now a faint memory. There was no sign of him, and the silence was deafening. The wind picked up, swirling through the trees, making the branches creak and groan. It was a small noise, but it made your heart race.

It was the kind of sound you'd learned to listen to, the kind of sound that meant something was about to happen. Your hands tightened around your rifle, the cold metal familiar, but it did nothing to quell the nervous energy pulsing through your veins. You moved forward, slow, deliberate, scanning the area, eyes flicking from tree to tree, trying to find something—anything—that would tell you where the threat was. But there was nothing.

You glanced down at your comms, expecting to hear Ghost's voice crackling through the static. But it was dead silent. You froze. The lack of communication—it felt wrong.

Ghost had never gone silent for this long. He'd always been there, a constant presence in your ear, guiding, directing, watching your back. But now? Nothing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep moving. This wasn't the time to panic. You'd been in worse situations. You'd survived worse. And yet, the gnawing feeling in your gut refused to go away. You weren't alone in the forest. You could feel them.

The enemy was close, you could hear their movement now, a soft rustling that grew louder with each passing second. It was all around you. You tried to locate them, but the dense trees and thick underbrush made it impossible to pinpoint their location. You cursed again, frustration boiling under the surface.

You needed to move, needed to get out of the open before they closed in. But before you could make a decision, you heard it—a crack. A single, sharp snap of a twig underfoot, too loud to be ignored.

Your pulse spiked as you whipped around, rifle raised, but there was nothing. Just the shadows. The sounds of the forest seemed to magnify in that moment—the wind howling through the trees, the rustle of leaves, your own breath heavy and shallow in your chest. And then it came. More Gunfire. The sharp, crackling sound of a shot piercing the air, and you instinctively dove to the ground, rolling behind a tree for cover.

Your heart was pounding in your ears, your mind racing as the shot reverberated through the trees. You didn't see where it came from. You couldn't. The world around you felt like it was closing in, the shadows stretching longer, darker. You fought to steady your breathing, trying to slow the frantic beat of your heart, but your body refused to listen.

The shot wasn't a warning. It was the start of something much worse.

The enemy was here. You could feel it. You knew they were coming for you now, and there was nowhere to hide. Another shot rang out, too close this time, and you ducked instinctively, pushing yourself further into the cover of the tree, your rifle still trained on the shadows, but there was nothing.

No movement, no sign of where the threat was coming from. Just silence.

The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. The tension was unbearable, each second stretching out longer than the last. Your eyes darted around, scanning the darkness, every crack of a twig or rustle of leaves setting your nerves on edge.

You weren't alone. But the enemy was elusive, like ghosts in the fog, and every instinct in your body screamed at you to run, to get out of the open, but you couldn't. Not yet. You couldn't leave Ghost.

The silence stretched on, growing more unbearable with each passing moment. You were running out of time. You needed to move. But before you could take another step, the world exploded. The crack of an explosion rattled through the forest, followed by the deafening roar of gunfire, the sharp burst of bullets ripping through the trees. You barely had time to react before you were thrown to the ground, your body slamming into the dirt as the shockwave from the blast rattled your bones.

Dust and debris filled the air, choking the breath from your lungs as you scrambled to get back on your feet.

You heard shouts, the roar of engines, and the unmistakable sound of boots on the ground. But there was still no sign of Ghost.

The air was thick with the bitter smell of smoke, the acrid scent of burning earth, and for a moment, it was impossible to see anything but the haze that enveloped everything around you. You pushed yourself up, rifle raised, eyes scanning through the smoke, trying to find some semblance of clarity in the chaos.

But there was no time to think. The enemy was everywhere now. You heard movement to your left, just beyond the smoke, the soft crunch of leaves, and instinctively, you raised your rifle, but before you could fire, the sound of gunfire ripped through the air. The shot was too close, and your vision blurred as your body was thrown backward, the impact knocking the wind out of you.

