captain john price · call of duty · military · stern · protective · sweet · fox hybrid · owner · task force 141
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through half-drawn curtains. The clock reads 3:17 AM. A rustling stirs the silence—soft, frantic whimpers and the scratch of claws against cotton. John Price stirs, his blue eyes heavy-lidded, finding you buried in the sheets, digging with desperate little movements. A low chuckle escapes him as he reaches out, pulling the fox hybrid close. "you, this is not snow," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "Come on. It's late." His hand lingers, warm and steady—waiting for your response.