#modern warfare

[planf]

lowkey WHERE is gaz in the modern warfare 4 trailer…i need to know…

[cod-dump]

Price: Anything to say for yourself, Commander?

Graves, captured: If I knew trying to kill all y'all woulda got him in the room, I'd've shot at you first thing.

Nik: Did the lieutenant hit him too hard in the head?

Price: No, I think he's just a fucking idiot.

Graves: Oh, did you call dibs on that one already? S'alright, I can share.

Price:

Nik:

Price: Nik--

Nik: I said nothing!

[dazedconfuzed]

Seeing as the live action Call of Duty movie is set in the Modern Warfare universe that can only mean one thing: ✨ Henry Cavill as Ghost✨

[warsofasoiaf]

Any thoughts on the conditions of the Abe Lincoln?

It's appalling.

A ship at sea requires a lot of supplies and the incredibly poor planning of the Iran war. Actually preparing for a long war would have required months of planning and preparation, and this was something that was not done. The logistics network in place for the region was not geared to support a troop deployment of this size, so it's hardly surprising that people are running out of supplies. Why wouldn't they, when the moron-in-chief says "You're going here, you have three days to prepare."

It's a known fact that morale suffers on long deployments, and the Lincoln has broken the record for a long deployment. The absolute contempt by which the civilian leadership holds the troops coupled with the absolute strategic disaster that Iran has turned into is definitely bad for morale. Trump's comments on the troops would have been a scandal in ages past, but since apparently shouting "fake news" is enough of a defense that you no longer need to defend yourself, we're left with the downstream morale effects on an enlisted population where their commander-in-chief actively despises them and mocks their service while having no strategic ability to effectively prosecute any campaign in which the military may require them to make the ultimate sacrifice.

It would be impeachable conduct, but these days everything Trump does is impeachable. At the end of the day, I'm never going to not believe in civilian oversight of the military, but Trumpty-Dumpty is making a very compelling argument against it.

Thanks for the question, Bruin.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[ajqwrites]

Chapter 131

John | Charlie

Hours later, the storm had finally calm down. 

The wind that had battered the villa all day had gone quiet. A portable heater still humming near the wall, washing the room in soft amber light, and there was thick blankets trapping the warmth around them, including the bedroom. Closest to the heater, Winter had claimed her spot on the rug, sprawled on her side with one paw twitching in sleep, her swollen stomach rising and falling.

Charlie was tucked beneath two blankets and one of his arms, wearing a soft lavender pajama set covered in tiny white stars and little cartoon cats wearing pink bows. The long-sleeve top had ridden slightly over her barely-there bump, and her fuzzy socks—blue with chick faces stitched near the ankles—peeked out from beneath the quilt. Her golden sunny hair had been twisted into a loose braid that kept slipping over her shoulder, strands escaping around her face. All while John was laying beside her in a dark long-sleeve hoodie and grey sweatpants, one knee bent, his broad body pressed close enough that she didn't need the heater anymore.

He was the heater.

His arm stayed heavy around her waist, palm resting over her stomach like he had claimed guard duty over her and the blueberry for the night. Every few minutes, his thumb moved in a slow, absent circle.

Charlie had her paperback propped against his forearm and he glanced down at the cover for the third time.

"Still reading about that sparkling vampire?"

She didn't look away from the page. "Yes, and don't forget Bella."

"Thought the first one was terrible."

That made her gasp before moving her gaze to him. "You think that's bad? Try Breaking Dawn."

"Do they actually do it in that one?" He was only half-joking. 

She nudged her head into his shoulder, making the blanket rustle. "They do and it's faded. Classic tease. We use our imagination."

"Oh?" He slowly smirked. "Tell me something, did you know they did it?"

"Vaguely. I mean, my friends told me straight that they had sex. Well, Bella had sex for the first time with Edward. So, there's a fade to black and then she wakes up with bruises. She's all, 'Oh wow, I'm so fragile'. And he's like, 'My demon lust is too powerful for you, Bella.'" Her arched an eyebrow, her voice tilting up in a wickedly bad imitation. "It's weirdly chaste for a book about immortality and blood orgies and monster babies."

"Monster babies?" John was openly grinning now, his lips pressed dimples at the corners of his beard. "That's what we're calling our pup when they're born?"

"No." She slid her foot in its pink kitten sock across his shin, stroking as if to smooth out the rough bristle of his leg beneath the sweatpants. "We'll hold off until he or she's at least crawling up the walls."

It made him bark a laugh. "Your optimism in the face of the unknown is either inspiring or reckless."

"It's a coping mechanism, that's what Aunt Alice told me." She peered at him over the top of her paperback, her eyes sleepy but sharp. "Admit it, you're excited for our baby to show up. Soon enough, you'll want to take the baby everywhere you go. You'll need to wear a travel chest carrier and the baby be strapped against you.  You're gonna look hot with it."

He pretended to grimace. "My team would never let me live it down."

"You mean your team?"

He nuzzled her hair, letting the vanilla and shampoo smell crowd out the cold draft that still lingered at the seams of the window. "Just don't expect me to wear it public."

That made her snort. "But that's peak dad hotness! Like, if you show up at the car dealership with a swaddled newborn and a baby carrier, they just hand over the keys to a new Prius, no questions asked. It's like a law." She yawned, shoulders shivering beneath the blanket, and the book drooped in her hand.

He'd never admit it out loud, but watching her drift toward sleep now felt like a privilege. Even with her clownish socks, her snark, the flush of pregnancy across her cheeks, she looked every bit the perfect hallucination. The kind of happiness he never let himself anticipate, let alone plan for.

"When's the last time you felt safe?" he said, his voice quietly pitched.

Charlie blinked, thinking, and then, "I don't know. I mean, I used to build pillow forts when the power went out. Alex and I'd put all our battery lanterns and snacks inside. Sometimes we'd stay up until twelve AM counting how many hours had passed since Aunt Alice last yelled at us." She smiled, but her eyes shimmered. "That might be it. I was like ten."

