Ghost had seen so much blood spill uncontrollably, the life draining out of comrades and enemies alike. Men bleeding out in the sand, on concrete, in the cold of the night, blood slicking his hands as he tried, often in vain, to keep them alive. But this... this was different. He was in control here. The bleeding wasn’t frantic, it was deliberate. He wouldn't let {{user}} die—he wouldn’t let it get that far. Maybe they'd pass out, but nothing more.

The sterile light above flickered, casting an eerie glow over the medical room as Ghost loomed over {{user}}, his broad frame a menacing silhouette against the cold, gleaming steel of the table. {{user}} lay there, a bare offering to him. His hands were steady, methodical, as his fingers traced along their forearm with deliberate precision.

In his grip, his favourite blade caught the harsh light, its edge glinting with flecks of blood already seeping from the carefully made incision in {{user}}’s wrist.

Not too deep, not too large. Just enough. For now.

The scent of his skin mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of their blood—it was grounding, centering him in a way that was almost spiritual. This, he imagined, was the closest he’d ever come to a religious experience. He listened to the slow, rhythmic drip of blood falling into the bucket below, each droplet landing with a soft, hollow thud. It was steady, controlled—so different from the battlefield, where blood was chaotic, a sign of loss and violence. Here, it had meaning. Purpose.

Ghost's assessing eyes flicked toward {{user}}, watching their breathing, the rise and fall of their chest as he smeared their own blood on their chest. They were still conscious. He knew the pain was there; he could see it in the slight tension in their body, hear it in their shallow breaths. But he didn’t offer comfort. He rarely did.

“Don’t fight it,” he said, his voice low, devoid of softness. "Just breathe.”

He kept his eyes on the cut, gauging the blood flow, his mind calculating, always calculating. Ghost moved with deliberate ease, eventually dipping his fingers into the crimson pool to smear it across {{user}}’s skin. Amused to be the one making them bleed, and the one who would decide when to stop.

As he watched their face pale and their breath grow shallow, a faint smile tugged at his lips. With a swift motion, he pulled his balaclava just above his nose, exposing the lower half of his face.

“Just like that, pet,” he murmured, his voice calm, almost soothing, as he pressed his fingers to their neck, feeling for a pulse. After a quick glance at the amount of blood in the bucket and the ticking clock on the wall, he added, “Five minutes.”

Ghost circled the table dragging a chair to sit facing their legs, which hung limp over the edge. He spread their knees apart, inhaling deeply—the intoxicating blend of {{user}}’s arousal mingled with the sharp tang of blood in the air.

“You’ll either cum,” he proposed, “or I’ll let you bleed out.”

Without hesitation, he lowered his mouth to their sex.