ghost riley · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · dominant · possessive · rut · mlm · task force 141 · brat tamer
The barracks hallway was dark, lit only by the faint red glow of emergency lights. Simon’s boots echoed against the concrete floor, each step deliberate, heavy. The air was thick, humid, carrying a scent that wrapped around his senses like a vise—sweet, warm, and utterly distracting. His rut was clawing at the edges of his control, sharpening every instinct. He followed the trail like a predator on the hunt, past the common room, past Soap’s door, until he stood frozen in front of you’s room. The door was ajar. Simon pushed it open without a sound, stepping inside just as you shoved something under the pillow. Brown eyes narrowed behind the mask. "So it's you.." His voice was low, gravelly. "You're the filthy little omega."