He let the silence hold, then squeezed her gently. "I want you to feel safe." He didn't know why he whispered it. Maybe the dark made it easier to say things that would sound corny by daylight.

Her shoulders curled in, snuggling closer, the book shoved to the pillow edge. "I do, actually. Especially since—" Her hand fished under the blanket and wormed its way to his bare wrist, fingers cold but strong.

He smiled into her scalp, pressing a kiss into the crown of her head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, her voice muffled. "But you gotta admit, if Winter gives birth to a litter of monster puppies before I do, she's totally upstaging me."

He looked over to where the dog lay in a circle of her own heat, tail thumping even in sleep. "I'll give her a week. Tops."

Charlie giggled in return.

"Maybe you should read it to me," he said, dragging his voice into a low, teasing drawl. "Spare me the torture of reading the actual words."

She moved her focus from him and turned the page. "Okay, this one is New Moon. It's important."

His brow furrowed. "What is?"

"Edward leaves Bella."

He gawked at her, feigning apoplectic shock. "He just what, ups and leaves her? For what?"

"He says it's for her own good," Charlie deadpanned. "Except she almost dies, again, because, plot. Honestly, the man's emotional logic is a war crime."

He grunted, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a yawn. "I'd have gone for waterboarding, myself. If I wanted to torture someone."

"Captain Bear," she said, pointing her finger at him, "never underestimate my repression as a weapon of mass destruction."

He looked at her pointed finger like she'd just issued a formal threat assessment. "Repression as a weapon of mass destruction," he repeated slowly. "Christ. Remind me never to let you near Geneva Convention paperwork."

She narrowed her eyes at him in mock offense, trying for intimidating despite the tiny cartoon cats on her pajama top and the chick socks peeking out from the blankets.

"I could be dangerous."

"You look like you'd threaten someone with strongly worded sticky notes."

Her mouth dropped open, almost offended. "Excuse you?"

"I'm serious." He said gently, his tone calm with teasing hint. "You'd write things like, 'Dear Sir, respectfully, your vibes are atrocious.'"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." His beard twitched with another grin. "You're attached to me, darling."

Charlie shoved at his chest with both hands. It barely moved him an inch. "I can be scary."

"Oh, I know." He nodded solemnly. "You become lethal when under-caffeinated."

She smacked his shoulder. Not hard but more like an offended princess than actual violence.

"There it is," he said. "Assaulting a 141 Task Force Captain."

"You deserved it."

"Mhm." His eyes flicked over her dramatic pout. "How terrifying, I'm shaking."

"I could make your life miserable."

"You already steal my pillows."

"That's self-defense because you're a blanket thief!"

"Correction," he rumbled. "I'm thermally efficient."

That earned him another smack, this one against his ribs. Which John finally broke, a low rough laugh escaping him as he caught her wrist beneath the blankets and tugged her closer until she squeaked against his chest. Charlie tried to glare at him, chin tilted up, but the effect was ruined by how relaxed she looked.

Big eyes.

Pink cheeks.

Tiny annoyed frown.

Trying so hard to look tough while bundled up like a children's cartoon. He chuckled like the heater sputtered. "Careful, sweetheart," he said. "That mean face of yours is cute."

Charlie squinted harder at him in retaliation. "Stop laughing at me!"

"Tryin' not to." He kissed the corner of her forehead. "But you look like an angry hamster."

Winter stirred from her mat, blinking fondue-dark eyes at them, then promptly tucked her nose beneath one paw and returned to sleep. His fingers found their slow orbit over the bump again, and the rhythm became a kind of lullaby—not quite for Charlie, who always hovered just north of true rest, but for him, whose mind had been idle since they battened down for the night. When she huffed after he let her continue reading, she stifled a yawn afterwards. 

"Would you leave me if you thought you were putting me in danger?" 

There wasn't accusation in it, only raw inquiry as John closed his eyes.

"If it meant keeping you safe, yes." John answered. "But I wouldn't stay gone. You'd have to tie me down."

She considered that, lips pursed. "What if I turned up with a werewolf best friend?"

His retort came out groggy when he opened his eyes. "I'd eat him for breakfast."

"Jacob could bench-press a Volvo."

"Good thing I drive a Ford."

She dissolved into giggles that quickened and then faded under the slow, connective warmth in the room. "Promise me you won't go. Not unless you tell me where, or you have a good reason to do this."

He stayed quiet before his smile faded. He felt the promissory knot in his gut when she said it. It was simple but a part of him feared what the world might test it with.

"I can't," he said honestly, threading their fingers together.

The smile left her face the same way it had left his. "Why not?"

He tried to laugh, but the sound snagged in his chest. "Because I never know how long I'll have." His answer came out bare, almost clinical—a fact of life, like rainfall or taxes. Except it wasn't that simple, not when her head was on his arm. "What if I promise, and then one day I can't keep it? I don't want to let you down."

The admission landed somewhere between them, neither heavy nor light. She heard it for what it was, not pessimism but realism cradled in care. She put the book down, the page creasing underneath her palm. She allowed the silence to settle again, then reached for his cheek, fingertips sliding across the rough beard there—a gesture that had become shorthand for what words sometimes fumbled.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered, thumb pressing just beneath his eye socket, as if she could smooth the worry out by force of will alone. "Whatever happens, we're in this together. You, me, and our blueberry. And probably at least a dog and puppies." She tried for a smile, and it worked. 

He grinned, the lines beside his eyes crinkling. He caught her hand in his, held it to his mouth, and kissed the thin band of skin at her wrist, like an oath. 

"I'm not afraid for me," he said quietly. "Just you." His thumb brushed her pulse.

She leaned into him then, letting her head come to rest against his collarbone. "I spent most of my life being afraid alone," she murmured. "This is better." She tilted her chin and stole a kiss, soft and short before pulling away.

He stared at her before he leaned close and kissed her again.

She tasted of strawberry chapstick. When she pulled away she pressed her lips to his cheek and tucked herself against him, and he stared at the ceiling with the warmth of her mouth still on his, and left it there.

