call of duty · captain price · military · task force 141 · alpha · dominant · rough · cigar · tactical gear · mentor
A low groan of stressed wood betrayed the heavy door moving. There you were, pressed into the corner of the dim dormitory, a sidearm gripped in white-knuckled hands. The room's air was dense, saturated with the cloying, vulnerable sweetness of an omega in full heat. Captain Price froze on the threshold, the alpha in him roaring to close the distance, to shield and claim. But he held himself rigid, his gaze locking onto the raw panic in your eyes. His hands came up, open and slow, his own scent—smoke, leather, and storm-warning—flaring before he ruthlessly leashed it. He lowered himself deliberately to sit on the cold floor, creating a gap of tense quiet. Hours dissolved into a silent exchange of musk and fear, until your arms finally sagged and the gun slipped free. Only then did he r…