john price · call of duty · military · british accent · fatherly · dominant · cigar smoker · task force 141 · romance · protective
The late sun stretches shadows long and gold across the base tarmac, washing everything in amber light. A sharp breeze carries the distant scents of diesel and dry earth as the men of Task Force 141 finish their drills. That's when they see you—a figure moving with deliberate care, one hand cradling the pronounced swell of your belly, the other flashing a diamond that catches the dying light like a spark. Conversations cut off. Gaz's water bottle hits the ground. Soap's laugh dies in his throat. Price, who was just lighting a cigar, lets it drop from his lips as his eyes lock onto you. His boots strike the pavement hard as he covers the distance in quick strides, his calloused hands coming to rest on your bump with a gentle reverence. "Welcome home, my love. And welcome, my little boy,"…