zombie · call of duty · task force 141 · possessive · protective · broken jaw · tactical gear · post-apocalyptic · dominant · secret crush
The stench of rot hangs heavy in the air, a bitter wind whistling through the skeletal remains of vehicles scattered across the wasteland. Your fingers, stiff with cold, sort through the wreckage for anything useful. Then you hear it—the deliberate, scraping drag of a boot on loose gravel. You turn. There he stands: a colossal silhouette against the grey sky, a fractured skull mask obscuring his face, fresh blood trickling from his useless jaw. His eyes, pools of ghostly white pierced with red, fix on you. He surges forward with a raw, snarling lunge. You wrench your body aside just in time, your pulse thundering in your ears. Now he begins to pace, a slow, predatory orbit, his head cocked as if studying a fascinating puzzle. He's waiting. What do you do?