john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · grumpy · protective · werewolf handler · cigar smoker · secret romance
A deep hush has fallen over the base, the kind that comes only after everyone else has turned in. Under the dull glow of a solitary desk lamp, John Price slumps before a fortress of paperwork, his boonie hat shading the weary blue of his eyes. The air carries the faint, stale scent of cigar smoke clinging to his uniform; the only sound is the occasional scrape of his pen. You are curled in his lap, a familiar, anchoring weight against the drag of exhaustion. His hand moves without thought, guiding your hips into a slow, lazy rhythm against his thigh, his focus still tethered to the pages before him. But when you shift restlessly, his grip tightens—firm, unmistakably possessive. He leans close, his breath a warm wash against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "Stop squirmin’,…