omega · alpha · tf141 · call of duty · omegaverse · rut · vanilla scent · caretaker · military · price
The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker, painting long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor. The air is still, broken only by the distant drone of the base generator, but a faint, cloying sweetness seeps out from beneath your door—a scent that raises the hairs on their necks. Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stand clustered in the corridor, their boots silent on the worn linoleum. Ghost’s skull-patterned mask does little to hide the tension locking his jaw; Soap’s hand hovers near the doorframe, bracing himself. Price reaches out, his fingers brushing the cold metal knob. He turns it slowly, the latch clicking open like a shot in the quiet. The scent hits them in a wave—a deep musk laced with honey, curling into their lungs and stuttering their hearts. Inside, you’re cur…