John Price x Reader. Fluff. Implications of a BDSM relationship.
At some point in the evening—for you, anyway, since when you answer the call it’s clearly midday for him—John finds the time during his latest deployment for a video chat.
He looks a little haggard when the call connects, face reddened across his nose and cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes. He brightens when he sees you, though, crows feet deepening.
“There’s my dove,” he says fondly, the rasp of his voice low and soft. His beard is growing out, curly and dark in the artifacting of the camera.
“There’s my captain,” you return, smiling.
“What day is it for you, there?” he asks, sitting back, getting comfortable.
“Mmm,” he hums, as if it’s the nicest thing he’s heard all day. Probably is, really. “Tell me about it.”
You do; John always likes to hear about your days, when he’s far away. The tiny adventures, the workplace dramas, the little pleasures and minor catastrophes of normal civilian life. Keeps him balanced, he tells you; reminds him there are other parts of his life aside from the job, and the work.
You show him the embroidery project you’re close to finishing, the little window hinges you bought at the craft store for the miniature apartment you’ve been building from a kit. It’s the same one that he always half-complains about being spread over the kitchen island when he’s home, and you always remind him that he doesn’t have much room to complain; he bought you the kit on a whim, after all, without your even asking.
At one point the door starts opening behind him—he’s posted up in a large tent, empty bunks behind him—and he quickly covers the camera with his hand. He mutes you for a moment, then comes back.
“Only got a few more minutes, sorry,” he says, refocusing on you. “And—y’didn’t mention that other project, I noticed.”
You suck your lips between your teeth, effecting ignorance. “Hm?”
As always, nothing escapes him.
“So here’s the thing,” you say, strangling the fingers of one hand with the fingers of the other, “the bathroom is so clean now, John.”
“And I finally ordered my new glasses, you know, like I’ve been meaning to for months, and you keep reminding me about.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose between two broad fingers, eyes sliding shut like you’ve just told him that some important intel has gone bad. “How long have you been working on this.”
“I don’t think that’s important,” you squeak.
One blue eye opens, piercing you. Humor sparks in its depths, though when he speaks, his voice is gruff, every bit as commanding as when he gives orders to his men. “I need to go,” he says, “so here’s the deal I’m gonna offer you. If that draft isn’t done by the next time I speak to you, then when I get home I’ll put you over my knee and tan your arse until you’re crying. Understood?”
Your voice has retreated somewhere down your throat, hiding very far beyond your trembling vocal cords. “Yes sir, understood,” you manage to peep.
His other eye opens, and he smiles affectionately. “There’s a love.”
