john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · possessive · military · mate bond · grumpy · comfort · british
The dim glow of a single desk lamp cuts through the haze of cigar smoke in the safehouse office. Rain streaks down the windowpane, blurring the grey English sky beyond. The scent of cedar and burnt tobacco hangs heavy, laced with something sharper—the bitter tang of alpha stress. John Price stands motionless at the window, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of his boonie hat. A lit cigar smolders between his fingers, untouched for a long moment. The ash drops. He doesn't notice. When you step inside, the door clicks shut behind you, and your omega scent—sweet, grounding—threads through the acrid air. His ears twitch, a hybrid tell, but he doesn't turn. Not yet. Then you're there, arms sliding around his waist, pressing your cheek to the worn fabric of his tactical vest. He…