It's raining. The sky decides to wash away all traces of the once raging life. The gray earth seems wilted. The dilapidated village, where once there was laughter and joy, is filthy. An oppressive silence. Underfoot in the wide puddles are countless splashes of raindrops. The incessant whispering.

He stood there on the roof of an abandoned building, his back serving as a barrier between you and the harsh reality, hiding from view all that was left behind. His silhouette barely dissolved against the gray veil, like a shadow plucked from nightmares, a forgotten memory lost in the vast expanse of time. A thunderstorm in the midst of the fog came roaring over him, plunging him into his own self-created terror. The wind above him howled like a ghost reprimanding him for what he had done.

But what if it was necessary? It didn't matter.

The operation was a failure.

- "Komm her1,(come here) the voice was hoarse, husky as if it were coming out of a rotted throat that had lost its former strength. Turning around, silent, just staring. Coldly, appraisingly. Concerned.

He says sharply," Look at me.

Your face was pale, and there was a small but noticeable scratch on your forehead, just above your eyebrow. The blood, fresh and bright, dripped down slowly, leaving behind a thin trail of scarlet thread linking the planned outcome and the result. Pearls of rain and blood mingled into the illusion that the wound itself was part of this rain, nature choosing to take the pain into its embrace. Lifting his gaze, reflecting his own: emptiness.

Fastening the radio to his tactical vest in anticipation of evacuation, an insistent order that had nothing to do with his situation - "We made it. That's the main thing," he falls silent, mulling over his next words. They sound harsh, but not harsh. A statement of dry fact, -And we're alive."

You nod briefly, squeezing out something far akin to a smile, saying almost inaudibly, suppressing the flood of tears stinging the corners of your eyes, "Yeah. I guess you're right."

Your hair, shredded by the agonizing hours of battle, was getting wet faster than you could reload your rifle. The rain ran down your cheeks, soaking up the salt of your tears, and in that picture, absolute power. That place inside, as if scorched, screamed, demanding to be filled. And he was the only one who could fill it. It hurt so badly that there was no better way to quench it. But does he have the right? Wouldn't that be selfish, taking advantage of your weakness? Or is it the only way to fill that fucking void without causing more pain?

Will he allow it?

Leans closer, dirty fingers under a rough glove running along the line of your temple, erasing the scarlet stain. Whispers almost mockingly, exploring your boundaries of what's permissible even now-"I never thought you could take it," you see the challenge in him, the lust, the anger, and underneath it all, a spark of something softer, something almost like need? No, not really. It was too raw and formless for him to recognize it. But it was there, a glimmer of hunger in the blue of his eyes.

Too late for that.

Your helmet falls, and your arms are around his neck, your head thrown back, body arching as if an invisible force were pulling at his hair. And the long strands, freed from the loops holding the helmet, fall to your shoulders: he strokes that wet, long wave, seeping under the roots, sinking into your lips.

Is one kiss - insatiable, hungry, all-consuming, possible to prevent? An inner call. Greedy. Irretrievable.

God.

You are a flame, alive and indomitable, the flickering flame of an upturned white candle. But the flame does not burn downward - it seeks upward, toward freedom and what seemed unattainable.

Pressing you tightly against the concrete beam, his palms slide up your body, shamelessly squeezing warm flesh through the layers of your uniform. His rapid, heat-filled breathing replaces oxygen, and you dig your nails into his forearms, giving yourself over completely.

You, him. And the rain.

The air is heavy with moisture, smells of fallen leaves and damp earth - deep, primordial. It is joined by the tart, heavy scent of men's cologne, strong and pungent, contrasting with the smell of naturalness, but not repulsive, quite the contrary.

The flavor of a man, of his presence, of his intimacy.

And then, his arm, strong and secure, girdles my waist. It's not just a touch - an affirmation. A tacit acknowledgement of the irreversibility of what is happening. Pushing you up, your hands clutching his shoulders, the tearing command brings your sanity back to normal for only a moment as you obey, "Feet around."

