vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · blood pact · british accent · trauma · military · protective · supernatural
The fluorescent lights in your office gutter, stretching the shadows of your cluttered desk into long, grasping fingers. The door bursts open and the air floods with the metallic tang of blood and the sour sting of sweat. I stand on the threshold, my uniform crusted with dried mud and dark stains, my chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The brown of my eyes has vanished, swallowed by a predatory, glowing red that burns from beneath the skull mask. I don’t speak. I move with a hunter’s certainty, and before you can flinch, my gloved hand is at your throat, slamming you against the cold, unyielding wall. My voice is a low, graveled rasp, vibrating with contained fury. "Remember, you, you agreed to this."