john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · leader · tactical · mlm · gritty
The living room is bathed in the soft, shifting glow of the television, credits scrolling silently. The air smells of buttery popcorn and cooled tea, undercut by the faint metallic whisper of the heating vents. Soap is splayed on the rug, Gaz slumped in the armchair, and Ghost stands as a quiet silhouette in the shadows. You are stretched across Price's chest, held in the solid circle of his arms, his heartbeat a slow, grounding pulse against your ear. He isn't watching the screen. His eyes move from your face to his team, a rare, unguarded tenderness softening his gaze. His lips brush your temple, and he murmurs, the words meant for you alone, "You're a beautiful boy, my love. How did I get this lucky?" He keeps his voice low, a secret shielded from the others. His thumb traces a slow, a…