#cod series

Each day brought dozens of farmers and city folk complaining to your family of the strife the cold months had brought to them. It only proved to anger you even more. Not only were you serving an unexplained penance, but now there was no ignoring it. Blankets may have been able to shield you from the torment while you lounged in your chambers, but knowing your people suffered was a pain even worse than the persistent chill that clung to your bones and threatened to freeze your blood to solid ice.

Your eyes scanned the rolling fields in search of anything beyond that damned white mist. There was nothing, of course. Just white and cold waiting there for you, a threat lingering so menacingly in its inescapability.

“Sir Riley,” You called out to the man standing just 20 paces away from you, guarding the door as if he himself could keep the world away from you. “Would you please call for the servants? I cannot go on with this cold. I require a bath. Quickly please.”

“Yes, Princess,” he grunts. He kept his eyes down as he obeyed. He hadn’t said much since it happened. You didn’t want him to anyway.

It was best if you didn’t think about the pain, the fear. You had been certain in that moment as you laid alone, blood seeping into the stone ground in the courtyard, knife deep in your stomach that you were going to die.

It had been weeks ago now, but the scars would be etched into your skin forever as a sick reminder. The blood a cruel painting of suffering on your dress.

Simon was never far from you now. Not that he had ever really been far from you. You could see it in the way he stood, the shame of not being there at that one particular moment oozed out of him like tar, threatening to trap him and consume him.

He had sworn himself to you just a few years ago. No one had expected you to pick a knight like him. Older, a bit brash and unfriendly to anyone who stepped in his way. Though, there had been something about him, something about the way that he held himself with confidence but an undeniable respect. For you, it was never a question that he was the most honorable choice.

He was the one who found you there, nearly dead in a pool of your own blood. Much of what he had said you had forgotten now. The disorientation had wiped most of what you remembered. You were grateful for it, but more grateful for him. If he had not come when he did, those surely would’ve been your last moments.

You had told him not to be ashamed. It was not his fault that he had been called away. The fault was only yours. You knew not to wander alone when the price on your head grew every day. Besides, he had been there in mere moments. No one but him had saved your life.

One of the servant girls pulled you from your stupor, her voice soft, almost anxious. “Princess? The water is ready for you.”

“Thank you. You are dismissed,” you said politely as you moved towards the large opulent tub in the corner of the room.

The girl bows her head and turns to leave you. “Thank you, Princess.”

You hesitate, turning towards her again. “Wait-“

“What may I get you, Princess?” She asks, back straight and eyes focused.

You poured the rose oil into the water as you spoke. “Please bring Sir Riley back in. I require him.”

The girl stammered anxiously, knowing your request was one she must question, even if she didn’t want to. “Princess, he is not permitted-“

“Then I permit it,” you snap, harsher than you had intended, voice quickly softening in apology. “Please, bring him to me.”

She gives you a nod before finally retreating. “Yes, Princess.”

You knew Simon was not allowed in your chambers when you bathed. No man was. It mattered not to you. He was not lecherous, not improper. He was a man of his oath and you of all people knew he would not break it. 

He stands by the door, eyes respectfully downwards. The warm water did little for your comfort. Even the smell of the rose oil, a usual favorite and a luxury even to someone like yourself, did nothing to calm you. Your thoughts still lingered on the developing scar on your abdomen and the frigid winter beyond the stone walls of your keep.

“Sir?” You say as your head turns to him, watching him standing as straight as ever, posture almost statuesque in its severity. 

He keeps his eyes turned away from you as he replies, mindful of his manners, even now. “Yes, Princess?”

“I have meant to thank you,” You say softly, lips hovering just above the water. “For saving me.”

He hardly moves at all as he speaks. “I was only doin’ my duty. There is no need for thanks, Princess.” 

You smile just slightly. For someone so committed, so loyal and in your opinion, brave, he was quite humble. Or perhaps he was smart enough to not boast to a princess. “Still. Everyone in this castle has a duty to me, yet it was you who saved my life.”

He merely shrugs, as if keeping you from bleeding to death was nothing at all. “I was closest.”

You shake your head, though there was no frustration in it. “Accept the thanks, Sir.”

He gives a short, polite nod. “Yes, Princess.”

Even for a knight he was so quiet. You had heard little about his life before his training and the service. He had never been one to share even when questioned. His reservations seemed odd to you, but you refused to push. He would share in his own time. As frustrating as it was to have a huge silent man there, refusing any sort of friendship. Not that that was particularly allowed anyway. You cared not. He was a member of your service, therefore you cared for him. 

“The doctors say you shall heal fine,” he states casually.

You chuckle at him. “With a nasty scar,” you reply. You might be alive, but the physical reminder will always be there.

“Battle wounds. If you were a knight, you would be well regarded,” he says almost reassuringly, though reassurance has never been his forte, or even something he enjoys. It was evident in the look in his eyes. You would almost call it shyness, if you didn’t know better.

