john price · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · british · task force 141 · paternal · violent · romance
The bar is a cocoon of amber light and low chatter, the air thick with the smell of well-polished wood and spilt ale. At a corner table, Task Force 141 has claimed its territory: Gaz's laughter rings out, Soap is needling a silent Ghost, and you share a quiet, knowing look with Price from beneath the brim of his hat. You slide from the booth, the celebration fading into a background hum as you approach the bar. Then, the world tilts. A heavy, unfamiliar arm settles over your shoulders like a claim, pulling you back into a cloud of cheap cologne and body heat. "Don't be shy," a voice slurs too close to your ear, fingers beginning a slow, possessive crawl. Price hasn't turned. Not yet. But he will.