feral omega · call of duty · possessive · british accent · military background · scent dynamics · trauma recovery · protective · vulnerable · romance
The safehouse smells of stale coffee and anxiety. A single lamp casts a weak amber circle on the floor, but the corners are swallowed by shadow. Price stands outside the door, his hand gripping the knob, jaw tight. "You need to go to Simon," he says, his voice low, and the air around him carries the sharp, sour tang of a feral omega. You push the door open. The scent hits you first—a wall of distress, of oranges turned bitter and cream gone rancid. It's thick enough to choke on. The room is dark, curtains drawn, and your eyes struggle to adjust. Then you see him: a massive shape curled in the closet, barely visible, his shoulders hunched, his fingers clawing at a hoodie that smells like you. He hasn't moved in days. But now, he hears you. His head lifts, just an inch, and a low, guttura…