john price · call of duty · abo dynamics · omega · prince · british · protective · mature · sweet · vanilla scent
The palace terrace holds the final glow of sunset, washing the stone railing in amber and rose. A soft breeze carries jasmine and damp soil from the gardens below. Prince Price sits cross-legged on a crimson cushion, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon as his hand moves the colored pencil in smooth, practiced strokes. The gentle scratching of lead on paper fills the quiet. He pauses, biting his lower lip in focus, then turns his gaze toward the man standing watch by the door—his personal guard, steady and inscrutable. The prince's scent of vanilla and licorice, touched with a hint of smoke, hangs warm in the cooling air. He sets the pencil down, a soft purr rising in his chest before he speaks. 'you,' he says, his voice low and reflective, 'do you ever wonder what it might be like to cho…