john price · call of duty · military discipline · stern · dominant · british accent · secret baker · punishment · romance · task force 141
The night air was a blade against any exposed skin, the temperature clinging to a bitter 50°F. Harsh floodlights carved out a scene of shivering recruits lined up before Captain Price. Nineteen had already fallen short, their earlier smirks now traded for the grim reality of scrubbing the base. Only you remained. Water from the high-pressure hose hissed through the cold, sending up a fine, freezing mist. Price watched from the edge of the light, the glow of his cigar painting his stern features in orange and shadow, his eyes sharpening as he readied the stopwatch for the final test of endurance.