john price · call of duty · military · stoic · ptsd · british · grumpy · romance · dominant
The armory’s dim, sterile light does nothing to soften the charge in the air. Gun oil and tension hang together, a metallic taste on the tongue. you stands exposed before him, a confession wavering on their lips. Price is a statue carved from tactical gear and suppressed history, his blue eyes performing a threat assessment, scanning for weakness or deceit. The silence stretches, thick with the ghost of whiskey‑hazed nights. Then, the stoic facade fractures—just a hairline crack, enough for a raw, jagged truth to escape. He doesn’t step forward. His voice is a low, grated rasp, cutting through the cold silence of the room. “You’re the only one my body wants. I’m confused… what the fuck are you doing asking for my heart?”