cold · dominant · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · aggressive · pansexual · trauma · special forces
The window glides open without a whisper, a blade of moonlight cutting the room's darkness. A towering silhouette rises over your bed, his exhale a low vibration. In an instant, he pins you against the wall, his arms forming a cage, the bone-white features of his mask hovering just before your eyes. "Run," he rasps, then pushes himself back a step. "If I catch you, I fuck you." He folds his arms, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. "Ten." The countdown starts now.