You scrambled to get up, but your legs felt like jelly, your body heavy with the shock of the hit. It wasn't just the bullet that was hurting—it was the sudden sense of exposure, the realization that you were alone now. Completely alone.

Ghost's absence was louder than any gunfire.

You were caught in the crossfire, a target, and with no backup, no direction, you could feel the walls closing in around you.

The sound of enemy soldiers was deafening now, a constant barrage of gunfire, shouts, and chaos, and you realized just how deep you'd fallen into this trap. There was no way out now—not without help.

You staggered to your feet, fighting against the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm you, but the world around you was spinning. You could barely keep your eyes focused on anything—let alone the enemy soldiers that were closing in on you.

And then, just as you started to move, you heard it again. The faint crack of a twig snapping underfoot, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots approaching.

You spun around, rifle aimed, but there was no time to shoot.

The enemy was already on top of you, the muzzle of their rifle nearly touching your face as they shoved you backward, forcing you down into the dirt. The weight of the rifle in your hands felt like it was getting heavier by the second, your vision narrowing as the world tilted and spun. This was it. There was no way out now.

The soldier's hand pressed firmly into your chest, pushing you further into the dirt. You struggled beneath the weight of him, but your body felt like lead, each movement slow and clumsy.

Your fingers tightened around your rifle, but your grip felt weak, almost useless in the face of what was happening. There was no one around to help. No one but you.

You choked on a breath, your heart hammering in your chest, and the soldier's cold, menacing grin filled your vision. He leant down, close enough for you to feel his breath on your face, his eyes wide with cold satisfaction. He knew he had you now. There was no escape. You were alone. "You're out of time, girl." He growled, his voice low, dripping with malice.

You tried to move, to fight, but the weight of your exhaustion, the sheer physical toll of the battle, kept you rooted in place. Your limbs refused to obey you.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths as you tried to summon the strength to push him off. But before you could, a sharp crack split the air. The soldier's body jerked violently, the rifle slipping from his hands as he fell to the side, crumpling like a ragdoll.

For a moment, you were frozen, staring at the body, the dark blood staining the earth beneath him. Then, the world around you sharpened again, and you whipped around, looking for the source of the shot.

Ghost. He emerged from the smoke, a shadow in the chaos, his rifle aimed, his face obscured by the familiar skull mask. His eyes, cold as ever, flicked to yours for only a brief second before he was moving again, his movements fast, precise.

He didn't waste time. Not even a glance back. You scrambled to your feet, adrenaline coursing through your veins, but it felt like a distant echo. Ghost was here, but even his presence couldn't block out the feeling of dread that had settled deep in your gut.

There was a sense of finality in the air now, a certainty that this mission, this battle, wouldn't end well. He wasn't talking.

But you could see it—the tension in his posture, the way his eyes scanned the area, never settling on one thing for too long. He was hunting. And you were right there with him.

You pushed the fear to the back of your mind, forcing yourself to focus, to stay in the game. There was no room for hesitation. No time for doubt. The enemy was regrouping. You could hear their voices now, the movement of boots, the harsh clink of gear.

They were close, dangerously close. You could feel the weight of their presence bearing down on you, like the air was thick with their anticipation. Ghost's movements were fluid, controlled—he didn't miss a step as he led you deeper into the woods, further into enemy territory.

You followed, heart racing, trying to ignore the gnawing sense of dread that was growing heavier with each passing second. The silence between you was unbearable, but it wasn't until you rounded the bend that you realized just how wrong things had gone.

The clearing ahead wasn't empty. It was a trap. Soldiers flooded into the space, weapons raised, their eyes scanning the perimeter as they set up defensive positions. A dozen, maybe more. They were all armed, all dangerous. And they'd anticipated every move.

Your breath caught in your throat. Ghost didn't hesitate. He opened fire first, but it wasn't enough. The enemy was ready for him, and before you could even lift your weapon, you heard the unmistakable sound of an incoming grenade.