You sigh, eyes travelling back down to the now pink gashes decorating your skin like they belonged there. “But I am not one.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he shrugs, voice gruff and blunt in his delivery.

“Sir!” You exclaim in shock, sitting up a bit straighter. You almost laugh at his proclamation. You’ve heard him curse plenty, just never at you.

His eyes finally meet yours, simply blinking as if he did nothing out of the ordinary, as if he did not just curse in the presence of royalty. “I mean it. You survived an attack. Most soldiers can’t say the same. It is a scar worthy of respect.”

You laugh openly now, hand going to cover your mouth. “Quite scandalous to swear at a princess.”

“You won’t tell,” he chuckles, quiet but unmistakably there. 

Your smile grows at the sound of it, delighted. “Fair enough, Sir.”

—

Your father, the king, had been on the search for your attacker for weeks. Committing to a neverending quest to bring them to their knees. There was a tenseness in the keep that seeped through every wall. Everyone inside walked on eggshells, too frightened to do much more than shuffle quietly and keep their heads down. Simon had joined your father and his advisors in their meeting. If anyone was trusted in regards to your safety, it was him. He spent his days with you, protecting you and had been the one to step in and save your life. Hardly anyone’s insight was valued more in your father’s eyes.

“And what do we know? What information do you have for me? A man infiltrated my home and tried to kill my daughter! There better be answers and they better come now!” Your father bellowed, his anger growing into a hulking beast after the weeks of strife.

An advisor is the first to speak, quiet and anxious in the presence of your fuming father, praying his wrath did not turn to him “Well, Your Grace. The servants saw nothing and-”

“That is not an answer!” Your father slams his palms against the table as he stands, chair scrapping back and hitting the floor with a deafening clatter, sending the room into a tense silence.

Seconds pass as the silence stretches, eyes darting anxiously around. “I understand, Your Grace-”

Your father lifts his hand, pointing an accusatory finger in his advisor's direction. “You do not!” His anger was thick and suffocating, so intense you thought he might explode where he stood.

Before the trembling man could speak again, Simon stepped forward from his spot behind you. “Makarov. It was Makarov.”

Your father pauses, head snapping to Simon’s direction, intrigued. “And you know this how, Sir?”

Simon lifts his chin confidently. He has encountered Makarov’s men countless times, he knew they were the type to do this. “He is a long standing enemy of this kingdom, he ‘as threatened the royal family before. He is not above this.”

“Hmm,” your father nods, hands resting flat on the table as he lowers his head. “Yes. I believe you have a point, Sir.”

His advisor scoffs, face scrunching in disapproval as he adjusts his gold embroidered vest in a show of propriety, needing to make it known that he was Simon’s superior. “What does he know? He’s just a knight.”

Your head whips to the side, eyes boring into the pretentious man. How dare he speak that way to your family, let alone about the man who saved your life. “Shut your mouth.”

“Excuse me?” He falters, mouth falling open in shock, the directness unexpected and deeply unwanted. 

“You heard me. Shut your mouth. I don’t remember you ever putting your life on the line for this kingdom, or for me. You know politics, sure, but you do not know what Sir Riley does. You will regard him with respect,” you retort, eyes blazing with a deep fury. 

“Thank you, Princess,” Simon says quietly, eyes glancing at you quickly.

“Sir Riley, how many men can we spare for this? I want us on his doorstep as quickly as we can manage,” Your father continues as he sits again, finally starting to calm. The thought of retribution soothing him, tension dissipating slowly.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. “We can spare 200. That should be more than enough.” Simon wasn’t one to offer his men up willingly. Many were young and still training, hardly even out of boyhood. Sending them off would be a risk.

Your father sits back in his chair, a distinct look of surprise etched into his face at the offer. “200? You are sure there are enough?”

Simon nods quickly, “without a doubt, Your Grace. I will send our best. There will be retribution.”

“Good,” your father smiles, lips curling at the corners. “I want this problem ended.”

HOW DO YOU OUTSMART MEN WHO HAVE NO SET ROUTINE?

Instinctively, they already seemed well accustomed to the vulnerability of manipulation. They functioned true to their own roles yet still had a pattern you could not quite identify. You wondered if it had always been like this, and it just seemed normal. Or had they specifically decided to change trajectory because of your flight from the nest?

Your life had unraveled, busted at the seams of what you once thought was safety. Were you safe? Had you ever been? Or had your men been playing with their dinner, feasting off of what you provided before ultimately you'd be another casualty? It wasn't fair that they did this to you. This confusion in your bones was aching, making your poor head hurt.

The bile hadn't left your throat.

And the worst part was that you weren't entirely sure you wanted to fly the coop.

