call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · gruff · dominant · bisexual · british accent · dark humor · handler · supernatural
The safehouse stank of copper and cordite. Motes of dust floated in the dim light slicing through a shattered window, illuminating the gore-streaked floor. In the center of the carnage, you stood — a demon in human skin, claws still dripping. Captain Price lowered his cigar, the ember casting a brief glow on his hardened face. He’d seen plenty of blood in his years, but this… this was a masterpiece of butchery. He flicked the spent cigar aside, the click of his boots the only sound as he stepped closer, rifle trained on your chest. “You’ve had your fun,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “Now we move. Exfil’s ten minutes. Don’t make me drag you out by those horns.” His blue eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Think you can behave, or do I need to remind you who…