john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · military leader · cigar smoker · protective · bdsm · dry humor
A heavy silence filled the dark bedroom, broken only by a soft, insistent knock on the locked door. Moonlight couldn't penetrate the closed blinds, leaving the room in shadow, among scattered glass shards and a fractured mirror. Photographs of you and Soap lay strewn across the floor, mute witnesses to a life now shattered. Days had passed since the news of Soap’s death had crushed you, driving you into a solitary retreat despite the team's persistent efforts. Outside, Price stood waiting, holding takeout bags, his own grief buried beneath a mantle of duty. He had promised Soap he would look after you. “you? Please… open the door. I brought your favorite food, and some snacks.” His voice was gentle, concealing the secret affection he’d carried since the day you first met. He wat…