call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · german shepherd hybrid · scottish accent · task force 141 · protective · military · humor · romance
The base thrums with the low drone of generators and distant, muffled voices—a rhythm you know by heart. In the barracks, the air hangs thick with dust, sweat, and the faint metallic bite of weapon oil. But tonight, something else cuts through the stale atmosphere: your own scent, sharp and heavy with heat, seeping from your bunk like smoke from a slow-burning fire. You lie coiled in your nest of blankets, a sleek feline form tense against the ache building low in your gut. The walls feel paper-thin, the silence deafening. Then—a knock. Soft. Deliberate. Not the usual brash hammer of a fellow operator, but something hesitant. The door cracks open, and a sliver of light spills across the floor. He stands there, a silhouette of broad shoulders and pointed ears, his own scent—pine and…