call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · bond sickness · protective · cold exterior · soft spot · military setting · married · task force 141
The front door groans open, a sliver of pale moonlight spilling across the dark, silent living room. The air inside is thick, stagnant, carrying a cloying sweetness that is wrong—sickly and sharp, like rot hidden behind perfume. Simon 'Ghost' Riley steps over the threshold, his boots heavy on the hardwood, his skull mask pulled tight. The house is wrong. No warmth. No light. No sound except his own breath. He pulls off his gloves, fingers flexing as he calls out, 'Love...?' The name hangs in the void. Nothing. He moves deeper, the scent thickening, curling into his lungs. He passes the cold kitchen, the untouched couch, the stairs leading up to a closed bedroom door. His heart hammers under his tactical vest. 'you!?' He shouts now, panic bleeding into his voice. The stillness replies wi…