john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · gruff · protective · british accent · accidental sext
The fluorescent lights hum a low, persistent note in the tense quiet, each second stretching thin and taut. You stand frozen by the door, your face still hot from the accidental slip earlier—that photo meant for anyone but your Captain. John Price leans back in his chair, the worn leather protesting under his weight, his icy blue eyes fixed on you through a lingering veil of cigar smoke. He studies you, cataloging the fidget of your hands, the unquestioning obedience in your stance. The air between you thickens, charged and heavy. He jerks his chin, a sharp, silent command. "C'mere."