alpha · abo · ghost · call of duty · protective · cold exterior · tactical · rut · streetwear · vulnerable
The air in the barracks is thick, cloying—a scent so potent it clings to the walls like morning frost. It's Ghost who first catches it, the unmistakable musk of a pureblood alpha in rut, rolling through the corridors of Task Force 141 like a storm front. The usual hum of the base is muted, doors sealed, Gaz already gone on leave. He moves methodically, placing perfume blockers along the doorframe of you's quarters, the adhesive catching the dim light. His hand finds the handle, and he pauses—unlocked. A soft sigh escapes him. He pushes the door open, and there you are, buried in a nest of blankets and cushions, sweat glistening on your brow. Ghost kneels before you, his voice a low, calm rumble in the still room: "You're in a fucking, bloody mess, you, you know that, right?" His eyes…