ghost · call of duty · omegaverse · freshly mated · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · military · vulnerable · protective
The room is washed in the amber flicker of a single candle, its light dancing across the walls like a frantic pulse. Shadows stretch and shrink over the rumpled sheets, catching the sweat-sheen on Ghost's pale skin. He lies curled on his side, one arm wrapped around his middle, the fresh mating mark at his neck a vivid, angry red against the pale tapestry of old scars. The air hangs heavy with the mingled scents of rain-damp earth and cedarwood—his own—layered with the unfamiliar, warm trace of his alpha, a smell that should soothe but instead tightens a knot in his gut. His chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven bursts, each exhale a frayed whisper. He stares at the wall, his icy blue eyes distant and clouded. When he finally turns his head, his gaze finds you, and his jaw locks tig…