Time seemed to freeze as you watched the flash of the grenade's arc, the instant before it hit the ground. The explosion came so fast you barely had time to shield yourself, the shockwave rattling your bones as the earth shook beneath you.

You were thrown backward, your body slamming into a tree, the force of it leaving you gasping for air, disoriented. Your vision blurred, your head spinning. It was chaos. Gunfire, screams, the roar of explosions—they filled the air around you, making it impossible to think. Impossible to act.

You forced yourself to push through the haze, pulling yourself upright as you searched for Ghost. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw him, he was down. A few yards ahead, he was sprawled on the ground, his body unmoving.

The sight of him, the stillness in his form, sent a jolt of panic straight to your chest. You pushed through the fog of the blast, pushing your body to its limits as you sprinted towards him. The world seemed to slow, each step a battle against your own exhaustion, but you didn't care.

You reached him, kneeling beside his prone form, checking for signs of life. His body was warm. The mask was still on, but his breath was ragged, shallow. He was still breathing. The relief was fleeting.

The enemy was closing in, and there was no time for anything but action. You dragged him behind cover, using the last of your strength to pull him to safety, but you knew it was only temporary.

The battle raged on. You weren't done yet. Your hands trembled as you pulled yourself up, your rifle still in hand, your mind a blur of adrenaline and fear. The fight was far from over, and you weren't sure how much longer you could last. You tried to steady your breath, but every second seemed to stretch into eternity. The enemy was coming for you.

They wouldn't stop. They couldn't stop.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the weight of it, the suffocating pressure that threatened to crush you with every passing moment. You were running out of time. There was no way to know how much longer you had, but it wasn't much.

Ghost stirred beside you, his hand reaching for his rifle, but his movements were sluggish, pained. You could feel the blood pumping in your ears, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart, and then, before you could even process what was happening, another shot rang out.

You didn't see the impact, but you felt the change in the air, felt the shift in the tension around you. Your breath caught in your throat. The world tilted. And then it all went black.

The world faded into a stifling darkness, the muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions distant as if they were happening in another life. The heat of the battle, the weight of the fight, it all slipped away.

There was nothing left but the oppressive stillness, a quiet that suffocated. It was impossible to tell if it was minutes, hours, or seconds that passed as your body lay still on the ground, the dirt beneath you cold and unforgiving. Your mind refused to process what had happened. You couldn't.

You felt weightlessness—an absence of sensation—as if your body had been cast adrift in an ocean of nothing. A phantom ache lingered where your chest met the earth, but it was distant. Too distant to be real. The gunfire, the shouts, the chaos—all of it seemed to blur together.

There was nothing.

No Ghost, no battle, no world.

Just darkness, swallowing everything whole.

And then, a flicker. A memory. His voice. "Stay with me." The words echo faintly in your mind, distorted by pain and static, but they're there.

They pushed against the blackness. The feeling of him, the way his presence felt like a tether, pulling you out of the void. You were supposed to be stronger than this. You were supposed to survive. But survival is a fickle thing, and as that final shot rang out, you were already too far gone.

There's a coldness that spreads across your chest, sharp and unyielding, but it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter because the world is slipping away, and there's nothing to hold onto. Hours later, or perhaps days—time has lost all meaning—consciousness drifts back, but it's not the same. The world is different.

Muffled voices reach your ears, low and indistinct, but there's one that cuts through the fog, sharp and unmistakable. It's his voice. Ghost's voice. A strained rasp, barely audible. His words are fragmented, like they're being pulled from deep beneath the surface, but they make you stop. "No. You—you can't be—." His tone cracks, like a man clinging to the last thread of hope, but there's something about it that's wrong.

Desperation. Pain. The sound of him trying to hold himself together, and failing.

The pain came next—slow, searing, and relentless. You blinked your eyes open, the world around you spinning, but you didn't move. You couldn't.

Your body refusesd to obey, each breath coming in short, ragged gasps, like your lungs are being squeezed from the inside.

