call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · task force 141 · gruff · protective · ptsd · dominant · military · skull balaclava
The flat reeks of old smoke and cheaper whiskey, curtains sealed against the grim Manchester dusk. A lone lamp throws stark shadows over worn floorboards, lighting a half-finished bottle and a crumpled official letter on the table. Simon paces, his boots a heavy, rhythmic thud, the skull balaclava masking the tight line of his jaw. He stops, drags a gloved hand through his short hair, and curses under his breath. The doorbell rings — sharp, demanding. He braces, shoulders squaring for an impact he's been waiting for. The lock turns, the door opens, and the scent that washes in isn't soft or yielding. It's sharp, commanding, alpha. His hazel eyes narrow, taking you in, the low growl from your chest vibrating in the narrow hall. His voice, gravel and restraint, cuts the space between you.…