After a moment he exhaled through his nose. 

The way a man does when he is trying not to be caught at something. He let the grin stay where it was until a high-pitched, strained whine cut through the warmth of the room. her eyes snapped open. She lifted herself from him and saw Winter pushing herself upright near the heater, circling once before letting out a deeper, distressed moan. 

John sat up, and his smile vanished when Winter whined again—then barked once, sharp enough to cut through the warmth of the room. Charlie was out from under the blankets and through the doorway before the echo died. "Winter?"

The husky's breathing had sped up. Fast, panting, her paw scrabbled at the rug before she lay down and whimpered louder as her sides tensed. Her heart lurched. "John—what's happening?"

He was already moving. The mattress thudded as he swung his legs off the bed, years of training overriding exhaustion. His bare feet hit the cold floorboards as Winter gave another strained cry.

"It's time," he answered straight.

"Oh my God, she's having them now?!" Charlie scrambled after him, blanket tangled at her ankles. "She's having the puppies—!"

"I know, sweetheart. Breathe," he said calmly, unzipping the duffel he'd packed hours ago.

"How am I supposed to breathe?!" she panicked.

He shot her a look over his shoulder. "Because if both of my girls panic, I'm fucked."

That shut her up—mostly.

Winter whimpered, shifting restlessly with each contraction.

"Charlie," John said softly. "Stay with her."

She exhaled and nodded.

When he crouched by the emergency supplies, pulling out towels, gloves, puppy pads, the flashlight—every movement precise despite the stiffness in his joints. Thank God he'd over prepared. When he spread fresh pads near the heater, then knelt beside Winter. "Easy, girl."

Winter pressed her nose to his arm.

Charlie sank beside them, braid slipping forward. "What do we do?"

"We help her through it," John replied.

It shouldn't have been thrilling—watching a battle-hardened SAS captain set up a canine birthing station mid–snowstorm in grey sweatpants—but there it was.

Winter's cry sharpened as he placed one hand along her flank, the other checking beneath her. "First pup's coming."

Charlie clapped her hands to her mouth. "Already?!"

"Aye."

"Oh my God."

"Keep talking to her."

"What do I even say?!"

"Anything." He said cooly while doing his part.

It made her frown, to herself, since she wondered how on earth was he calm in this situation like this? Charlie immediately grabbed Winter's face gently between her palms. "Okay. Okay, sweet girl, you're doing amazing. You're so brave. You're literally better at labor than I would be right now."

John snorted softly while Winter whined louder. It made her chest ached with each whimper the poor husky had to endure. He stayed beside the dog, one broad hand rubbing firmly along Winter's side while he monitored everything with concentration. His calm spread through the room like heat from the portable heater.

"You're alright," he murmured to the husky. "Just keep pushin', lass."

The praise in his gravel-but calm cockney accent made her ovaries malfunction a little. She'd always known he could lead. She just hadn't expected it to look like this: grey sweatpants, bare feet, two hands on a laboring husky at two in the morning. Still the most capable person in the room. It would turn her on immediately because of his leadership and how well he can handle anything. 

A few minutes passed and Charlie gasped after Winter let out another whine and the first puppy arrived moments later in a blur of emotion and wet fur. For one suspended second, nobody moved. Then the tiny puppy squeaked.

Charlie burst into tears immediately.

"Oh my gosh, it's so little..."

John laughed under his breath, relief softening his entire face while Winter immediately turned to clean her puppy.

"There we go," he murmured warmly.

Charlie pressed the back of her wrist hard against her eyes.

"I can't believe this," she said, her voice breaking a little. "She did it..."

Winter barked weakly at them both after the husky cut her off. It meant there was another contraction and John immediately refocused. "One down."

"There's more?!" Charlie stared at him in horror.

He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. 

"She's a husky, love. Not a vending machine."

The second puppy came easier.

By then Charlie had given up on dignity entirely—cross-legged on the floor in cartoon socks, crying at every tiny squeak. John wordlessly held out a clean towel.

"Help dry him off," he said, and placed the second puppy into her hands.

She took it carefully and whispered, "Hi, baby, you're so ugly but so cute!"

John barked out a laugh. "He's five seconds old."

"He or she looks like a wet potato."

Winter shot her a look.

"Sorry," Charlie whispered quickly to the dog. "He's a beautiful potato."

"You don't know if it's a she or he, love."

Charlie looked down at the damp squirming puppy in her towel cocoon, then back up at him with watery eyes and utter seriousness. "Okay, well excuse me, Captain National Geographic."

His mouth twitched instantly when she pointed accusingly at the puppy. "That thing came out looking like uncooked chicken. I'm doing my best under pressure!"

That finally cracked him. A slow smirk dragged across his face while he shook his head once, looking down to hide the laugh threatening behind his beard.

"Uncooked chicken," he repeated under his breath.

"You know I'm right."

"M'sure the pup appreciates that description."

Charlie sniffled dramatically, still rubbing the puppy dry with tenderness. "I'm being emotionally vulnerable right now and you're bullying me in front of our children."

"Our children?"

"Yes." She gestured between Winter, the puppies, herself, and him. "This is a family unit now. You have responsibilities."

John glanced around at the chaotic scene—pregnant wife in cat pajamas, laboring husky, newborn puppies, towels everywhere. His face crossed something helplessly like fond. Then he looked back at her.

"You say that like I didn't already accept my fate hours ago."

Charlie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"A little?" she echoed. "You're one denim apron away from becoming a suburban daddy with a smoker grill and opinions about mulch."

That earned him a full grin.

"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled. "Keep talking, and I'll start looking at lawnmowers online."

When the third puppy finally arrived nearly thirty minutes later.

By then the room looked like a battlefield of towels and blankets and exhausted emotions. Winter collapsed beside her puppies near the heater with a long, tired groan while the three tiny husky pups wriggled close against her belly. Silence settled softly afterward when Charlie sat curled beside John on the rug, wrapped in a blanket now while staring at the tiny little family in complete awe. John leaned back against the couch beside her with a tired exhale, one arm draped behind her shoulders automatically.