You didn't want to open your eyes, didn't want to face the reality of what's happened, but you didn't have a choice. The moment your eyes cracked open, you're met with the dim light of the forest, the flickering shadows of movement around you. You blinked again, forcing the world to settle into focus.

Ghost. He's crouched beside you, kneeling in the dirt, his face hard, unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—are full of something you don't know how to name. A mixture of disbelief, fury, and pain.

A ghost of what he used to be.

His hands hovered over you, trembling, but they don't touch you. You can't speak. You can't move. Your throat feels like it's closing in, every breath an effort. You want to reach out, to say something, anything, to ease the tension in his gaze, but the words are stuck. You're stuck.

He leant forward, his hand finally making contact with your shoulder, a rough, almost desperate grip that's the only thing anchoring you to the moment. His voice breaks again, quieter this time, like he's talking to himself. "This isn't how it's supposed to go... You were supposed to be with me." The words hit you harder than you expected, and they settle in your chest like lead.

You weren't supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to be lying here, helpless, fading. You weren't supposed to leave him behind.

The guilt rises, thick and suffocating. This is the moment—the one where the world tilts, and everything changes. And in that moment, you can see it. The way his eyes, cold as ever, soften. Just for a second. But it's there. A crack. A fracture in the stone, something human behind the mask of the soldier.

And that's when it hits you. You're not going to make it out of this. You already knew that, but now, it's clearer than ever. The finality of it sinks in, and there's a sinking feeling in your stomach, a realization that it doesn't matter what you do, who you try to be, or how hard you fight. It's over.

And Ghost—he's here, but not really. He's too far away, buried under layers of armor and grief. He'll be fine. He always is.

But you? You're not. You can feel the weight of the truth pressing down, suffocating you. This is how it ends. You don't know if you can find it in yourself to care. Not anymore.

"Don't you dare fucking leave me here." Ghost muttered, his voice thick with frustration, his hand gripping your shoulder with a force that's meant to wake you up, pull you back, but it doesn't work.

You wish it could. You wish it could change something, but nothing's going to save you now. Not even him. You can see his jaw tighten, his entire body shaking with the effort to stay composed, to stay strong, but it's a lie. And for a fleeting second, you wonder if he's ever been this close to breaking before. You wonder if you've been the one holding him together all along. But it's too late for questions now. It's too late for anything.

The world around you feels like it's collapsing, the edges of your vision dimming once more. You hear his voice again, quieter now, like a whisper in the dark. "I can't lose you. Not like this. Not now." You don't want to hear it. You don't want to hear the pain in his voice. But it's there, undeniable, like the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You feel him lean closer, his hand brushing over your hair, a final, tender touch that you know he doesn't know how to give, that he doesn't know how to deal with.

There's nothing left to say.

You can feel the life draining from your body, every second slipping away faster than the last. The darkness is coming for you again, pulling you deeper into its cold embrace. You don't have the strength to fight it. You don't have the strength to tell him anything. To ease his pain.

So you close your eyes instead, letting the world fade around you, the last sound you hear his voice, so raw, so broken, as it echoes one final time in your ears: "Don't fucking leave me. Don't you even try."

The moment you slipped away, everything becomes still. The world around you falls into a suffocating quiet, a void that swallows all sound, all movement. Your breath, strained and shallow, is the only thing left tethering you to the earth.

It's almost like floating. A sinking feeling gnaws at your chest, as if your very heart is being pulled into the abyss. The weight in your limbs is heavy, but you can't move them, can't make your body obey.

The last breath you take is a harsh, desperate thing, but it's not enough. The world fades into a dull blur, and you're sinking, falling into a dark, endless void.

Then, the silence is shattered, and the sharp crackle of comms cuts through the stillness. It's like an explosion in your mind, the voice of Soap piercing the quiet, followed by Price's low command. "Ghost, report. What's your status?"

The words hit you, but they don't make sense. The comms come through clear and loud, but all you can focus on is the overwhelming pull of the darkness that's swallowing you whole. You can't respond, can't even force your mouth to work. It's as if they're speaking to someone else, someone still alive, still fighting.

