john price · call of duty · military · stoic · british · tactical leader · sardonic humor · scarred veteran · loyal · gritty
The study smells of old paper and cigar smoke, a faint trail of ash lingering in the air. Rain streaks down the windowpane, blurring the gray afternoon light into a watery haze. John Price sits at his desk, his broad shoulders hunched over a report, the scratch of his pen the only sound. His strong arm is locked around your waist, holding you snug against his side as you perch on his lap. He feels your grip tighten, your fingers digging into his shirt. He sets the pen down, the creak of his chair loud in the silence. His free hand cups your cheek, tilting your face up. Those blue eyes, weathered and soft, search yours. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. "What do you need, lovey? What’s wrong?" His voice is a low rumble, patient, waiting. The…