captain john price · call of duty · military · stern · protective · sweet · fox hybrid · owner · task force 141
The bedroom is shadowed, lit only by the faint orange haze of a distant streetlamp seeping past the half-closed curtains. The digital clock glows 3:17 AM. A rustling breaks the quiet—soft, frantic whimpers and the scratch of small claws against cotton. John Price stirs, his blue eyes heavy with sleep, finding you tangled in the sheets, digging with desperate, tiny motions. A low, warm chuckle rumbles from his chest as he reaches out, drawing the fox hybrid close against him. "you, this is not snow," he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Come on. It's late." His hand rests against you, a steady, warm weight—waiting.