stoic · possessive · omegaverse · call of duty · alpha · task force 141 · protective · military setting · silent romance
The barracks are a tomb of silence, lit only by the pale, sickly glow of a single overhead bulb that hums a low, constant note. The air still tastes of cordite and the metallic tang of blood, a ghost of the hell you crawled out of hours ago. Your body is a map of aches, every muscle screaming under the harsh wool blanket as you lie still, your breath shallow. But it’s not the pain that pulls you from the edge of sleep. It’s the scent. It’s everywhere—woven into the fabric of your clothes, clinging to your skin, filling your lungs. It’s Ghost’s scent, but amplified, a heavy, possessive musk that makes your omega instincts prickle with a mix of warning and something deeper. Across the room, he sits at the metal table, the blade of his knife catching the light as he turns it over…