Cold water trickles down your soon to be naked skin. It runs down your backs, down your arms, washing over your bodies, trying to cool your heated flesh through the fabric. But the rain is powerless. The coolness is pleasant, but it cannot douse the fire that rages inside.

Dizziness, blurred vision. The purposeful touch becomes more demanding. So greedy, it's as if every layer of clothing he sheds hurts. Giving in, exposing the column of his throat, feeling the ravenous lips travel downward. The first real moan, sweet and extended, drifts past his ear. A cocky, smug smile plays across his face - pure male pride. Triumph. This is exactly how he fantasized you, in an attempt to quench his instincts. Nothing will stop that from happening now.

You've already been burned to the ground.

All that's left is ash and heat. No more tension of waiting, no more doubt, no more struggle. Only complete combustion, complete fusion of two beings. There is nothing in this remnant but a deep intimacy scorched by the bruises on each other's bodies.

The icy, salt-soaked rain beam burns your back. A sharp, almost agonizing contrast to the thrill in his blood. You flinch, but his movements are faster. Holds you by the waist, bending low enough that you can feel his breath on your neck. Quickly, decisively, your pants and underwear leave your thighs, dropping to your knees. It's as if time slows down, then speeds up again, leaving you vulnerable.

You hear the sound of his belt plaque, the rustle of the fabric of his pants falling down. Unable to wait any longer you exhale convulsively, throwing your head back, "Faster..."

Wet hair sticks to your skin, slicked back with sweat and incoming raindrops. There is a semi-darkness all around, almost thick and palpable. His fingers slide down to the blazing spot, rubbing the swollen clit in even circles, causing a surge of uncertainty. Confidence fades into the background and fear gnaws at his neck sucking out the units of his pulse. Slowly, but savoring it. You clench your teeth trying to suppress a groan, but the must have tension in your eyes, was a traitor. He'll lead you, like a little child by the hand, to the edge of the universe, slowly, step by step. Whatever it takes. Muttering soothingly, touching his forehead to yours, "Let go and let yourself feel it. The pain, the fear, and the pleasure. All of it."

Obedience.

When the green light has been given, without further question, resting one hand on the concrete, he gives in with his hips upward with a rough, stifled growl-" , that's tight"-watching his length slowly enter you and satisfy the desire that swirls in your head, clouding your judgment. His epitomizes himself - powerful, burning, complex. Gives you a moment to get used to it inside before he starts the smooth thrusts. Lifts his lust-filled gaze to you, only to capture your lips with his in another kiss. More tender, promising more.

You slide along his shoulder blades, your fingers like animated butterflies leaving a trail of bright pink crescents behind them, unknowingly marking him with yours. Each touch plays chess with his breath as much as he does with yours: sharper, more frequent, rougher. You bite your lip feeling the flavor of his kiss on yours and in the reflection of his dilated pupils. His head dips down to bite your drenched shoulder, the air thickening with intensity while his heartbeat penetrates yours with each new sway of his hips.

A large, hot palm lifts your left thigh higher, locking it in place, forcing you to open up to him even more. This movement is both gentle and commanding, allowing him to expose that primal vulnerability that was the key to this madness. Your body wriggled in his hands, supple and ready, on the verge of the unbearable pleasure of ecstasy. A shiver ran down your skin, immortalizing the rhythmic thrusts: faster, your moans louder, and no one but the rain could hear you. The world narrowed to the touch of his hands and the throbbing of his inside you. Nothing else existed.

With a low groan, he slips out of you just in time, extending the caress, to the limit. His tongue lightly touches your full breasts, a shiver running through even after the pleasure has receded. Your pulse slows to a barely perceptible beat, and you, pressed against him with strong arms, feel his palms stroking your back, leaving a trail of warmth and care behind you. His scent now - tart, with a hint of something wild - fills your mind, oddly soothing in its own way. You're completely immersed in this aftertaste of coitus, but it's not all as easy as it could be. Not when it's your Colonel.

The radio buzzed, "Sir, we're near the point." - a sharp, piercing sound that brings you back to the harsh reality.

And let everything crumble, let war rage - on this day, smelling of gunpowder and him. There will be a beginning.

As well as an end.