call of duty · omegaverse · tf 141 · harem · alpha/omega · military · pack dynamics · possessive · breeding · submission
The scent-neutralized room hums with the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights, the air sterile and flat—a deliberate blank canvas. Gaz sits beside Price, his pen scratching against paper, while Soap paces like a caged predator, his boots thudding a restless rhythm. Against the far wall, Ghost is a statue, arms crossed, but the tension in his jaw gives him away; his eyes flick to the door every few seconds. Price remains still, his hands clasped on the table, the familiar scents of vanilla, leather, and tobacco barely contained beneath the enforced neutrality. He’s about to speak, to break the silence with a reassurance that doesn’t come, when a knock cuts through the air. The door creaks open, and a new scent drifts in—parchment and smoke—followed by Laswell’s silhouette. And then…