You loved your life with them. Had. Or you still did. There went your scattered thoughts. Both sides were tugging at your useless body, making you humiliated to even entertain the thought of staying. Why would you? You were a ticket to their cruelty. Their hungry malice.

You were going to die prematurely due to the stress they had caused you.

It was dark. Your lovers had left you to stew. To linger in your doubt. You had so much time to process, to make sense of what wasn't supposed to be understood, and yet you made no progress at all.

Torn.

All you had to do was put one foot in front of the other. If you couldn’t speak the truth of your lovers' lack of humanity, perhaps you could write it. You would surely be killed for it, but it would hit the shelves before they could do anything. Before they knew…

So why did you feel like you weren't supposed to?

Had the manipulation rooted so deeply that you could no longer rationalize with yourself? Maybe it was the unknown of what waited for you if you became the messenger. But why did you care so much if you lived? People had already died. You knew the truth. You had a duty to avenge them. Right?

You tossed in the bed. The blankets were as they had always been. Soft. Fluffy. Full of warmth. You had your own space, and yet you usually ended up with one of the guys by the time sleep weighed your eyelids down. There was a security there.

They banked on your pliant body.

The door creaked, wrestling you out of your mind. You turned your head to the blackened doorway, breath catching in your throat as if claws were going to sink into your feet and drag you free of your cocoon. You barely moved as you listened to the footsteps as they approached your bedside.

"Doe?"

Johnny's voice sounded much louder in the stillness of your quiet fear. You blinked, unsure of what to say. Tell him to fuck off surely would've been an appropriate response. Staying silent? Less effective, but still valid.

Words always got you in trouble.

Johnny answered for your lack. He peeled back the blankets and found the warmth of your body. He shuffled into your space like every other night. Nothing changed for him, and yet your world was imploding as his hands cupped around your belly. He let out a pleased little sigh as he settled.

"Ye feelin' better?" He asked, stroking over your stomach like the sickness in your body was merely a viral infection and not a conflict of your very heart.

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and wished for his touch to be gone. It just made your deterioration worse because any sliver of contact made your heart yearn for more. You wanted it to be easy to shatter any good light you had perceived them in.

"Cap feels bad fer what he did," Johnny continued. "Kyle said he took care of ye, though."

The bath you took with Kyle still sweetened your skin with whatever scent the bath bomb had been. You had taken that bath and skipped dinner, acting like you locked yourself in purgatory when really you knew you were still under their bend. The lock turning outside your door showed as much.

How long had they been planning on imprisoning you behind the walls where you used to bloom?

There were things you never thought of but were revealed to you at slow, agonizing speed. Taunting. Driving the hammer further down on your heart. The queasiness in your stomach never left. It became an uninvited guest prowling in your guts.

"Please dinnae be mad at us," he whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "We want the best fer ye."

A warm hand cupped your face and turned your head. You could barely see him, but you felt his breath as he analyzed the situation. You used to crave the way his eyes alone would pry you apart because it made you feel seen. Like you finally found someone who completed you. They all had their strengths of making you feel desired and understood.

Now the analyzing just put you on edge.

Johnny hummed as he placed a quick, almost chaste kiss to your lips. But you knew better. He was a dog. A man always hiding his true intentions for just a moment before he got impatient. He could never sit still for long.

His lips sought yours again, this time more demanding. More taking. He rolled your body until it was beneath him, his legs bracketing you. His whole brawny form enveloped you, a powerhouse of desperation and malice. You sunk beneath the waves for him, instinct coiling tight in your belly as your hands rose and traced the lean muscle of his stomach.

God, what were you?

Johnny smiled against your lips, "There ye go, doe. Ah'm right here fer ya."

You let his body drape over yours, molding into the bed like some paperweight. Your brain was buzzing, but your body was one foot in the complete direction of damnation. You were accustomed to the smell of him, the way he pried into your rib cage like it was his own. You didn't want to let that go, but deep down, you knew you might have to. You could not call yourself a good person if you let the victims evaporate in their premature tombs.

Johnny's kiss was insistent, pressure against your lips in a way of claiming. He sighed into the kiss, sloppy and hungry for your submission. For your acceptance of what was and would be. You could taste metallic seeping into your mouth, and you faltered slightly. He pressed his hips into yours, rolling softly just to hear the slight catch in your breath. You just let him. Selfishly, you wanted one moment of not thinking about reality before you dove headfirst into the rocky bank.

Johnny's fingers trailed down your torso, seeking and admiring as they dipped below the waistband of your pants. Just as he delved into the heat between your legs, clarity slammed into you. What the fuck were you doing? You made a noise of protest, pushing at his shoulders. You ignored the hiss of pain he made when you pressed too hard on his right shoulder. You could care less.

"No. Stop," You demanded. Your breath was heavy, and you could feel the warmth of his against your face. "You don't get to do that. Not like nothing is wrong."

