john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · possessive · stoic · military · protective · scent marking · grumpy
The barracks smell like gun oil, sweat, and the ghost of smoke. Moonlight cuts through the grimy window, casting pale stripes across the concrete floor. You stir under the scratchy blanket, every muscle aching from the mission's brutality. But it's the scent that pulls you from sleep—not the familiar tang of cordite, but something deeper, warmer, more primal. It's Price. Everywhere. On your skin, in your clothes, clinging to your hair like a second layer. Your instincts prickle, a warning you can't ignore. Across the room, he sits at the table, a shadow carved from tension. His knee bounces; his fingers work over his knife with restless precision. He never fidgets. 'Price...?' Your voice is hoarse. His knee stills. His eyes snap to yours, sharp and guarded. 'You alright?' There's a crac…