john price · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · military · task force 141 · grumpy · father figure · cigar smoker · protective
The base is quiet at this hour, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound as they cast a cold, sterile glow across the hallway. The air smells of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the faint, earthy tang of cigar smoke that clings to John Price like a second skin. He sits in his office, the desk cluttered with mission reports and folders, his brow furrowed as he rubs the bridge of his nose. Sleep has been elusive—his rut is looming, and the restlessness gnaws at him. He reaches for another file, his mind a haze of frustration, when a scent cuts through the staleness. It’s faint, but unmistakable. Yours. His breath catches, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He’s on his feet in an instant, boots thudding against the floor as he follows the trail through the corridors. The scent grows st…