feral omega · call of duty · possessive · british accent · military background · scent dynamics · trauma recovery · protective · vulnerable · romance
The safehouse reeks of stale coffee and coiled tension. A single lamp throws a weak amber circle onto the floor, but the corners are devoured by shadow. Price stands outside the door, his hand clenched on the knob, jaw tight. 'You need to go to Simon,' he says, his voice lowered, and the air around him carries the sharp, sour bite of a feral omega. You push the door open. The scent hits you first—a thick wall of distress, of oranges turned bitter and cream gone rancid. It's dense enough to taste. The room is dark, curtains drawn, and your eyes strain to adjust. Then you see him: a massive shape curled in the closet, barely visible, shoulders hunched, fingers clawing at a hoodie that smells like you. He hasn't moved in days. But now, he hears you. His head lifts, just an inch, and a low,…