Johnny was silent for a moment. You couldn't completely see him in the darkness of the room. You couldn't see what look he held or what he was scheming. You knew he would try. Johnny was stubborn. And he would be loyal to John first before he would ever try to sympathize with you.

You squirmed from underneath him, reaching for the beside lamp. You'd have more control in the light. The knob was turned, and suddenly, all the details you were deprived of came into the forefront.

Johnny was still hunched in the same position, head tilting in your direction to look at you. He was already shirtless, bruising along his shoulder where it looked like he was roughly grabbed. It matched a new, deep bruising along the right side of his torso—you noticed a wince when he moved, suddenly favoring the other side. There was a cut on his lip as well, explaining the metallic you had tasted before.

"Yer leavin' me, doe?" He asked pitifully.

"All of you," you corrected, trying to keep your footing. As long as you kept your head, they couldn't hurt you anymore. Right? "What you do… it's wrong, Johnny. You…"

Johnny's hand enclosed around your ankle, blue eyes boring into yours. You kept his gaze for a moment before your jaw tightened, and you broke it. You despised the way he did that, like it was your fault you found their extracurricular activities distasteful. Like you were the one who wasn't supposed to have morals.

"Ye dinnae understand," he said firmly. "That's all it is."

A scoff left your lips, "Right. Because I'm supposed to understand murder."

Johnny's face twisted. You tensed like you were waiting for a blow. You didn't know who you were facing in situations like these. Because clearly, all your assumptions had been misguided by pretty little lies the whole time. It made you sick, your stomach rolling as you thought about it.

"Ye willnae be safe out there," Johnny insisted. "Not alone."

Your head was spinning. Before you realized you were doing it, your foot planted itself against his chest and pushed. He moved, didn't say anything as you tried to create distance. You needed more time to think, and he was not helping. It was making you uneasy.

"Get out!" you snapped. "Get out!"

"Doe…" he tried to reach for you again but you picked up the water glass Kyle had left earlier, and held it up. "Feck. Jesus. Ah'm goin'!"

You didn't feel any less weighed down when the door closed behind him. And you listened to the lock click from the outside with your heart dropping into your stomach. You ended up chucking the cup anyway, listening to it shatter against the far wall in frustration. You couldn't think properly while being trapped right in the hornet's nest. You needed to get out, but you didn't know how.

You curled up into the bed again, body active and alert as you stared at the far wall. You analyzed the window, wondering how easy it would be to drop two stories onto the ground. You couldn't do it unless you were adequately prepared. You needed to think about that, something that would have to wait until tomorrow.

A tomorrow that would come slowly.

But no one else bothered you after your moment with Johnny. At least sparing you some silence.

♡◇♡

Simon nudged you awake the next morning, no pleasantries offered for your weary soul. You blinked open your eyes, head pounding from the restless sleep and the lack of food. You lifted your head, watchful and suspicious. Simon was one of the hardest to read. Or maybe the easiest. Because you at least knew he was far harder to please. Johnny and Kyle hid behind boyish grins and sweetness. It was almost less surprising for Simon or John to betray you than it was Johnny and Kyle.

All at once? Yeah, you didn't quite like the feeling of hurt that bubbled in your body. It made you feel pathetic and childish. Made it harder to grasp stable ground.

"You need to eat," he said simply.

His arm was already tugging you off the bed, giving you no room to protest as he dragged you towards the door. You let him. You knew that no matter what your plan was, you were going to need your mind operating to its full extent. You wouldn't get far with half a mind and stomach empty.

The others were already downstairs when you both entered. There was an open spot between John and Kyle, Simon forced you into the seat without a word. He plopped down right across from you, Johnny slightly tensing as he did so. You narrowed your eyes at the display.

"Sleep well, darling?" John asked. His meaty hand enclosed around your upper thigh, squeezing softly. A gesture that could easily be mistaken for affection, but it just made your stomach burn like you ate something rotten. Every action now was glossed over with new meaning, disrupting the sanctity of your life.

You didn't answer the question, gripping your fork in a tight grip. Play indifferent until you had a full plan.

"You'll learn," John was so sure in his words. Like he knew the script that was always bound to happen. "Eat up. The lads all pitched in. We still want to take care of you, even if you're a little misguided right now."

"Misguided?" You couldn't stop yourself from saying. "Do not talk about me like I am some child throwing a fit. You are all monsters!"

John chuckled dryly. "Never claimed to be good. You only saw what you wanted to. Never questioned what you already knew deep down."

You didn't have a rebuttal to that. Because maybe he was right about that. You never chose to look into their curiosities about your writing. Never questioned why there were rules in place that limited your freedoms to being alone and going to certain areas of the property. You never questioned why they came home with a certain air about them.

You believed the lies because all along maybe you were surviving.

