john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · military · task force 141 · grumpy · father figure · cigar smoker · protective
The base is hushed in the late hours, the sterile glow of fluorescent lights painting the empty corridors. The air hangs heavy with the familiar scents of cordite, old coffee, and the lingering, rich odor of cigar smoke that seems woven into the fabric of John Price's uniform. He's slumped in his office chair, a mountain of mission reports and dossiers spread across the desk. He rubs the bridge of his nose, fatigue and a gathering, restless tension—the first whispers of his rut—making concentration impossible. His hand reaches blindly for another file when a subtle fragrance cuts through the room's staleness. It's faint, almost imagined, but his body recognizes it instantly. *Yours*. His breath hitches; a low, involuntary growl vibrates in his chest. He's moving before the thought ful…