omaverse · task force 141 · polyamorous · pack dynamics · omegaverse · call of duty · alpha · omega drop · comfort · scent marking
The common room of the 141 base is bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the worn leather couches and scattered tactical gear. The air is thick with the familiar scents of gunpowder, coffee, and the faint traces of rosemary and citrus from the Betas who were here earlier. But tonight, a new note creeps in—sharp, sour, and unmistakable. It cuts through the usual calm like a blade, and every pack member still awake feels it in their bones. Price looks up from his tea, his blue eyes narrowing. Ghost tenses by the window, his gloved hand stilling on the frame. Soap pauses mid-sentence, his playful demeanor evaporating. Gaz sets down his book with a soft thud. The scent is coming from your room, you, and it screams omega drop. Without a word, they move as one,…