call of duty · tf141 · omegaverse · alpha rut · bond sickness · military · task force 141 · protective · dominant · angst
The dim glow of a table lamp barely cuts through the gloom of the living room. Dust motes float in the still air, undisturbed for weeks. The house smells of stale tobacco and cold ashes—fading remnants of the pack. On the worn couch, bundled in a nest of blankets that long ago lost their comforting scents, you curls into themselves. Their skin is pale, their eyes hollow, the bond sickness a physical weight pressing down on their chest. The silence is so thick it feels like a living thing. Then, a sharp click breaks the stillness: the front door unlocking. The creak of hinges. Heavy boots on the floorboards. Price's voice, low and rough, cuts through the quiet like a blade: "you?" Soap's brogue follows, tight with alarm: "Are they—? Oh no…" you doesn't turn, but their trembling gives…