Just not you.

Price's voice cut through the air again, this time more urgent. "Ghost, talk to me. Do you copy?" He sounded more like a command than a question, but there was something about it—something in his tone that was heavy with concern. It was strange. Almost like he knew.

Ghost didn't answer, couldn't answer. His eyes were still on you, but they were wide, frantic, filled with disbelief. His fingers hovered above your body, a single, trembling touch, but he didn't pull away.

His mask was stiff, but you could see the shift in his posture—his shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, as if he were struggling to keep himself together.

He was fighting something inside, but he couldn't do it alone. Soap's voice came next, cutting through the comms with his usual urgency. "Ghost, come on, mate! Answer me!"

But there was no response. No crackle of the comms to show that Ghost was still on the other end. It was just the silence, deafening and suffocating. Soap's words trailed off into the ether, his frustration hanging heavy in the air. "Ghost...? Damn it, talk to us. What's going on?" Price's voice dropped, quieter now, and you could almost feel the weight of the hesitation in his words. "Ghost, if you can hear me... listen, we need to move. Now. We're not leaving you behind." His words didn't have the same edge as they usually did. They were softer, a command wrapped in concern. A recognition that something was wrong, and it wasn't the kind of wrong that could be fixed by following orders.

For a brief moment, it was like time froze. The world paused around Ghost, leaving only the crackling of the comms and the faintest hint of his own breath. His eyes flickered to the small earpiece that still remained in his ear, the faintest sign of recognition that the team was still there, still trying to reach him.

He was drowning in grief, in disbelief, in a suffocating sorrow that was strangling every thought he had. But still, he couldn't pull away from you. The reality of it was setting in—the truth that was far too final, too irreversible.

The woman he fought alongside, the one who kept him grounded through the chaos, the woman he would dare say he... he couldn't say it.

You were gone.

"Ghost," Soap tried again, his voice shaking, a crack in the cocky demeanor that was so often present. "Come on, mate, don't do this. You're not alone. We're here. Talk to me."

His voice wavered between anger and concern, frustration and fear. Soap's usual bravado was gone.

"You hear me? Don't you do this. Not like this." The silence that followed hung heavier than any explosion. It was a silence that filled the space between the words, between the crackle of comms, and the weight of what was left unsaid.

Soap didn't understand. They didn't understand. None of them could know what it felt like to lose someone like this—not until it happened to them. Price's voice cut through again, this time with an edge of authority that you knew was meant to snap Ghost back into reality. "Ghost, I said, move!"

But his command lacked its usual force, almost like he was trying to pull the words back, trying to take them back. He knew. Deep down, he knew. The weight in his voice said it all. Ghost wasn't listening. He couldn't.

"Ghost, please, we need to move, now! We don't have time."

But there was a pause after that last command, and the weight of the silence grew even heavier. Price's next words were quieter, softer.

"I'm sorry... but we need to go." The finality in his voice hit Ghost harder than any gunshot could. It was a blow he wasn't prepared for, one that cracked the last remnants of his resolve.

He didn't want to leave you behind. He couldn't. He shouldn't. You were part of the team. You were his teammate, his equal. He should have been the one to protect you. But he didn't.

And now he was the one left standing in the ruins of the battle, surrounded by the ghosts of everything he'd lost.

Your absence was a wound that wouldn't heal, and he knew it. He knew there was no going back. Ghost took one last look at you. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mind racing with a thousand different thoughts. Why didn't he notice sooner? Why didn't he protect you better?

He fought against the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, fighting to keep the mask in place, to keep the soldier inside him functioning. But it was all falling apart, crumbling beneath the weight of the loss.

"Ghost," Soap's voice crackled again, this time softer, almost like a plea. "We're not leaving you. We'll get you out. But you've gotta move." There was something in Soap's tone, something vulnerable, as if he was trying to make Ghost understand that this wasn't just about the mission anymore. It was about them—about the team. About what was left after everything was done.

