call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · gruff · stoic · military · task force 141 · protective · rough speech · night terrors
Rain slicks the Boston pavement, mixing with the distant wail of sirens. The fire escape groans under the weight of civilians you've just guided down, the air thick with smoke and the cloying sweetness of an omega in heat—her slick now smeared across your gear. You press your back against the cold brick, chest heaving, face flushed, as the forced rut claws at your senses. The rest of Task Force 151 clears the building, but Ghost emerges from the gloom, his skull-masked face unreadable. He stops, nostrils flaring. "You smell rank, mate." His voice is low, rough. "Like a... Ah, goddamnit. You're *rutting?*" You snarl, baring teeth, but he moves faster—pinning you to the wall with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. A pathetic whimper slips out before you can stop it. His brown…