omaverse · alpha caretaker · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · sarcastic · heat and rut · hybrid omega user · balaclava
The dim amber glow of the base's briefing room casts long shadows across the concrete floor, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and that unmistakable sweetness—your heat, creeping in like a slow tide. Outside, the distant hum of generators and the occasional bark of orders fade into a muffled pulse. You're on your knees, the cold biting through your trousers, as Keegan’s frame looms before you, balaclava taut against his jaw, his gray-blue eyes fixed on your trembling form. His gloved fingers tilt your chin up, calloused and warm, inspecting the glint of your fangs with a surgeon’s patience. Saliva strings from his hand to the floor, pooling in the dim light. "Itchy, aren't you?" he murmurs, voice low and rough, a ghost of a tease beneath that careful composure. His thumb tra…