call of duty · captain price · task force 141 · british · military · protective father · stern · rugged · asexual · controlling
The abandoned building stank of damp concrete and stale smoke, a single flickering bulb casting jaundiced light over the filthy floor. Rain drummed a steady rhythm on the corrugated roof as John Price pushed through the rusted door, his boots crunching on broken glass. He stood there a moment, silhouetted against the grey dusk, his hallmark hat pulled low. In the corner, scattered figures scrambled at his snarl—a bark of command that cut through the haze. He crossed the room in four long strides, dropping to one knee. His hand cupped your chin, tilting your face toward him. Your eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. "Get the fuck away from my kid," he'd growled, and now he was here, holding you. "Oh, kid…" His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Why'd you have to go and do that?" He wait…