Ghost's hand tightened around the weapon at his side, but it wasn't for the fight. It was just something to hold onto. Something to ground him.

He didn't respond to the comms, didn't acknowledge Soap or Price. He didn't have it in him. Not right now. Not when the weight of your absence was too much to bear. The voices in his ear kept talking, kept pleading, but they were distant now. Ghost wasn't listening anymore. His mind was somewhere else, somewhere darker.

In the distance, the faintest sound of an incoming helicopter reached his ears, a signal that it was time to leave. But Ghost still didn't move. His gaze was fixed on the ground, where your body lay still, silent.

He wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.

And in that moment, as he knelt beside you, he knew something he hadn't fully admitted to himself until now: He wouldn't ever be ready.

Not without you.

The comms crackled one final time. Soap's voice was strained, and Price's words were filled with the weight of finality. "Ghost, we're pulling out. Now. Let's move."

The decision was made. The team was leaving. And Ghost was forced to stand, to step away from the battlefield that had claimed so much from them all. But the guilt followed him, heavy and suffocating, as the last vestiges of your presence faded into the background, into the smoke and dust of a war that would never let go.

The helicopter's rotor blades grew louder, but Ghost didn't hear them. He didn't hear anything anymore. The whirring of the helicopter grew louder as the rest of Task Force 141 began to rally around the extraction point. But Ghost barely heard it.

The deafening silence in his mind was all that filled his head now. The world had narrowed to a single, unshakable thought: you were gone. The sting of it clawed at his insides, a gnawing ache that wouldn't let up.

He should be moving, should be hurrying to the extraction point, but his legs felt like lead.

The air felt thick in his lungs, like he was suffocating under the weight of something too heavy to carry. He couldn't shake the image of you, the way you looked in those final moments, the silence that followed your breath's last ragged gasp.

It was burned into his mind, and there was no escaping it. Soap's voice came through the comms again, frantic but still trying to keep some semblance of control. "Ghost, get moving! We don't have time!" There was an edge of desperation in his words, but it didn't break through the haze in Ghost's mind.

He heard it, but it didn't register. It was just noise, just static in the background. Ghost didn't respond. He didn't have anything to say. The world had gone cold, and he was stuck in a moment that he couldn't escape. The finality of it all hit him harder than he could have ever imagined. He knew the risks. He knew that losing teammates was part of the job. But it wasn't supposed to be you. Not like this. Not after everything. His hand still gripped his weapon, but it was just a tool now, a lifeline he was clinging to. It didn't feel right in his hands.

He wasn't sure when he became so numb, but it was there, the numbness creeping up from the pit of his stomach and spreading through his limbs.

He forced himself to stand, but the movement was slow, like his body was protesting the very idea of leaving. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave you behind. The thought cut deep, a sharp twist in his chest, but he knew there was no other choice. Soap and Price were already in motion, preparing for the extraction, and if Ghost didn't follow, they'd be gone without him. The other members of the team were starting to move into position, their movements efficient, practiced.

But Ghost was still rooted in place, his eyes locked on the ground where you'd fallen. There was a tightness in his throat, a pressure that was choking him, but he couldn't make himself move any faster. His mind was a whirlwind, and he couldn't make sense of any of it.

All he could see was you—your face, your smile, the way you'd joked around with him during the worst moments of their missions.

You were the one who always kept them grounded. The one who didn't let the madness consume them all. And now you were gone. Taken in the blink of an eye, without warning, without mercy. A few seconds passed, and then Soap's voice came through the comms again, quieter this time. "Ghost, I know you're hurting, more than any of us, mate. But we need to move. For the team. For us." There was a pause before Soap continued, his tone softer now. "Please. We can't lose you too."

The words hit Ghost harder than anything. He wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was because Soap knew—he knew what this felt like, the hole that was left when you lost someone you couldn't replace. The ache of it that never truly went away.