You stabbed your eggs like they were laced with poison. You wished they were. The moment you started to eat, so did the others. You hated the way they orbited around you. It was confusing you, making you feel more guilty about what you were waiting for the right mind to decide. Did you ever have freedom?

John leaned in close to your ear, "If you ever step out of line again, I'm cuffing you to the bed again. Your choice on how you wish to play out, darlin'."

Your spine stiffened at that threat. He knew you exactly what you were planning. Knew you'd try to find some way to trick them. He had to. He knew games because he was the master at them. Which is why you had to be extra careful about what you did. Or you'd get nowhere at all and your restrictions would be even more brutal.

Then John was smiling disarmingly, squeezing your thigh again and finally biting into his own food.

"You'll see what we're doing for you. All in due time."

TAGLIST

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Volunteer might not have been the right word. Pounced was closer.

Soap had actually shouted “UNCLE DUTY!” before you’d even finished the sentence, nearly dropping his pint in the process. Gaz leaned back in his chair with a grin and promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll be the responsible one.” And Ghost, without looking up from cleaning his weapon, muttered, “Keeping them alive is part of my job description anyway.”

So on a frosty Saturday morning, you and John bundled your daughter into her puffy coat and handed her over to three of the most dangerous men in the country, armed with a bag of snacks, a list of emergency contacts, and strict instructions about bedtime.

Soap clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling like he’d just been promoted. “Piece o’ cake. We’ve handled bombs, ambushes, and bureaucrats. How hard can one toddler be?”

You gave him a flat look. “That’s what worries me.”

“Oi!” Soap gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I’m brilliant wi’ kids. She loves me, don’t ya, lass?”

Your daughter giggled, immediately raising her arms to him. “Uncle Johnny!”

Soap scooped her up under one arm like she weighed nothing, spinning her around until her curls went flying. She squealed with delight, tiny boots kicking against his chest.

“See? Natural,” Soap declared, grinning at John. “She’s safer wi’ me than with Father Christmas himself.”

John raised a brow, unimpressed. “If she comes back wired on sugar and feral, you’ll be explaining it to her mum.”

Gaz, already juggling the juice pouch you’d packed like it was a live grenade, gave a solemn nod. “Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll keep him in line.” He crouched to your daughter’s level and offered her the pouch like a treaty. “We’ve got a deal, right? No chaos, no mutiny?”

She took it gravely, nodded once, then whispered, “But only if you give me two biscuits.”

Soap hooted. “Aye, that’s our girl!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Bribery already? It’s been thirty seconds.”

Ghost, standing a little apart with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, finally spoke up—voice dry as winter air. “I give them an hour before they’re outnumbered.”

Soap shot him a look. “Have some faith, mate.”

“I do.” Ghost tilted his head toward your daughter. “In her.”

That pulled another giggle from her, and she clapped her mittened hands together. “Uncle Ghost is funny.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Gaz muttered, but he was smiling all the same.

John crouched then, his big hands steady as he zipped her coat the rest of the way. He pressed a kiss to her curls, his voice a low rumble. “Be good, peach. I’ll know if you’re not.”

She leaned back in Soap’s hold and grinned up at him, eyes mischievous. “I’ll tell Santa if you’re not.”

Soap nearly dropped her he was laughing so hard. Gaz choked on his own breath, wheezing. Even Ghost let out a sharp huff of amusement, the kind of sound that counted as a belly laugh for him.

John straightened, looking skyward like he was asking for strength. “Bloody brilliant.”

You tried—and failed—not to laugh. “You’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours.”

Soap threw you a mock salute. “Go on then, off with ye. We’ve got this.”

Gaz gave you a thumbs up. “Text if you get worried. Or if Soap breaks something.”

“Oi,” Soap protested, still bouncing your daughter like a sack of potatoes. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Ghost’s low voice cut through the cold air, deadpan as ever. “Everything.”

The city center glowed like something out of a postcard—fairy lights strung across streets, wreaths swaying gently from lampposts, shop windows frosted with painted snowflakes and cardboard reindeer. Carols drifted faintly from a speaker somewhere overhead, tangled with the sound of footsteps on wet pavement.

You and John strolled side by side, gloved hands twined together, the folded shopping list tucked neatly in his coat pocket. Every so often, you tugged it free to tick another item off in careful pen strokes: a dollhouse, a new set of art supplies, stacks of books, the bright red scooter she’d been eyeing for weeks.

John carried the bags without a word, arms laden but steady, the weight never seeming to touch him. Every now and then, though, he’d glance at you from beneath the brim of his cap—eyes warm, beard twitching like he was holding back a smile.

“You’ve gone overboard, love,” he rumbled once, adjusting the handles in his grip.

You shot him a look over your scarf. “She’s only little once.”

“Aye,” he said, soft as snow. And he kept walking, the bags swinging at his side, not a single complaint on his lips.

