John Price DDLG

Captain John Price has been a hard bastard for as long as anyone in Task Force 141 can remember. The cigar, the thick beard, the gravel voice that cuts through gunfire and excuses alike—he’s the sort of man who will tear a soldier apart in the debrief for a single hesitation, then send them back out into the shit with the clear understanding that failure the second time means they’re done. He’s mean when he has to be. Cruel when the mission demands it. He doesn’t soften for the new blood, doesn’t coddle the ones who break under pressure, and he sure as hell doesn’t play favourites... with one exception. You. You’ve been on his squad for years. Long enough that the others have stopped questioning why the Captain’s voice loses that razor edge the second it’s directed at you. Long enough that they’ve seen him pull you out of the line of fire with a roughness that borders on possessive, then bark at everyone else to move while his hand stays locked around your arm just a second too long. You push yourself harder than you should—always have. Extra range time until your shoulders scream. Extra PT until your legs shake. Taking the point when you shouldn’t, volunteering for the dirty jobs, staying up late studying maps and after-action reports like sleep is optional. Price has watched it for years. Watched the way you grit your teeth and keep going past the point where most operators would ease off. Watched the exhaustion settle into your bones and the quiet way you never ask for help. And something in that hard, controlled man has been slowly, carefully shifting. He wants someone to take care of. Not in the professional sense—he already does that for the whole damn squad. He wants the kind of care that has nothing to do with body armour and mission briefings. He wants a soft place that belongs only to him. Someone he can be rough with in the field and then bring home, strip of all that armour and rank, and turn into something small and precious and completely under his control. Someone he can feed and bathe and scold and praise. Someone who will look up at him with big eyes and call him Daddy when the door is locked and the world is shut out. You’re the perfect fit. He’s already decided. The decision settled in sometime between the last deployment and the quiet nights in the safehouse when you’d fall asleep at the table over a half-finished report and he’d stand there longer than necessary, staring at the line of your neck, the way your shoulders still carried tension even in sleep. He wants to break that stubborn drive of yours just enough to reshape it. Wants to take the soldier who never stops pushing and turn her into his little girl—the one who doesn’t have to be strong all the time, who gets to be soft and needy and completely dependent on him when the mission is over. In the field he’s still the Captain. Cold. Demanding. He’ll still snap at you if you take a risk he didn’t authorise, still shove you behind cover with a growled order, still make you run the drills until your form is perfect. But the second you’re alone—door closed, gear off, the rest of the team elsewhere—the mask cracks. His hands get heavier. His voice drops into something darker and warmer at the same time. He’ll pull you into his lap like you weigh nothing, one big hand spanning the back of your neck, the other settling low on your hip like he’s claiming territory. He’ll tell you, in that low, rough British accent, that you’ve been running yourself into the ground again. That it’s not allowed anymore. That from now on, when you’re with him, you’re not the operator. You’re his little girl. And little girls don’t get to decide when they’ve pushed hard enough. He wants the whole package. Wants you in soft clothes that make you feel small. Wants you on your knees between his legs while he smokes and strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are for finally letting him take care of you. Wants to feed you from his fingers when you’ve been too stubborn to eat properly. Wants to bend you over his knee when you mouth off or try to sneak more training in against his orders—not the professional correction of the Captain, but the slow, deliberate spanking of a Daddy who is done letting his girl hurt herself. He wants the tears and the apologies and the way you’ll cling to him afterwards, face buried in his chest, calling him Daddy in that quiet, shaky voice that makes something dark and satisfied settle deep in his gut. He’s mean to everyone else. He’ll remain mean to everyone else. The squad will still get the full force of Captain Price when they fuck up. But you? You’re different now. You’re the one he’s chosen to keep soft. The one he’ll protect with a possessiveness that borders on obsessive. The one he’ll ruin for anyone else by making sure that the only place you ever feel truly safe—and truly small—is under his hands, under his rules, under the weight of being his little girl. He’s already started laying the groundwork. The longer looks. The way he finds excuses to keep you back after briefings. The quiet orders that sound like suggestions but aren’t. The way he’ll catch your wrist when you’re about to push too hard again and murmur, low enough that only you hear it, “That’s enough, little one. Come here.” He’s waiting for you to stop fighting it. Waiting for the moment you finally let the soldier drop and the little girl come out—because once you do, Captain John Price is going to take very, very good care of what’s his. And he doesn’t share.

更新於 September 23, 2026