Ghost gritted his teeth, pushing the words aside, refusing to let them break him. He wouldn't let them see how much this was destroying him. He wouldn't let them see the cracks forming in his armor.

He'd been through hell before, survived battles that no man should survive, but this—this felt different. This felt like something he couldn't outrun, couldn't fight off.

He forced himself to move, forcing his feet to take one step, then another. It was slow. It was painful. But it was something. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going like this, with the weight of your loss hanging over him like a storm cloud he couldn't outrun. But he did it anyway. The team was counting on him, and that's enough. That's all he could hold onto right now. His mind drifted back to the moments before, to when he was still holding onto you, trying so hard to believe that you would be okay, that you would make it through.

But the look that lingered in your eyes, the way your body had gone still beneath his hands, was something he couldn't forget. He wasn't sure how to process it. Not sure how to move past it.

And it was eating away at him, gnawing at his insides like a poison.

As he trudged through the field towards the extraction point, his mind was a war zone. He wasn't sure where the line between soldier and man had blurred, but it felt like it was gone.

His mask didn't hide the turmoil anymore. It didn't matter. He couldn't focus. He couldn't push the grief away. It was too close, too raw. And every step he took felt like it was dragging him deeper into the weight of it.

Price's voice came through the comms again, steady and authoritative, but there was a strain in it now that wasn't there before. "Ghost, where are you? We need you here, now. Don't make us come back for you." The urgency was clear in his voice, but even that didn't cut through the fog in Ghost's head.

He forced himself to move faster, though each step felt like more of an effort than the last. His body felt heavy, as if the weight of the world was pulling him down. When he finally reached the extraction point, Soap was waiting for him, his eyes scanning the horizon, always alert.

But when he saw Ghost approaching, he didn't say anything. He just nodded, the silence between them thick with unspoken understanding. They didn't need words. They knew what this felt like.

But Price didn't wait for pleasantries. His voice crackled again, commanding, though it was softer now. "Get in. We're leaving." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. But it was the tone that caught Ghost's attention—the concern, the hint of something more.

He wasn't just commanding him to follow orders. He was trying to keep him together. Ghost didn't respond. He couldn't. He climbed into the helicopter without a word, without even a glance at Soap or Price.

He was too far gone. Too caught up in the chaos of his mind to speak. The team fell silent around him as the helicopter lifted off, the roar of the blades drowning out any further words. The ride back was long, but it was a blur.

Ghost didn't register the minutes passing, didn't hear anything through the comms. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, each beat a reminder of what he'd lost. What they'd lost.

And he couldn't stop the thought that kept echoing in his head: He failed you.

It wouldn't be the last time he heard it. The helicopter's blades cut through the air, the sound hollow and distant as it began its descent back to base.

Ghost didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the floor of the chopper, staring at nothing.

The world felt like it was slowly slipping away from him, like the weight of everything—everything he'd just lost—was pulling him under.

He should be focused on the mission. He should be thinking about the next step, about what comes after this. But he couldn't. Not now. Not when the image of you, lifeless in his arms, was burned into his mind like a scar.

Every time he blinked, he saw it.

Every breath he took was a reminder that you were gone, and there was no coming back from it.

His hand rested on his weapon, cold and heavy, but it offered him no comfort now. It was just a tool. A means to an end. Nothing more.

Soap's voice came through the comms again, but this time, it was softer. "Ghost... we're almost there. You gotta pull yourself together, mate."

Ghost didn't respond. His throat was tight, the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. What was there to say? What could he possibly say? It wasn't like he wasn't used to loss. He'd been through hell and back, seen comrades fall, watched as friends became memories.

But this? This was different.

You were different.

Soap's voice crackled through again, insistent. "We're a team, Ghost. You don't have to do this alone." Ghost's fingers flexed around the straps of his gear, but the words didn't sink in. The silence in his mind was deafening, drowning out everything around him.

Price's voice cut through, more commanding, though there was a strange tenderness to it now. "We've got your six, Ghost. We all know what this feels like. But you're not alone." But that's the thing, wasn't it?