At one shop window, you paused—gold light spilling over rows of stuffed animals dressed in Santa hats. John stopped too, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. He looked at your reflection in the glass more than the toys, his voice low. “She’s gonna lose her mind when she sees all this under the tree.”

You smiled, tucking the list back into his pocket. “That’s the point.”

He kissed your temple right there on the crowded street, bags and all, and you thought maybe—just maybe—you were the luckiest person in the world.

It happened so quickly you might’ve missed it, if you didn’t know him as well as you did.

As the two of you walked past a small jewelry store, John’s stride faltered. Just a fraction. His eyes flicked toward the window display—rows of velvet cases lined in gold trim, diamonds and bands glinting beneath the soft amber light.

He didn’t linger. Not really. But you caught it anyway—the way his gaze snagged there, how his jaw tightened the second he realized what he was looking at.

When you turned to him, his cheeks were touched with color, subtle under the edge of his beard. He cleared his throat like he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t.

Your heart gave a sudden, traitorous kick.

So you glanced deliberately away, pointing instead at the shop next door, where a cascade of glass baubles dangled from the ceiling—tiny stars painted silver, catching the light. “Those are cute,” you said lightly.

“Mhm,” John muttered, low, rough—except he wasn’t looking at the baubles. His gaze still hovered a beat too long on the velvet trays behind the other pane of glass.

You bit the inside of your cheek, warmth flooding through you.

Neither of you pressed. Neither of you spoke.

But as you walked on, the space between your hands felt warmer. Charged. Humming with something you both knew, even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The café was tucked on the corner of a narrow street, the windows fogged with steam, golden light spilling onto the snow-dusted pavement outside. Inside, it smelled of espresso and cinnamon, the kind of cozy warmth that made you both linger longer than you meant to.

You sat across from John in a corner booth, a mug of hot chocolate between your hands. Whipped cream was already melting into froth, tiny marshmallows bobbing like lifeboats. He’d insisted on ordering you one, muttering something about “tea’s no good after a long day in the cold.”

John had his own mug—black coffee, of course—but it was sitting mostly untouched. His attention was on you. Or rather, on your hand, which he had reached across the table to cover with his own. His palm was broad and warm, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin.

“Good day,” he said simply, his voice low in the bustle of clinking cups and chatter.

You smiled, sipping your hot chocolate. “Think we bought enough to last her until next Christmas.”

His mouth curved, that faint smirk you loved. “Spoil her rotten, you mean.”

“She’s only little once,” you said, mock-defensive.

“Aye,” he agreed after a pause, eyes softening. “She’ll remember this Christmas.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he wasn’t just talking about the scooter or the dolls or the books. Like he was talking about all of it—this life, this home you’d built together, these little moments that stitched into something bigger.

The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but weighted. His thumb was still stroking your knuckles, steady, grounding.

You cleared your throat softly. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just thinkin’,” he said.

“About?”

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his beard brushing against his scarf as he gave you that look—the one that saw too much. “About how bloody lucky I am.”

Your stomach flipped. You ducked your gaze to the swirl of marshmallow in your mug. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

“Feels it, sometimes,” he murmured. His hand tightened just a fraction around yours.

Neither of you mentioned the jewelry shop. Neither of you needed to. The thought of it lingered anyway, quiet and unspoken, humming beneath the warmth of cinnamon and cocoa and his thumb against your skin.

The night air was crisp, the streets strung with lights that winked against the frost. John kept you close the whole way back, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, the shopping bags swinging lazily from his other hand. His warmth bled into you, the steady weight of him grounding you in the quiet bustle of the city winding down.

“She’s going to lose her mind on Christmas morning,” he said, voice low, threaded with a fondness that curled deep in your chest.

You laughed, breath puffing in little clouds. “She’s already suspicious. If Soap has anything to do with it, she’ll end up demanding a rocket launcher instead of a scooter.”

That earned a chuckle, rough and warm. “Aye. She’ll be in one piece when we get home. Can’t say the same for my living room.”

By the time you reached the house, the windows glowed soft against the dark, like the place itself had been waiting for you. Inside, the scene nearly stopped you in your tracks.

Your daughter was curled up fast asleep on the sofa, cheeks flushed from play, Buzz Lightyear clutched tight against her chest. Someone had tucked a blanket over her small frame, and her curls peeked out from beneath the edge.

Around her, the most dangerous men you knew looked anything but. Soap was out cold on the rug, a streak of glitter smeared across his cheek like war paint gone wrong. Gaz had nodded off in the armchair, a Disney storybook still open in his lap, thumb marking the page mid-sentence. And Ghost—mask still in place—sat silent in the corner, his posture deceptively loose, but his eyes lifted as you entered. A single nod. Told you I’d manage.

Your throat tightened. You moved quietly, laying another blanket across your daughter’s small body, brushing a curl back from her forehead. For a long second, you just stood there, heart so full it ached.

