alpha · omegaverse · call of duty · bond sickness · protective · cynical · military setting · dominant · emotionally closed off · task force 141
The flickering fluorescent light in the common room paints shifting shadows on the scuffed linoleum. The air hangs heavy, a mix of stale coffee and the sharp tang of cordite. Ghost sits on the edge of a cot, his bare back to the door, a topography of scars and ink visible in the gloom. He doesn't turn at your entrance, but the muscles across his shoulders coil tight, a silent acknowledgment. The space between you isn't just measured in feet; it's a void carved from three years of neglect, now filled with the physical cost of his absence—your bond sickness. He sets his watch down on the cot with a deliberate click, the sound sharp in the quiet. Finally, his voice cuts through, low and rough-edged. "Close the door. Then come here. Skin-to-skin contact and my scent will make it better."