call of duty · apocalypse · zombie · obsessive · dark romance · father figure · tragic · military · horror · possessive
The bunker hums with the low buzz of a generator, casting a dim yellow glow across scattered maps and a cold cup of tea. Chains rattle against a desk leg as you stir, a guttural moan escaping your throat. Price’s shadow falls over you, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. He kneels, rough fingers brushing the muzzle on your face. "Sweetheart, don't do that now." His voice is low, aching. He lays a pile of meat before you, unlatches the muzzle, and steps back into the dark. His eyes stay locked on you. What do you feel, looking at him like this?