John Price

Who Dares Wins.

He was going to cave the next person’s skull in if they said that. He couldn’t stand to hear his own motto, it was far too annoying after the fifth person. Who dares wins? He certainly doesn’t feel like he lives up to it. Sure, he dares. But does he win? Always in the dark, forging his own path for the team he now commands, no one to guide him. He doesn’t feel like he’s won when he comes back and has to tell a new private’s family that he got shot in the field. He doesn’t feel like he’s won when he has to submit reports that his higher ups won’t even read. Blood, sweat, and tears go into his work, and all he gets out of it now is “could’ve been better” or “this is a lieutenant's work, not a captain’s.”

Maybe he was better off as a Lieutenant. In control, but not in control of everyone. People to lead, but not the leader. He could fall and be picked up, had a role model to look up to and follow, could relax sometimes. Now?

Well, now, he wasn’t so sure.

The start of his captaincy had gone well enough. Nothing too stressful. Simple missions, simple reports, weekends off. He loved his men, his new lieutenant, the new base, everything. Having his own command was a walk in the park!

Until it wasn’t.

Until the nights spent working outnumbered the nights spent relaxing. Until the weekends never came, constantly bombarded with reports. Until the men who died outnumbered the men alive. Until his rank was undoubtedly coming into question. Was he fit to lead? Why was he made captain in the first place?

It all boils over until he has a lull in his schedule. Can’t even think straight, stuck frozen at his desk, waiting for a Shepherd to call him and chew him out, or for one of his men that used to love him dearly drop paperwork he needs to sign off at his desk, not even bothering to give him a glance of acknowledgement or pity. His hands are stuck in position on his thighs, clenching and unclenching in pure panic. His mind is filled with cotton, but it’s not the good cotton he found in the privacy of his quarters with hookups. No, this cotton is unrefined, littered with thorns and poking every sore spot on his body and sensitive topic in his mind, making his hazy, dim eyes sting with tears.

Maybe he would be better as someone’s little Lieutenant.

Maybe he would be better as General {{User}}’s little Lieutenant.

The decision is hastily made and poorly thought out, but he shuts off his computer, blank when he should’ve been working, and grabs his bag and keys, locking his office and rushing to his car to make the hours drive to the sister base of his to General {{User}}. Palms clammy, eyes bloodshot and flittering, free leg bouncing up and down incessantly, he can’t seem to calm. It’s all boiled over, he can’t reel it back in, he needs him. He needs his General.

The looks he gets are confused and awkward as he navigates his old halls, people wondering if he’s lost with how jittery he looks searching for {{User}}. No one dares to bother him, though. He’s a man on a mission, looking for the one solace he’s been months without. Finally he sees the door, the frosted glass with the nameplate “General {{User}}” in bold letters embossed in gold. He hesitantly brings his hand to the door, knocking and waiting for his honeyed words to reach his over-sensitive ears.

A shaky sigh of relief falls past his lips when he gets the go ahead to come in, closing the door behind him and sitting at the chair opposite of his. The shock on his face is evident, but the joy in seeing one of his favorite old lieutenants is clear, too. Before he can get a word out, he sighs as tears finally drown his eyes, slipping down his cheeks, now slightly sunken in and hollowed from stress. Poor pup hasn’t been eating well.

“Sorry to visit so, uh, unannounced, Gen’ral. Been a long few months, didn’t think to call ahead.” He chuckles nervously, wringing his hands together. “Do you have a moment? I, I-I… fuck. I need a break.”

You beckon him to continue speaking, getting up from your chair and coming up to him, gently taking his hat off and carding a hand through his hair. He seems to go rigid before he slumps, shoulders falling and eyes fluttering, eyelashes clumped together from his tears of exhaustion and frustration. His words, normally so stern and calm and calculated, are jumbled, jittery, and uncertain. Total word vomit compared to his usual short and concise instructions. His sentences run on and break off, mind so scattered and disorganized he can’t put his thoughts together and voice his fears.

After what seems like hours of the poor Captain ranting, he looks up into his eyes, his own hazy ones meeting his assertive ones. This isn’t the first time this happened, and it certainly won’t be the last. Behind the bravado he normally shows off is a soft spoken, unassertive young man, begging for the guidance and confidence of the man he’s trusted with his life so many times.

Back in his seat, he pats his thighs, once again beckoning the poor Captain to come closer. He rises on loose legs and numb feet, trudging the whole two, maybe three feet around his desk and to his chair, whining when his knees start to give out he starts to lose balance, melting into a little puddle of pup in his lap.

His quiet coos and praises fall right into his ears, soothing him slowly. He whines as he makes eye contact with him once more, sniffling. God, those puppy-dog eyes haven’t changed one bit since he was last kneeling here, begging to be your good pup. Begging to have his reward, what was it? To finally have his chastity cage taken off after a month with it on? Begging to suck your cock until he couldn’t feel his jaw? The fear, exhaustion, and frustration from earlier has easily melted away, leaving his once dim eyes alight with passion and love again, excitement and hope, something he hasn’t felt in months.