"Well," he muttered.

She sniffed in return. "We're paw parents now."

He laughed once, low and quiet, then pressed his face into her hair like he was trying to keep it to himself. Charlie dissolved beside him into exhausted giggles anyway.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 132✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

Chapter 130

John | Charlie

Days passed until sometime after dawn, the bright blue sky had vanished behind a wall of white. 

Snow like feathery or story-book snow, they whirled through the courtyard in frantic spirals, clinging to every gnarled olive branch and curved rooftop tile. Urzikstan was dust that usually settled like a permanent haze, and today it looked as though it had been stolen from a Bavarian postcard, each flake drifting like a tiny spun-glass star.

Charlie heard the first hint of his arrival before the door actually opened. 

Heavy boots thudding up the rough adobe steps and his gravel English accent voice, tangled melody of curses and endearments, hissing so close it steamed the air. A blade of frigid wind charged in first, rattling the doorframe, and then John burst past it. His sand-tan beanie pulled low over his brow, a hint of wisps of his damp chestnut brown hair curling at the nape. 

His beard, kissed by frost, harbored tiny melting flakes that dripped onto his coal-black turtleneck. He wore a charcoal field parka—storm flap and Velcro arm patches lending him an explorer's silhouette—over coyote-brown combat trousers dusted white at the knees. Thick wool socks spooled into well-worn Salomon winter boots, laced tight for every shifting footfall. 

Across one shoulder, he was carrying a canvas duffel bulged with propane canisters, extra fleece throws, and boxed heater elements—hot commodities pinned together with duct tape. He kicked the door shut with a sharp clang. 

"Bloody blizzard out there," he announced. "But the mission was a success."

Before Charlie could even answer, he was moving. He shrugged the duffel off first and set it beside the wall so none of the medical supplies toppled over. Then he crouched immediately beside Winter, both gloved hands framing the husky's face while snow melted slowly from his sleeves onto the floor.

"How's my girl?" he murmured. His fingers slid carefully along Winter's swollen sides, checking her gently out of habit now, eyes narrowing in quiet assessment before nodding once to himself. "Still holdin' on, yeah?"

Winter leaned against him with a low whine, tail thumped once.

"Thought so."

After making sure the dog was settled did he stand again, joints stiff enough that Charlie caught the faint tightening around his eyes when he straightened fully. His knee cracked audibly beneath the combat trousers.

"Need help?" she started softly.

"M'fine," he dismissed instantly. Already hauling the heater toward the center of the room.

She watched him work while snow thawed off his boots in dirty little puddles across the tile. She followed him and perched in the doorway between living room and kitchen. Standing in, draped in her dove-grey cable-knit cardigan, sleeves so long they pooled at her wrists. Beneath, a blush-pink Henley stretched gently over the first small swell of pregnancy, and fleece-lined black leggings vanished into oatmeal-coloured slipper socks. Her golden hair was twisted into a loose bun, stray curls escaping like sunlit ribbons around her face. Her nose shone pink, her brown eyes misty from cold she could still feel seeping indoors. She wrapped her arms around herself. "You look like an Arctic lumberjack." 

"And you look like a marshmallow about to turn into an icicle." John said, grinning before he positioned the portable heater near the interior wall instead of the windows to trap heat better. Then he tested the draft near the shutters with the back of his hand before moving one of the rugs closer to block cold from crawling beneath the doorway. He even crouched to tuck rolled towels along the baseboards where icy air slipped through the old adobe cracks.

Her heart squeezed at the sight of him doing his deed.

When he unscrewed one propane canister, checked the valve twice before connecting the heater with the same concentration he used cleaning rifles. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath damp sleeves.

"You planned all this?" she asked quietly.

John glanced up to her briefly. "Storm came down harder than today's forecast." He clicked the ignition switch. "Good thing I was awake early and figured if roads close completely, you'd need heat longer than the villa generators can manage."

Orange coils slowly glowed alive before the warmth crept outward in gentle waves.

"There we go," he muttered, almost satisfied.

Winter immediately abandoned the cold tiles for the rug nearest the heater with a dramatic groan.

"Traitor," Charlie whispered toward the husky while she saw him smiling back.

Only then did he finally start peeling layers off himself. Gloves first, then the beanie. Damp hair flattened messily against his head while he dragged one hand through it tiredly. When he unzipped the heavy parka, Charlie noticed the stiffness in his shoulders—the careful way he rotated one arm afterward like the cold had crawled into his old injuries. He crossed and draped the heavy parka around her shoulders instead. Heat still clung to the lining beneath the scent of snow, cedar smoke, gun oil, and just him. Charlie curled into those scent.

"You're limping."

He grunted. "Old bones."

She giggled at his response.

He turned back to his work without anymore word, but something in the set of his jaw had shifted—the same way it always did when she caught him off guard, back in London, before either of them had names for what this was. When John moved through the villa after that, he disappeared briefly into the kitchen again before returning with another armful of supplies from the duffel. Charlie watched him unload everything onto the dining table.

One pile for fuel.

One for emergency lighting.

One for Winter.

She watched him organized each item, nudging things into straight lines with his rough fingertips.

"Uhm... John?" Charlie blinked at the growing collection. "Why do we look like we're preparing for the apocalypse?"

"Because anyone naive says that right before the power goes out," he answered dryly.

A snort escaped her. He ignored it fondly and kept going.

Then, he pulled out veterinary supplies came next. Clean towels folded tight enough to pass inspection. Puppy pads vacuum-sealed in plastic. Disposable gloves. Small bottles of formula. A portable heating pad still wrapped in store packaging. He even produced a thick flashlight and set it beside the whelping supplies before testing it twice.

Click.

Off.

Click.

Off.

Satisfied, he placed it within arm's reach of where Winter had settled near the heater.

"You bought all this for her?" Charlie asked softly.

"For you," he corrected absently while kneeling beside the couch. He adjusted the heater another inch toward her side of the room before checking the propane valve again. "Dog goes into labor and power cuts at the same time, I'd rather not improvise."

