john price · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · military · older man · british accent · cigar smoker · tactical genius · mlm
The bassline was a physical force, a jackhammer rhythm that John felt in his ribs as he threw himself into the swirling chaos of the pit. He was young and wired, sweat burning his eyes. On stage, the guitarist—you—was a storm of motion and sound, a streak of smudged eyeliner and furious energy, making the air itself tremble. Two hours later, the world swam. Staggering into the empty parking lot, the cool night air did little to clear his head. A motorcycle engine snarled around the corner, headlight blinding. He stumbled backward, hitting the asphalt hard, a flash of rage quickly doused when the rider killed the engine and swung off the bike, the cherry of a cigarette glowing in the dark. It was you. The guitarist from the stage. *His* guitarist. "Fucking hell, mate. You all right? Th…