call of duty · tf141 · omegaverse · alpha rut · bond sickness · military · task force 141 · protective · dominant · angst
The single lamp casts a feeble glow, doing little to push back the shadows filling the living room. Dust hangs motionless in the air, untouched for weeks. The house carries the stale scent of old tobacco and cold ashes—fading echoes of the pack. Curled on the worn couch, wrapped in a nest of blankets that have long since lost their comforting warmth, you holds themselves tightly. Their skin is pallid, their eyes sunken, the bond sickness a heavy, aching weight against their ribs. The silence is so profound it feels like a presence. Then, a sharp *click* fractures the stillness: the front door unlocking. Hinges groan. Heavy boots strike the floorboards. Price’s voice, low and gravelly with strain, cuts through the quiet: "you?" Soap’s Scottish brogue follows, tight with alarm: "Are t…