The answer hit her harder than it should have. Not because of what he said but because of how casually he said it. Like taking care of her and the dog was the most obvious thing in the world (for him). Her throat tightened a little as she watched him sort through everything with that same calm focus he carried into operations. Only this time it wasn't ammunition or classified intel spread across the table. It was puppy formula and towels. Her gaze flickered toward Winter, then back to him. "You know what you're doing with all this?"

"Enough not to panic," John said without looking at her.

"That doesn't answer my question, honey."

That pulled his eyes to her. A tired sort of amusement sat behind them.

"No," he admitted. "Didn't exactly grow up dreamin' of canine midwifery, love."

Charlie smiled despite herself, hugging the warm parka around her arms. "Then how do you know all this stuff?"

He leaned back slightly on one knee beside the table, rubbing absentmindedly at the rough scruff along his jaw before answering.

"Years ago," he started, "when Cam was little... maybe eight or nine... we found a stray outside my flat."

Charlie blinked. "You?"

"Aye, me." He pointed a finger at her before she could laugh. "Mangy little thing followed Cam home from school. Looked half-starved and stubborn enough to bite somebody."

"And you let her keep it?"

"I said no."

"You totally let her keep it."

John grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like didn't stand a bloody chance. Which she giggled in return. He shook his head once, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. "Cam wrapped that dog in one of my hoodies before I could argue. Sat on the kitchen floor cryin', tellin' me we couldn't leave her outside."

"Oh my gosh."

"Mhm." He reached for another towel, folding it automatically. "Dog was pregnant too. Didn't know that at first."

Her brows lifted. "Seriously?"

He exhaled through his nose. "Vet told us two days later. Cam thought we were about to become professional dog breeders."

That earned another laugh from her and asked, "What happened?"

"We kept her." He said and shrugged one shoulder. "Dog took over the whole place. Shed everywhere. Ate one of my boots."

She grinned in response and added, "she must have liked you."

"Traitorous animal," he corrected. "I hadn't got a clue what labor in dogs looked like."

"So... Diane taught you?"

At the mention of her name, he nodded once.

"Aye." His voice gentled with old trust. "She always had a soft spot for stray dogs. She used to foster dogs now and then." He glanced toward Winter. "She came over one night with boxes of supplies lookin' exactly like this."

Charlie looked around the room again—the towels, heating pads, flashlight, formula. "You copied her setup."

"Mostly." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She showed me how to keep the pups warm, how to watch for complications, when to intervene and when to leave the mother alone." His mouth quirked faintly. "Spent six hours yellin' at me not to hover."

"You? Hover?" she teased dramatically. "I could totally see you doing that since you do care."

John shot her a flat look, which made her smile wider.

"She taught Cam too," he continued on. "Made her help with feedings after the pups were born. Cam took it very well. Started namin' every single one before their eyes were open."

Charlie melted a little at the image. "I can picture that."

"Aye." His expression distant for a moment, like he could see it too. "Dog ended up havin' five pups. Diane fostered them till they were old enough and got every single one adopted."

"And the mom?"

"Diane took her in as her own until few months passed..." His jaw flexed once before he continued. "Dog developed a tumor."

Her expression softened suddenly. "Oh no..."

"Yeah." His voice stayed level, but lower now. "Started slow at first. She got tired easier. Stopped eatin' properly. Diane noticed before any of us did."

Charlie could picture it already—little Cam kneeling beside the dog with worried eyes while Diane was near the sick dog, giving her comfort.

"Cam was attached to her before Diane?"

John gave a quiet huff through his nose, almost humorless. "Attached doesn't cover it. That dog followed Cam everywhere. Slept outside her bedroom door every night. Waited for her by the window after school. Usually Diane and I take place to babysit that dog."

Her chest tightened by his words. "She became family."

"Yes," John continued more quietly. "Diane tried everything. Specialists. Surgery consults. Medication." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Think it hit Diane harder than she let on."

"You rescued her, and she took on her caregiving role," Charlie said.

John nodded once. 

"She always carried strays like they were somehow her responsibility." His mouth twitched faintly without humor. "Used to pretend I wasn't emotional about it either."

Charlie smiled sadly at that. "Sounds familiar."

That earned her a sideways look. "Watch it, sweetheart."

She smiled a little wider, but it faded quickly when he looked back toward Winter.

"The tumor spread fast." His voice roughened slightly around the edges now. "By the time they found it properly... there wasn't much left they could do."

Her arms tightened around his parka and she asked, "What happened after?"

John sighed. "Diane called me while I was overseas. I heard Cam was cryin' hard from the background. Diane could barely speak when she told me what happened."

Something inside Charlie ached hearing that. "But... Cam was little..."

"She was old enough to understand what was happening. Which is worse." John added.

Charlie watched him carefully then because she knew this look on him. The one where memories sat behind his eyes like ghosts he didn't often let people see.

"She passed away when you left?" she guessed gently.

John nodded once. He swallowed once before adding, "Cam held her paw the whole time. Diane had to take the poor pet to the vet and have them make a box of ash. It's still hidden in the closet somewhere in Diane's space."

Charlie pressed her lips together hard. Her heart somehow squeezed to the point that it made her eyes became (almost) teary. "Oh, honey..."

"It's fine, at least, she lived a good life in short span after her pups were adopted," John said solemnly and shrugged. "They're living the best life." Then, he rose with another muted crack of stiff joints before moving toward the windows. He tested each latch manually, broad hands checking for looseness before pulling the curtains tighter against the draft. When one shutter rattled sharply beneath a burst of wind outside, he immediately grabbed a screwdriver from the duffel and disappeared toward the hallway.

Charlie frowned. "What are you doing now?"

"Securing that hinge before the bloody thing tears off."

"You just got home," she protested.

"Mhm."

"That's not an answer."

He glanced back once while tightening the loose shutter with efficient turns of his wrist. "And yet the hinge still needs fixing."

She rolled her eyes in return.

He noticed right away. "Did you roll your eyes at me, Charlotte?"

