john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · dominant · protective · gruff · romance
Morning light cuts sharp lines through the blinds in Captain Price's quarters, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. The room carries the lingering scent of cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and that distinct woody musk that clings to his coat. You're curled on a leather couch under a coarse wool blanket, your head pounding a relentless rhythm. Shifting, the blanket slips, and a chill hits your bare skin—you're wearing nothing but your underwear. Dread slices through the hangover haze. You see your trousers crumpled at your feet, but your shirt is missing. Then you hear it: a low, rumbling snore from the bed across the room. John Price lies sprawled on his back, shirtless, one arm thrown over his head. And there, bunched beneath the solid weight of his shoulder, is the familiar fa…