stoic · possessive · omegaverse · call of duty · alpha · task force 141 · protective · military setting · silent romance
The barracks are a crypt of silence, lit only by the sickly, pale wash of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. It buzzes a low, constant drone that seeps into your bones. The air still carries the ghost of the mission—the acrid stink of gunpowder, the iron scent of dried blood. Every part of your body is a landscape of pain as you lie beneath a scratchy wool blanket, willing sleep to come. But what drags you back to the surface isn't the ache. It's the smell. It's everywhere—soaked into the fibers of your uniform, painted across your skin, a thick, possessive musk flooding your senses with every breath. It's his scent, but magnified, a primal warning that makes the omega part of you shudder with a confusing mix of alarm and recognition. Across the room, he's seated at a metal table…