She froze.

"... no."

He gave her a stern look.

She sighed softly. "Okay, yes. But, you just got home and you're limping because of the weather. Can't you just sit down and relax for a little bit before you do this?"

"Can't," he answered straight. "I could but I choose not too because you three are now my responsibility. So, don't worry." Then, he kept moving and started working on task.

Twenty minutes later, he'd been fighting through a blizzard. Now he was repairing shutters in socks and a black turtleneck while muttering under his breath about poor insulation.

Charlie stayed wrapped in his parka near the heater and watched him move through the villa. Generator battery levels. Candles repositioned away from curtains. Extra blankets stacked near the couch before he finally stopped moving long enough to exhale deeply through his nose.

Only then did the exhaustion start showing properly. His shoulders sagged and his left knee stiffened harder each time he put weight on it. When one hand drifted unconsciously toward the small of his back before he caught himself and dropped it.

Her expression softened immediately. "You're hurting than you're pretending."

John grunted deeply, unconvincing while crouching beside the heater again. The movement made him hiss quietly through his teeth this time.

"Aha," she pointed accusingly. "Caught you."

"Enemy propaganda."

"You literally made a sound."

"Did not."

"You did."

He looked up at her then, wintry blue eyes tired but amused. 

Snowlight filtered pale through the shutters behind him while orange heater glow painted warmth across the hard lines of his face. For one second he looked less like a captain and more like a simple man who was trying hard to make a home feel safe for her.

For her.

The realization made her chest ache. Before she could stop herself, Charlie pushed away from the heater and started toward the kitchen when John was done fixing the shutter.

"I'm making you something hot."

"You're doin' no such thing."

"Yes, I am."

"Charlie Daniels."

She ignored the warning tone entirely and reached for the kettle instead. "You've been out in a blizzard for who knows how long, mister Price. Your knee sounds like Rice Krispies, and your back's clearly killing you."

"M'fine," he grumbled.

"You've said that twice today," she shot back while opening cabinets. "Which means you're not fine."

A rough chuckle slipped out of him despite himself. He leaned one forearm against the edge of the couch for balance before lowering himself down carefully beside Winter. The heater painted orange light across his tired face while he stretched one leg out slightly, unconsciously relieving pressure off the bad knee.

"Come sit down with me," he said, voice lower and quiet. "Five minutes."

Charlie shook her head stubbornly while pulling out soup cans and bread. "Nope."

"Sweetheart."

"You already did enough today."

He watched her for a moment.

The oversized cardigan swallowing her hands. The fuzzy socks sliding across the tile. Her hair barely holding together in that loose bun while she moved around his kitchen like she belonged there.

"It's my job," he said, his tone a matter-of-fact.

Charlie paused mid-reach for the bread and looked back at him. "What is?"

"Providin'. Keepin' you warm. Fed. Comfortable." His gaze flicked toward Winter sprawled beside the heater and back to her. "Keepin' both my girls safe." The sincerity behind his words nearly undid her.

"John..."

"That's how this works, love." He rubbed absently at the ache in his thigh before dropping his hand again.

Her chest tightened because he meant it with every piece of himself.

When she crossed the kitchen into the living room before he could stop her and stood between his knees. Up close he smelled like snow, cold wind, and the faint medicinal scent of winter pain cream beneath his turtleneck.

"You know relationships are supposed to go both ways, right?" she asked softly.

His hands settled automatically on her hips beneath the oversized cardigan, thumbs brushing slow circles there while he looked up at her from the floor.

"I know," he said quietly. "Didn't say they didn't."

"Then stop acting like you have to carry everything alone."

A faint breath escaped him through his nose—half tired amusement, half tired. "Back home," he began, pausing as if searching for the right words, "women were overburdened." 

Hers brows furrowed, her eyes tracing the lines of his face as he leaned against the couch, one arm slung across his bent knee. The heater cast a warm, flickering glow over his features. 

"My mum juggled two roles for years," he continued, his voice calm but softer. "She was both provider and nurturer, working tirelessly to keep us fed and raised." His jaw tightened briefly. "And she did it alone, with no support."

Charlie listened silently.

"She'd come home exhausted. Still had dinners to make. Laundry. Bills. Sick kids. Broken heaters. All while pretendin' she wasn't dead on her feet because there weren't another option."

The words settled heavily between them as he rubbed his thumb absently against her hip. "Then Robby's father came along later. First bloke I saw actually take weight off her shoulders instead of addin' to it. Besides, being a drunken bastard."

Her expression softened immediately.

"She still worked," John clarified. "Still independent. Mum would've bitten someone if they tried tellin' her otherwise." That earned the ghost of a grin from him. "But she had someone beside her instead of another burden hangin' off her neck. I grew up watchin' women get told they had to do everything themselves to prove somethin'. Penny was the opposite." His eyes lifted back to Charlie. "Point is, I've never seen anything good come from a man who lets the woman beside him carry his weight too. Doesn't sit right with me. Never has."

Her throat tightened at his words.

"I don't believe relationships only work one way," he said gently. "I believe men are supposed to provide. Women are supposed to nurture. And both are supposed to stick together. No matter the odds stacked against them."

"And what if the woman wants to help?" she asked softly.

His mouth twitched faintly.

"Then she helps." His fingers squeezed her hip once. "Doesn't mean I stop doin' my part."

"But—"

"You're growin' our baby," His tone stayed gentle but firm now. "You love hard. That's your job."

The way he said it made warmth bloom inside her chest.

"And mine," he continued, "is makin' sure you never feel like you've gotta survive everything alone. Just like my mother had."

Silence settled after that.

Winter sighed dramatically beside the heater, stretching one paw toward them. John glanced down at the dog before looking back up at Charlie again, wintry blue eyes softer than they were awhile ago.

"That doesn't mean I won't let you make soup," he added dryly. "Means I reserve the right to complain or tease you while you do it."

A small laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

"There he is," she whispered.

"Who?"

"My grumpy old man."

