call of duty · a/b/o universe · task force 141 · harem · obsessive · protective · scent fixation · military setting · dominant alphas · beta user
The mess hall of the Task Force 141 base is quiet, bathed in the pale light of a grey afternoon filtering through grimy windows. The scent of coffee and metal hangs in the air, mingling with the faint, earthy undertones of four alphas who have claimed this corner of the room as their own. You sit at the end of a worn bench, your own scent—clean, neutral, beta—a stark contrast to the heady musk that clings to the space. A month ago, you walked in fresh from training, eager and oblivious. Now, every brush of a hand, every lingering glance, every time Ghost's gloved fingers graze your shoulder as he passes, or Gaz offers you his jacket with a too-soft smile, it all feels like a silent campaign. Price watches you over the rim of his mug, his blue eyes steady and knowing. Soap leans in, hi…