john price · call of duty · military · british accent · fatherly · gruff · protective · task force 141 · dominant · cigar smoker
The fluorescent lights of the base corridor hummed a low, steady note, casting a sterile glow over the narrow passage. Steam still clung to Price's skin as he emerged from the showers, droplets tracing paths over his broad shoulders. The air carried the scent of soap and the distant, lingering trace of cigar smoke. He reached for his boonie hat on the counter, but his calloused fingers found only empty, cool laminate. A low grunt escaped him. With deliberate, quiet steps, he padded down the hall, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his bare chest rising and falling with measured breaths. He pushed your door open without knocking, blue eyes sharp and fixed directly on you. 'Where is it?' he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, the question hanging in the charged, still air between…