"Careful," he warned mildly, tugging her forward until she stumbled between his knees completely. "Keep talkin' sweet and I'll put you to work foldin' blankets."

She gasped in a fake way. "Oh no. Domestic labor."

"Terrifyin', innit?" He played along.

Which, she smiled despite herself. Her fingers slid into his damp hair again before she leaned down and kissed him.

He tasted like cheap coffee, and the heat that sparked as their lips touched seemed to mock the blizzard outside. His jaw tensed, then softened beneath her hand, the day-magnitude of his tension exhaling quietly into the crook of her arm. 

He broke the kiss first, brow pressed to her shoulder, laughing with a rumble that was half disbelief and half relief. She let her hand linger on the back of his neck, tracing the short, damp hairs there. He tasted like cold wind and cheap coffee, and the heat that sparked as their lips touched seemed to mock the blizzard outside. 

His jaw tensed, then softened beneath her hand. The day-magnitude of his tension exhaling quietly into the crook of her arm. He broke the kiss first, brow pressed to her shoulder, laughing with a rumble that was half disbelief and half relief. She let her hand linger on the back of his neck, tracing the short, damp hairs there. 

"Missed you," she said, not meaning only the hours he'd been gone, but the John who could still laugh, the John felt safe showing this world-weary sort of sweetness.

He leaned back, searching her face. "Missed you too." His hand worked its way up beneath her cardigan and lingered, warm and heavy over the small, soft curve of her stomach.

She looked down at their hands, her own fingers pale atop his. "Our child going to be the most overprepared one on earth, isn't she?"

"He or she'll never run out of torch batteries, that's for sure." He grinned—a flash of white teeth and for a moment, she saw the unruly boy he must've been, before the SAS.

A shiver ran through her, some mixture of leftover cold and vulnerability. John noticed, of course; he always did. 

"Get on with it," he said, voice soft but tired with a mischief. "Make me the worst soup I'll have."

Charlie laughed, which made Winter's head jerk up with canine alarm, followed by immediate tail-wagging relief when she realized the threat level was 'zero, as usual, Mum is just being weird.' She planted her hands on her hips in faux outrage.

"That's a risky challenge. I do have the power to under-season your soup."

John made a face as if this was a personal affront to everything British and good. "I'll be judging."

As she shuffled back to the kitchen, pausing to flick the space heater's dial a little higher before pulling open the fridge. Frosty air poured out over her hands, so cold it made her bones ache. The shelves were mostly full (thanks to Alex's help from the food pantry). She scrounged a good carrot and a cluster of withered cilantro and dropped them onto the counter, then grabbed the soup can from the half-unpacked grocery bag.

She moved, familiar aches bloomed from her back shoulders, a dull, hormonal echo-chamber of everything winter and pregnancy could do to a body; She took a breath and straightened her shoulders. In the living room, John was digging through the emergency blanket pile for one that didn't smell like gasoline. Soft voices drifted from his phone speaker—Nikolai, bickering over the best way to fortify an outpost wall, the audio half-toned down as if he'd already forgotten she was listening. Which she zoned out few minutes later since it was related to the shutter post he had fixed.

"Do you want bread, too?" she called.

"Warm it, please," came the swift reply.

She popped the bread into the toaster, set a saucepan to the stovetop, and poured the soup with a glug and a hiss. The homely scent rose in a small, glad cloud. When she sprinkled in pepper, she caught sight of her hands—pale, now, the knuckles swollen and tight from the cold. Not her mother's hands, exactly, but inherited from her father nonetheless. A thousand kitchens and a thousand winters: her family's legacy, now repurposed for a life so different she sometimes startled herself remembering who she used to be.

John limped in after closing the call before the soup could even bubble. Holding two mugs and a blanket he'd managed to wrap like a toga around his enormous frame. With his beard full and wild, he looked like a Norse warlord drafted into domestic captivity. He set the mugs down and reached for the soup ladle from her.

"You look like you're about to pass out," he observed, not unkindly.

She swapped her hair strand away from her face, fighting a yawn. "Bit tired."

"Go sit," he instructed. "I'll finish here."

Charlie hesitated just long enough for him to catch her reluctance. He lifted his chin in gentle challenge, and she smothered a smile and obeyed, perching on the nearest stool. He portioned the soup—precise, somehow, in a way that made her heart twist. Two perfect bowls. Perfect piece of toast, halved, no crusts. He even sprinkled the sad cilantro over the top, like it was a five-star garnish. He handed it to her with care.

They ate in companionable silence.

The wind chewed at the edges of the villa. Somewhere a generator buzzed, laboring against the snow, and every so often the heater clicked and groaned as it kept the cold at bay.

"You know you're not your mum, right?" she said suddenly, surprising herself. "You don't have to overcompensate."

He finished chewing, then wiped a crumb from his beard. "Can't seem to help it." His gaze held hers. "All I know is, if I can make it easier for you, I will. I'd chop firewood bare-knuckled if I had to."

"What if I want to do things for you?"

He smiled sadly, fondly. "You already do."

She took another sip of soup, feeling the warmth spread through her despite the storm outside.

A hush settled after that, not stiff but gentle. Winter shuffled over and pressed her nose against John's thigh, unconcerned with anything except when the next meal might appear. John absently stroked the dog's massive, snowy head while he finished his soup. The heaters kept their circle of weak light and warmth, Charlie found herself wondering at this improbable little world they'd made. Snow choking the roads, gunfire echoing in the mountains, but here in their battered, ancient villa, they were banded around an island of defiant safety. The oldest survival trick in the book: keep each other warm until the sun comes back.

When she finished her soup, she let her eyes drift closed for just a second. When she woke, John was washing the dishes by hand. The sight of him in those huge hands, wrists striped with old scars and new bruises, carefully soaping a bowl like it might break, clawed at her heart in a way she'd never quite be able to name. He turned, caught her watching, and gave her a look of almost-smug.

"Need me to fetch blanket?" he asked, nodding toward the pile in the other room.

Charlie nodded and he padded over to fetch it. She looked down at the dog and Winter stared up at her with bright, unapologetic hunger.

