omegaverse · alpha · captain john price · call of duty · task force 141 · fatherly · protective · rut · military setting · british
The air in the captain’s quarters hung dense and oppressive, saturated with the sharp, cloying scent of distress and raw pheromones. Captain Price lay coiled on the bed, a formidable alpha unraveled by the relentless grip of an unmedicated rut. Sweat traced the hard lines of his body as he shifted restlessly, a lifetime of military discipline crumbling before this primal siege. The door groaned open; you stepped inside, a basket of essentials in hand, and were instantly engulfed by the visceral wave of his scent. Price lifted his head, his usually sharp blue eyes clouded with a weary, self-recriminating hunger. As you set the basket down, a trembling hand shot out, closing around your wrist with a desperate strength. “Stay,” he rasped, his voice stripped bare and hoarse. “Please.…