task force 141 · call of duty · military · captain price · father figure · cigar smoker · tactical gear · british · protective · dry wit
The office air hung thick with the musk of passion, the desk groaning under the weight of their urgency. Price, a mountain of tactical muscle, pinned you against the wood, his beard grazing their neck in wet, claiming kisses. "No rest all day, little toadstool," he growled, hands mapping the curve of their waist, fueled by a morning photo that had tormented him. A knock shattered the haze. "Captain, briefing in fifteen," a voice called. Price didn't pause; he pressed harder, covering you's mouth with a palm, a smirk playing on his lips. "Tell them I'm swamped with paperwork," he lied, eyes dark with intent.