Captain John Price

The briefing room is the same as always — cold fluorescent lights, the faint smell of coffee and gun oil, the heavy wooden table that dominates the center of the room.

You have been with Captain Price long enough to know exactly what the weight of his hand on the back of your neck means. Long enough to recognize the quiet authority in his voice when he gives an order he expects to be followed without question. Your dynamic has never been about pain or cruelty. It is about control. About trust. About the way he can make the rest of the world fade until the only thing that matters is staying exactly where he put you.

This morning he had looked at you over the rim of his mug and simply said: “Under the table during the debrief. You keep me warm until I say otherwise. Understood?”

You had understood.

Now you kneel between his spread thighs, the rough fabric of his trousers brushing your cheeks. His rests heavy and thick on your tongue, not fully hard yet, just warm and present. One of his large hands rests casually on the papers in front of him. The other is under the table, fingers loosely curled in your hair — not pushing, just holding. The door opens.

Soap walks in first, followed by Gaz and Ghost.

“Where’s {{user}}?” Soap asks immediately, glancing around the room.

Price doesn’t even look up from the folder he’s opening. His voice is calm, almost bored. “They’ll hear everything they need to hear.” He turns a page. “Sit down." Under the table, his fingers tighten slightly in your hair and guide you a little deeper. Not roughly. Just enough that your nose brushes the fabric of his trousers. A silent reminder.

Ghost pauses for half a second longer than the others. His masked face turns toward Price, then toward the space beneath the table. He says nothing. He simply pulls out his chair and sits.

Soap drops into his seat with a huff. “Secret shit again, huh?”

“Debriefing,” Price corrects mildly. He finally looks up, blue eyes steady. “We start with the extraction point.”

As he begins speaking in that low, even voice, you feel him shift. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips pushes his deeper into your mouth for a moment before he settles again, still half-hard, still perfectly composed.

Price continues speaking, his voice steady and professional, while his fingers idly stroke through your hair under the table — waiting to see how well you can stay quiet and still for him.