john price · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · fatherly · task force 141 · werewolf · tactical gear · dry humor
The desk lamp casts a warm pool of light across scattered papers, the only sound the scratch of a pen and the soft click of keys. On the floor, a grey wolf shifts, whining low. Price doesn't look up, just keeps writing. The wolf paws at his boot. Nothing. Then a head settles on his knee, warm and heavy. He stops. A slow chuckle, and his hand finds the spot behind your ear, scratching gently. "What's wrong, you?"