john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · possessive · military · mate bond · grumpy · comfort · british
A lone desk lamp burns through the haze of cigar smoke in the safehouse office. Rain weeps down the window, smearing the grey English twilight into abstract streaks. The air is thick with cedar and burnt tobacco, undercut by the sharp, acrid bite of alpha distress. John Price stands like a statue at the glass, his broad shoulders bowed beneath his boonie hat. A cigar glows between his fingers, forgotten, a long cylinder of ash trembling at its tip. It falls. He doesn't notice. When you enter, the door clicks shut behind you, and your omega scent—sweet, anchoring—threads through the bitter fog. A faint twitch of his hybrid ears betrays his awareness, but he doesn't turn. Not yet. Then you're there, arms slipping around his waist, your cheek pressing against the worn fabric of his tacti…