Across the room, John was watching you. That look again—steady, certain, as though this right here was all the proof he’d ever need. Like he was already imagining a lifetime of nights just like this.

And you knew, without a word spoken, that so were you.

(Extra) Operation: Babysit the Captain’s Kid

The second the front door shut behind you and John, Soap crouched down at eye level with your daughter, grin wide and dangerous.

“Alright, Little Peach,” he said in a mock-serious tone. “Yer in charge now. What’s the mission?”

She squinted at him, finger on her chin. Then she pointed at the kitchen. “Snacks.”

Soap’s grin widened. “That’s my kinda commander.”

Gaz sighed, already rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s two, mate. Snacks means juice boxes and animal crackers.”

“Snacks!” she repeated, stomping one fuzzy-socked foot.

Ghost, who had been silent up to this point, reached into his cargo pocket and produced—of all things—a sealed packet of biscuits. He set it on the counter. Your daughter blinked at him, then lit up like he’d hung the moon.

“Uncle Ghost is my favorite,” she declared.

Soap clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Peach?”

Gaz smirked. “Can’t argue with biscuits.”

It only went downhill from there.

8:03 PM – She convinced Soap to wear a tiara from her toy box. He didn’t just wear it—he strutted through the living room like it was a crown jewel, blowing kisses to Gaz until Gaz threatened to lock him outside.

8:15 PM – Gaz tried to start a bedtime story. She interrupted every page with questions. (“Why is he in the woods?” “Where’s her mom?” “What’s a porridge?”) By page three, Gaz gave up and said, “You tell me the story.” She did. It involved a dragon, Buzz Lightyear, and Soap tripping over his own sword.

8:40 PM – Ghost thought she was finally winding down. She climbed onto his lap with her coloring book. Ten minutes later, he was still holding her pink crayon while she “directed” him like a foreman. “Stay in the lines, Uncle Ghost!” she ordered. His jaw ticked when Soap whispered, “You’re doin’ brilliant, princess.”

9:10 PM – Soap taught her how to salute. She spent the next fifteen minutes storming the hallway, smacking her hand to her forehead and shouting, “YES SIR!” at every command, no matter how ridiculous. (“Go brush Buzz’s teeth.” “YES SIR!”)

9:30 PM – Juice box exploded. No one’s admitting how. Soap swore Gaz did it. Gaz swore Soap leaned on it. Your daughter just shrugged and said, “Oopsie.” Ghost muttered something about containment protocols while mopping the floor.

9:50 PM – Bedtime attempt number one. Gaz read Goodnight Moon. She laughed so hard at the word “cow” that Soap had to leave the room.

10:05 PM – Soap tried a lullaby in his terrible singing voice. She joined in, louder, making it a duet. Ghost walked out and closed the door behind him.

10:30 PM – Bedtime attempt number two. Gaz finally got her to close her eyes. Soap whispered too loudly, “She’s out!” She popped up like a jack-in-the-box: “NOT OUT!”

11:00 PM – Ghost finally took over. He didn’t say a word. Just tucked Buzz under her arm, adjusted the blanket, and sat in the chair until she drifted off. She muttered, half-asleep: “Uncle Ghost is best.”

Soap whispered, wounded: “I danced with her for twenty minutes straight.”

Gaz patted his shoulder. “Hierarchy’s clear, mate.”

Ghost didn’t gloat. Didn’t move. Just sat there, one big hand resting gently on the back of the chair until she snored softly.

🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪

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“There will be a new member of our task force-for a few months. They’ll be working with us for operation Beta.”

John stood in front of his boys in the debrief room with his arms crossed and eyes sharp, Laswell stood by his side holding a tablet.

Kyle leaned forward, “Who? Does he work on the base?”

“Not to stick ma nose into this but- we don’t really need anyone with us for this. Adding someone else might make it more complicated than it has te be, Cap.” Johnny spoke up, running a hand thru his mohawke.

Price sighed, “You don’t know them, but you may have heard of them, they serve in the SBS- have been for a few years. And this was Laswell’s suggestion, we need an extra pair of capable hands for this op, Johnny.”

“The temporary addition to your team is Y/N ‘Tigress’ L/N. She has been-”

Simon, sitting in silence behind his mask finally spoke up, “Tigress?”

Laswell nods, “Yes. You may have heard of her, has quite the legacy for such a young age- 27. She is more than capable, specialising in close contact force, something you will need during this op.”

Johnny sits up, like an eager dog, “Tigress as in the woman who supposedly beat up a shark? That one?”

“-What?!” Kyle sits up, staring bewilderedly between Laswell and Johnny.

Laswell sighs closing her eyes, “Supposedly yes, but let’s not digress from the main point. She’ll be here for a few months, close quarters, training, eating- everything you guys do, she’ll be there. This won’t be a problem?”

