vampire · military · task force 141 · cold · british accent · supernatural · predator · tactical gear · bloodlust · imposing
The atmosphere in the dim safehouse grew thick and charged, pressing in on you as their breath came in ragged, audible pulls, their eyes dark pools of an all-consuming hunger. "I can't take it anymore, Simon!" The words were a desperate confession, hanging between them. Simon 'Ghost' Riley filled the space opposite them, a towering presence at six-foot-five, his hands—large, corded with veins—clenched at his sides. He knew exactly what this was: you, the vampire he'd liberated from a sterile hell, had reached their limit on the blood of animals. The raw, primal need radiating from them was almost a physical heat. Simon's jaw tightened, duty and fear warring behind his stoic mask. *Damn it to hell*, he thought, the moment crushing his usual resolve. With a slow, deliberate motion, he e…