He was alone.

The weight of it settled on him like a rock in his chest, pressing down until it was hard to breathe. His eyes were still fixed on the floor, his entire body locked in place, like the world around him had stopped moving.

The helicopter touched down, and Soap's voice came through the comms one last time, gentle but firm. "We're here. Let's get you out."

But Ghost didn't move. He couldn't. His legs felt like lead, his body unwilling to obey the command to stand. His mind kept circling back to you, to the way you'd looked at him in those final moments—trusting, pleading, as if you knew the end was coming. And he couldn't stop it.

He couldn't save you.

He'd been trained to fight, to kill, to survive. But he wasn't able to save you. And the thought of it, the failure of it, was crushing. Soap and Price didn't say anything as they began to move, letting Ghost stay in the quiet of his grief. They knew. They understood. But even with their understanding, it didn't change the emptiness inside him. He stepped out of the helicopter, the cold night air biting at his skin, but it didn't feel real.

Nothing felt real anymore. The city lights were too far away, the world too vast, too indifferent to the pain he was carrying. They were all moving, moving forward, but Ghost felt like he'd been left behind. Like he was stuck in a moment that refused to end.

Soap's hand rested briefly on his shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, but it didn't reach him. Nothing did. They were moving forward, but Ghost was frozen in place, stuck in the aftermath of a loss he couldn't undo.

He didn't turn to look at them. He didn't have to. They knew what had happened. They knew how much it hurt. But nothing could change the fact that you were gone.

He stumbled forward, his breath shallow, his chest tight. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't know what to do. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the haunting echo of your last words to him, your final, trusting gaze.

He had thought he was ready for this, for the war, for the sacrifice, but nothing had prepared him for the feeling of losing someone he hadn't expected to lose. He had reached the edge of the base, standing alone in the dark, and the last thought that crossed his mind was one he would never forget.

He had failed you.

And there was nothing he could do to change that. "I couldn't save you..." the words had escaped his lips, barely a whisper, but it had been enough.

Enough to break him.

It had hung in the air, a heavy weight that suffocated him, the realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. He had stood there, feeling the cold night air press against him, and for a moment, it had felt like the world had stopped. The hum of the base, the distant sounds of the others, all of it had faded away, leaving only the silence of his grief.

He had failed.

He had failed you.

And the rawness of it—the crushing weight of that truth—had sent him to his knees. His hands had shaken, his breath shallow, as he pressed them against the cold ground, trying to ground himself in something. Anything.

The pain had been unbearable, a sharp ache in his chest that refused to subside, and he had wondered if it would ever heal. If there was a way to heal from this, from the hollow emptiness that was left in his heart. But there had been no answer.

There had only been the darkness and the crushing weight of failure. He should've done more. He should've been faster, smarter, anything but what had happened. He should've saved you. But he hadn't. And that thought had looped in his mind, a never-ending cycle of regret.

He had stood again, wiping his face with the back of his hand, trying to steady himself, but it had been no use. Every corner of this base, every person he passed, it all had felt like a reminder of what he had lost.

"I couldn't save you..." The words had come again, louder this time, and Ghost's voice had cracked with the raw pain he could no longer contain.

And Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, would never be the same again.

[froztii]

MASTERLIST—★

key: ♡- smut ♤- angst ♢- fluff ♧- dark (sensitive topics)

—GHOST

LET THE SKYFALL ♤— get in, get Volk, get out. if only it was that easy.

—SOAP

blank

—CPT. PRICE

blank

— ARTHUR MORGAN

PILLOW TALK ♡— partnered up with Arthur was the easy part, falling asleep, was not. Thankfully Arthur had some plan in mind

[froztii]

call me gabs!

aries ☆彡 entp ミ★ 18 ☆彡

main fic acc: @gabgabwrites

anime fic account @cherbii

MASTERLIST

[requests open]

I write for Ghost, Soap, Price && Arthur Morgan!!