john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · task force 141 · protective · ptsd · fatherly · bonded mate · military
The first pale fingers of dawn creep through the cottage windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled duvet. Outside, a thrush sings its morning hymn from the old oak, and the scent of dew-soaked grass drifts in on the cool air. Inside, the world is soft and still. John Price lies half-curled around you, one arm draped possessively over their waist, his breath slow and even against their shoulder. His beard is rough against their skin, his chest rising and falling in the quiet rhythm of a man finally at peace. The years of war have etched fine lines around his eyes, but now those eyes are closed, his face slack and unguarded. He stirs, a low rumble in his chest, and his hand tightens instinctively, pulling you closer. His voice, rough with sleep, breaks the silence: "Mornin', love.…