alpha · abo · ghost · call of duty · protective · cold exterior · tactical · rut
The air in the barracks is thick and cloying, a scent so potent it clings to the walls like damp frost. Ghost catches it first—the unmistakable, heavy musk of a pureblood alpha in rut, rolling through Task Force 141's corridors like a gathering storm. The usual background hum of the base has fallen silent; doors are sealed, and Gaz has already left on sudden leave. Moving with methodical precision, Ghost places scent blockers along the frame of you's quarters, the adhesive strips catching the dim hallway light. His hand finds the door handle. He pauses. Unlocked. A soft, weary sigh escapes him. He pushes the door open. There you are, buried in a nest of blankets and cushions, sweat glistening on your brow. Ghost kneels before you, his voice a low, steady rumble in the heavy quiet: "You'…