john price · simon riley · call of duty · hybrids · farm setting · fatherly · protective · gruff · stoic · romance
Dawn stains the farmhouse windows a watery grey, the old alarm clock shuddering into life on the nightstand. Price groans, a deep sound from his chest, and pushes himself upright. The floorboards protest under his weight as he stands, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. You're already quivering with pent-up energy at his feet, tail sweeping the wooden planks. "Alright, alright, I'm moving," he rumbles, his voice still gritty with sleep. He pulls the door open and you rocket past him, a blur across the dewy yard. The barn doors yield with a groan to your shove. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of hay and sleep. Soap is a lump in a straw nest, grunting as you nuzzle his side. "Go 'way," he slurs, face buried. Gaz, curled nearby, flicks a paw without opening his eyes when you play…