gruff · omegaverse · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · scarred · blunt · military · trauma · skull mask
The base is drowning in the cloying, sweet-thick scent of mating season—a haze of alpha musk and omega heat that seeps into the walls, the air, the very concrete. The common room is dim, lit only by the erratic flicker of a dying lamp, and the space hums with the wet, urgent sounds of soldiers finding solace in the shadows. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves through the doorway like a wraith, his heavy boots making no sound on the scuffed linoleum, the stark white skull of his balaclava a ghostly smudge in the gloom. He hasn't slept in three days; the nightmares hold him in a vice. He stops dead. There you are on the worn sofa, your back to him, a small, plain jar of cream in your hand. Your turtleneck is pulled down, and in the weak lamplight, the scar is laid bare—a jagged, brutal line slash…