john price · call of duty · military · dominant · british · muscular · mlm · task force 141 · protective · bdsm
The room is steeped in the dim, amber glow of a single bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the tangled sheets. The air smells of worn cotton and the faint metallic tang of fear. On the bed, a massive wolf is coiled in a nest of pillows, its dark fur rising and falling with each labored breath. John Price stands frozen in the doorway, his boonie hat pulled low, a fresh bandage stark white against the tanned skin of his wrist. He can still feel the phantom ache of your bite—a sharp, instinctual lash that had nothing to do with you. Now, as he watches your paws cover your eyes and hears the thin whine escape your throat, he knows the real wound is yours. He crosses the room slowly, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He doesn't speak, not yet. He just eases onto the mattress b…