The boys shake their head.

John claps his hands together, “Good. Well, she’ll be here tomorrow. I want you boys on your best behaviour, especially you Johnny.”

Soap grins cheekily, “When am i not, Cap?”

They file out the room, kyle whispering to Johnny,

“Did she really fight a shark?”

“Where d’ya think she got ‘er callsign from?”

They make their way to the cantine, nods of respect greeting them round every corner; Ghost trailing behind like a shadow.

“Yeah but- i mean c’mon. A shark?”

Johnny continues sauntering through the cantine doors, straight towards the half arsed excuses of food.

“Well, she’s in the SBS, ship got a hole in the bottom. She had to swim down there to pull the emergency lever- apparently she can hold her breath for twenty minutes- and then a shark came in and started swimming towards her, ‘er bleeding attracted it. Anyway-“ He begins grabbing the food on his plate, piling mashed potatoes over the sausages, drowning them in gravy, “It swam right towards ‘er, she ripped its gills of, killed it, and cut one of its teeth out before swimming back up.”

Kyle crossed his brows, “like a souvenir?”

“Yeah, or proof she did it.”

Ghost stays silent, like usual, doubting any of this story to be true. He trails behind the two boys, piling his plate more than Johnny as usual.

“Oi, Lt. What d’you think?”

He looks to Johnny, his face immersed in that annoying grin Ghost can’t seem to ever dull, no matter how many times he tries.

“I think it’s a load of bollocks.”

Kyle slaps his shoulder, snickering under his breath as they make their way to their table.

“How ‘bout we make a bet?” Johnny mumbles between mouthfuls of potato’s.

Kyle nods, “Go on then”

“If it’s true, you both owe me drinks- all of ‘em when we go to the pub. If it’s not, i’ll pay for yours. Deal?”

Kyle shakes his hand smirking, “Looks like we’re gonna have a treat, innit Lt?”

“Looks like it Gaz.”

————

"Simon." She whined as I started to kiss down her neck, nipping and sucking on her skin.

My name falling from her mouth always sounds like music to my ears, but with her little whines and gasps, it sounded like heaven.

I grasped her hands in mine, running my hand along the jelly bracelets, wondering which one to snap.

Already wanting to add each colour to my small collection of the ones I have already snapped from her.

"Seriously Si? Go on, pick one." She said as she started to grind down on me, but I needed her to slow down, so I snapped one.

Glittery Pink - willing to "flash" a body part.

"What part?" She asked once she saw the colour.

I have always wanted to see her tits.

"Tits." I simply said, leaning back slightly so she can do what she needs to do to show me them.

I have dreamed of this moment alot more than I care to admit.

"Help me Si." She didn't have to ask me twice.

I slowly pulled down the zipper of her dress.

Kissing the skin I have never kissed before.

Once the top of her dress was down enough, I slid the dress down her shoulders, watching it pool at her waist.

My mouth kissed the skin of her tits that were popping out of her bra, my hand groping the one I was not kissing.

I went back and forth, groaning into her chest as she continued to grind in my lap.

She suddenly reached behind her, and took off her bra.

I have seen alot of tits in my time, but hers, hers I have been waiting for.

I gently wrapped my lips around her nipple, and started to suck.

My hand once again gropping her now, bare chest.

Her hands were in my hair, holding my face against her chest.

"Oh Simon." She sighed, her back arching into me.

I stood up with her in my lap, turning to place her on my bed.

I starred down at her, palming myself through my pants, as I watched her tits bounce slightly.

Just as I was about to crawl on top of her and have her scream my name so loud, that I will get noise complaints.

I heard a knock on my front door.

Then I heard Johnny's big fuckin' mouth.

"Come on Simon. The match is about to start."

I groaned as I placed my head against her naked chest.

The mood killed by a Scottish man who I would 'accidentally' hurt during our next training exercise.

"I'm sorry love. I forgot about the lads coming over to watch some rugby." I grumpily said as I pulled away from her body.

"It's okay Si." It wasn't okay, but it would have to be for now.

I helped to get her back to looking proper. I threw on a t-shirt as I walked toward the front door.

"I'll go out the side door. I called a friend to come and get me." She said.

I must have made a face.

"It is Ginny. She doesn't live far, and I invited her over for movies and food. The guy cancelled on me when I didn't show up."

As I kissed her cheek goodbye, I couldn't help the smirk that came over my face.

I even opened the door, not as grumpy as I could have been.

In came Gaz and Johnny, with pizza and drinks in hand.

As we watched the game, mh mind kept drifting to earlier.

Her in my lap in the car as I fingered her.

Her breasts in my hands.

The noises she made as I sucked on her gorgeous tits.

Shit, I needed more of her.

Glittery Clear (18+) ♥︎ Clear (18+) - coming soon

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