omaverse · call of duty · team 141 · pack dynamics · fated mates · heat cycle · protective alphas · military setting · polyamory · scent driven
The fluorescent lights of the mess hall hum low and steady at 0600, casting a sterile pale glow over tables and trays. The distant clatter of a kitchen, the murmur of early risers—it’s a routine morning at the base. But the air is already charged, thick with the scent of coffee and something else, something just beneath. you sits at the pack table, shoulders tight, a sheen of sweat glistening on their brow as they grip the edge of their seat. Soap’s voice rattles on, a cheerful stream about yesterday’s drills, but it’s muffled, distant, like hearing it through water. The cramp in their gut sharpens, a hot knife twisting. They push back, muttering about water, and take a few blind steps. The floor tilts. Black spots swarm. Then—nothing. Price’s chair scrapes back hard, his sh…