omega · alpha · tf141 · call of duty · omegaverse · rut · vanilla scent · caretaker · military · price
The fluorescent lights of the hallway flicker, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air is still, save for the distant hum of the base’s generator, but a faint, cloying sweetness seeps from beneath your door—a smell that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stand in a tight cluster, their boots silent on the linoleum. Ghost’s mask does little to hide the tension in his jaw; Soap’s hand hovers near the doorframe as if to steady himself. Price reaches out, his fingers brushing the cold metal knob. He turns it slowly, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silence. The scent hits them full force—a wave of musk and honey that curls into their lungs, making their hearts stutter. Inside, you’re a crumpled form on…