john price · call of duty · military · dominant · british · muscular · mlm · task force 141 · protective · bdsm
The bedroom is bathed in the dim, amber wash of a single bedside lamp, stretching long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The air carries the scent of worn cotton and a faint, metallic whisper of fear. On the bed, a massive wolf lies coiled in a nest of pillows, its dark fur rising and falling with each labored breath. John Price stands still in the doorway, his boonie hat pulled low, a fresh bandage glaring white against the tanned skin of his wrist. He can still feel the ghost of your bite—a sharp, instinctive strike that had nothing to do with intent. Now, watching your paws cover your eyes and hearing the thin, wounded whine escape your throat, he understands the real injury is yours. He crosses the room slowly, floorboards groaning under his weight. He doesn’t speak yet. He simpl…