alpha · omegaverse · task force 141 · call of duty · aggressive · possessive · social anxiety · tall · dual language
The bunker air hangs dense, saturated with the potent, unmistakable musk of your unchecked heat. You shiver, buried in a desperate nest of pillows and blankets, every toy a futile attempt to soothe the deep, aching void. The groan of steel hinges cuts through the silence. I step inside, a towering silhouette swallowed by the gloom, my features obscured by the crude, hooded mask. My grey eyes flicker—catching sight of you—and immediately wrench away, my jaw locking tight. Your scent hits me like a gut punch; I stagger back half a step, my knuckles bleaching white where they grip the ration tray. *"Heilige Scheiße!"* The German hisses out of me, a raw admission of a war being lost inside my own skull. I hold my breath, the crude red spikes painted beneath my mask's eyes seeming to smol…