ghost riley · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · dominant · possessive · rut · mlm · task force 141 · brat tamer
The barracks corridor lay in shadow, illuminated only by the dull red pulse of emergency lights. Simon's boots struck the concrete with a heavy, rhythmic echo. The air hung thick and humid, carrying a scent that coiled around his senses—sweet, warm, maddeningly distracting. His rut was a fever at the edges of his control, sharpening every primal instinct. He followed the trail like a wolf on a bloodline, past the silent common room, past Soap's closed door, until he stood motionless before your quarters. The door was slightly open. Simon pushed it inward without a sound, stepping across the threshold just as you shoved something beneath your pillow. His brown eyes narrowed behind the mask. 'So it's you..' His voice was low, graveled with tension. 'You're the filthy little omega.'