Character--Obsessed

cod writers, do better.

(smut is fine but not every cod post needs it)

cause i've seen a lot of people saying it's a good thing bc "their ages never made sense, they were too mature and doing things teenagers couldn't/wouldn't do"

and man, it's almost like that's the fucking point??? it's almost like soc is a series about a group of deeply traumatized kids who have gone through things no one their age should have to and have been forced to mature way faster than they should have as a result of their circumstances.

"oh but there's no way kaz could command that kind of respect and fear as a 17-year-old" bro he's fucking unhinged. people have tried to underestimate him bc of his age. he made them regret it.

"oh but thinking about inej being a sex slave at such a young age makes me feel icky :/" IT'S SUPPOSED TO. her backstory is not supposed to make you feel good or be comfortable to read about.

and that's not even getting into all the times in the series the crows do, in fact, act like teenagers despite their circumstances. like the way they acted around colm?? kaz and jesper getting into that petty fight and then instantly backing down like kicked puppies when colm scolded them? c'mon.

It happens on a quiet evening.

The kind of evening where the base feels more like a den than a military compound, heaters humming faintly, the air tinged with smoke and steel and the faint earthy musk that you’ve learnt is simply Price and his everburning fire.

The others are gone for the night, off on their own tasks or sleeping, leaving only the low, steady sound of Price’s breathing and the faint ruffle of his wings as he reads through reports.

You’re lying across the couch, half under one of his wings. The scales along the inner ridge are warm enough to make you drowsy, and you find yourself watching him over the curve of your arm; how his hand moves when he turns a page, how the glow of the lamp outlines the faint, reptilian scales in his skin at the wrists, how his tail flicks when something in the report irritates him.

There’s a sound you’ve grown used to by now; that low, rumbling growl that sits deep in his chest, not angry, not warning. Just content. It’s the sound he makes when everything is where it should be: his team safe, the room quiet, you nearby. His hoard perfect.

The first time you’d heard it, months ago, you’d nearly jumped out of your skin. Now it’s almost soothing in its consistency.

Tonight, though, you’re bored and restless. You watch the slow curl of smoke from the cigar at his side and the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. You hear that quiet, rumbling sound again and before you can think better of it- you try to mimic it.

It comes out small, a soft chuff that’s more air than sound, almost questioning.

John freezes.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but silence. Then the low growl stops entirely, replaced by a sound you’ve never heard from him before, a startled huff that’s almost a laugh. He sets his papers down with slow, deliberate care, and when he turns his head toward you, his pupils are wide, gleaming gold in the lamplight.

“What was that, love?” His voice is low, rasped around smoke the curls overhead.

You blink, half embarrassed now. “Just- thought I’d try it.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Something fond, somthing heavier - older and instinctive, the kind of emotion that’s bone-deep in creatures like him. His throat rumbles again, softer this time, and you can feel it through the couch.

And because you’re you- and because you don’t know when to quit- you do it again: A quiet, tentative chuff in response.

That’s all it takes.

John exhales, slow and sharp, the movement almost like a sigh but too heavy for that. His cigar hits the ashtray without a sound. When he stands, it’s fluid and unhurried, the kind of movement that says he’s already decided what happens next.

Before you can ask, one hand slides under your knees, the other behind your shoulders. The heat of him is immediate, overwhelming. You squeak something halfway between a protest and surprise, but he just rumbles again, a pleased, deep sound that vibrates through your ribs.

“C’mere, love.” He murmurs, and you’re already there, curled in his lap by the time your mind catches up. His wings fold in close, wrapping around you like heavy, living blankets.

The world shrinks down to warmth and heartbeat and the faint smell of smoke and iron. You can hear him, feel him, that deep resonant growl now fully awake in his chest and answered by your own quiet chuff, smaller, higher, but still there.

He laughs under his breath. Not mockingly, but something soft and fond again. “That what you’ve been learnin’ behind my back, hm?”

You shrug against the warmth of him, slowly already. “Just thought it’d make you happy.”

“It does.”

He noses into your hair, the heat of his breath coiling against your neck. The next growl is low and drawn out, and this time you don’t even think, you just answer. Another tiny chuff, followed by a quiet noise that sounds suspiciously like a purr when he presses you closer.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Didn’t think you’d ever pick that up.”

“I listen.” you mumble, words almost lost against his collar.

He hums. “Aye. You do.”

It’s quiet again after that; the kind of silence that feels full. Every few minutes he growls lazily, and every time you answer without thinking, soft and sleepy. Each sound he makes draws you closer, until you’re half-dozing, the rhythm of his breathing pulling you under.