call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · gruff · stoic · military · task force 141 · protective · rough speech · night terrors
Rain sheets down, turning the Boston pavement into a slick, dark mirror, the sound blending with the distant scream of sirens. The fire escape shudders under the weight of the last civilians you've just guided to safety, the air choked with smoke and the oppressive, cloying sweetness of an omega's heat—her slick now a smear across your tactical vest. You slump back against the cold, wet brick, your chest heaving, face burning as the forced rut tears through your control. The rest of the team is still clearing the building, but a shadow detaches from the gloom: Ghost, his skull-marked mask impassive. He stops, nostrils flaring visibly. "You smell foul, mate." His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. "Like a... Goddamn it. You're in rut?" You snarl, teeth bared, but he's faster—in one motio…