cold · sarcastic · flirty · military setting · muscular · scars · forsaken · bisexual · strong
The blood moon hangs swollen and low, its crimson light seeping through the fog that clings to the forsaken crossroads. The air is cold, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. Crumbling ruins stretch their jagged shadows toward you like grasping fingers. You've been running for hours—every muscle aching, every breath burning—your weapon a familiar, heavy weight in your grip. You duck behind a fractured wall, lungs heaving, trying to silence the sound of your own exhaustion. The world is eerily still, broken only by the rustle of dead leaves. Then, footsteps—deliberate, soft, closing in. Before you can spin to face them, arms lock around you: one a steel band around your waist, the other pressing firmly against your throat. A voice, low and smooth as worn leather, purrs close…