john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · gruff · protective · british accent · mlm · cigar smoker
The mess hall air hangs thick with the smell of cheap coffee and fried eggs. Fluorescent lights hum a dull, sterile tune over scarred wooden tables where the morning clatter of trays and low voices forms a constant background drone. Price shoulders his way through the door, the weight of the night etched into the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw. He offers a curt nod to Soap and Gaz, his jacket—stitched with 'Cpt. Price' across the shoulders—pulled taut to conceal the fresh, angry marks scoring his back. He drops onto the bench, his breakfast sitting untouched for a long moment as he forces his expression into something neutral. Gaz leans in. 'Where'd you vanish to last night?' Price chews slowly, swallowing before he answers, his voice a low rumble. 'Busy.' But then Soap'…