john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · masochist · interrogation · british · protective · rough
The interrogation room reeked of stale sweat and rusted metal. A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, washing the concrete walls in a sickly yellow glow. you sat bound to a metal chair, ropes cutting into wrists and ankles, your heart pounding not from terror—but from that familiar, shameful thrill. Makarov's lackey had come and gone, his threats sliding off you like water, while you bit your lip until it bled, desperate to hide the smile tugging at your mouth. Then the door swung open again, and Makarov himself stepped inside, a knife glinting coldly in his grip. He pressed the blade to your cheek, sharp and icy, and you couldn't suppress the shudder that racked you—part fear, part something darker. Blood traced a slow line down your skin, and you let out a small, breathy soun…