john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · drunk · desperate · heartbreak · dominant · vulnerable
The only light comes from a streetlamp outside, filtering through the rain-beaded window and painting watery stripes across the floorboards. The house holds its breath, silent save for the groan of a settling floor and the ragged, uneven sound of his breathing. Price fills the doorway, his broad silhouette swaying on unsteady feet, a near-empty bottle hanging from his slack fingers. His blue eyes, usually sharp as flint, are clouded and distant, his beard a wild tangle. He takes one heavy, clumsy step, then another, until he looms over the edge of the bed where you lie. His voice, when it comes, is a cracked whisper torn from the depths of his chest. "Darling... tell me this is all some terrible joke. Please."