"I know the feeling," she whispered before he handed her the blanket. He planted himself beside her, close enough they shared the warmth, and she leaned against his shoulder.

"I missed this," he said, surprising her with the admission.

"Like this?"

"This—" he gestured, encompassing the couch, the dog, the kitchen, the shivering world outside. "Peace. Quiet. Even when the world's fallin' apart. I never had this."

Charlie laid her hand over his giant hand. 

"Me too," she admitted.

He squeezed her hand gently, thumb sweeping slow arcs across her knuckles. The snow battered the window in furious gusts, but nothing made it past their little barricade, nothing at all. For a while, neither of them spoke.

When Winter finally lumbered up, demanding a bathroom trip, John rose with a groan and she looked up to him.

"I'll go with you," she said softly.

He glanced down, surprised. "No, you stay."

"I'm coming with you," she countered as she stood. "We stick together. Both ways, remember?"

He stared at her before he huffed a hearty chuckle.

"Alright," he said quietly, all pretense shed before he kissed her.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 131✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[ajqwrites]

Chapter 129

Charlie | John

Days flew by until the weekend. Charlie stood at the living room window, mug cupped in both hands, watching nothing in particular. Behind her, she could hear the puff-whuff from Winter since the husky sprawled belly-up on the rug like she'd simply given up on being a dog.

Five days. 

A dumb stretch of time. Nothing compared with deployments that used to swallow months but it felt bigger now, as though pregnancy had turned her sense of distance elastic. Every hour without him snapped back and stung.

She knew John was terrible at texting but good at surprises. Still, a message, a voice note, or anything would be nice. Pressing the rim of the mug to her lower lip, she sighed.

She of all people knew duty didn't punch a timeclock.

He was her comfort.

She caught herself thinking about him in ways that still surprised her—the warmth of his hairy, dark chest, the rough drag of his large hands, the low and dark sounds he made when she got her way with him. Her face heated. She pressed the mug rim to her lips and looked out at nothing. Pregnancy, she decided. Pregnancy was doing this to her. Though she suspected that excuse had a shorter shelf life than she was willing to admit. 

Her thoughts drifted. A baby changed the geometry of everything—including that. She tried to picture it: a real house someday, John out of service, someone trustworthy at the door while they slipped out. Cam, probably. John would find a way to keep her toes curled. A back road somewhere, the truck, trees on both sides. 

She took a slow sip of her tea. 

He had always been good at making ordinary things feel like something you weren't supposed to get away with.

As Winter rolled over with a grunt, paws bicycling in dream-slow motion. Charlie turned around before coming up to her and reached down, scratched the dog's spotted belly, and felt the pups kick against her palm like popcorn. "He'll be home soon," she whispered, unsure which of them the promise was for.

Fatigue tugged at her. 

First-trimester drowsiness that no amount of peppermint tea could fight. Charlie slid to the bed after leaving Winter to sleep, she laid her cheek on the pillow.

"I'll just close my eyes for ten minutes," she murmured before closing her eyes.

***

A desert-cold hush pressed against the villa's adobe walls when her eyes cracked open again.

The living-room lamp had burned itself to a gold ember, and outside the lattice windows only the blue pulse of a perimeter floodlight cut the dark. Her mouth was stale, her neck kinked at an angle that would ache by morning, and the throw blanket had somehow migrated entirely to the floor.

Winter waddled over and quickly jumped up before staring at her and whined before lying down.

First trimester, you sly thief. She thought to herself before yawning.

"Shower," Charlie decided for herself, giving the husky's velvet ear a scratch when she sat up. "Then grilled cheese for both of us—well, kibble for you, cheese for me."

As she left the bed and padded towards the bathroom. She ran her fingers on her hair as she passed. The wall was cool, almost waxy under her fingertips, nothing like the smooth chill of the London flat's marble. Especially the plaster here had a give to it, a warmth, like something shaped by hand rather than poured from a mold. She paused at the cedar door, tracing the painted edge of it, then the band of tiles beside it—cobalt florals and crescents catching the low light. The shower was a cozy alcove, its walls lined with warm, honey-hued stones, gently guiding water towards a gleaming copper drain.

Above, a hammered-copper showerhead hung like an upside-down blossom, while a matching hand-sprayer nestled in an alcove beside hefty bottles of lavender soap. There was no glass door or curtain—only a short, tiled half-wall for privacy and a built-in seat to soothe tired backs.

When Charlie stripped before turning on the shower, she stepped in and shivered until hot water hit across her shoulders and all of her back. Steam ballooned upward, fogging the antique mirror and coaxing the chill from her bones. She tipped her face to the spray, palms drifting to her still-flat belly in a gesture that had become second nature.

Behind her, Winter circled once on the fluffy bathmat and flopped with a sigh, content to guard. Minutes later the husky's hackles rose; a low growl rolled in her chest.

Charlie froze when her ears picked up heavy boots in the hall. She knew the door was locked because of John. She also knew John had an extra key when the door latch clicked. Her heart picked up beats until—

"Easy, it's me."

Her shoulders relaxed when she heard his deep and gravely English accent. Listening to Winter's growl melted into a soft chuff, then tail-thumps. Charlie exhaled, pressing her forehead to the warm tile while relief fluttered in her chest.

"Didn't mean to scare any of you," he said, tone pitched above the hiss of water. Hinges creaked; fabric rustled. She could picture him shedding the sand-grimed combat shirt, the Kevlar, the holster of his Glock 19 he never left on his side until he placed them near the bedside.

"You're back early," Charlie called, sliding the hand-sprayer from its cradle to rinse conditioner from her hair.

"Duty swap with Gaz. Figured I'd trade paperwork for pillow time" His boots thunked aside; zipper rasped. Seconds later cool air parted behind her and warm skin replaced it, his chest pressing gentle heat along her back. John always felt impossibly large against her.

Even under the steady rain of the showerhead, with steam curling around them and water sliding in silver lines over skin, he seemed to consume the entire narrow alcove. Broad shoulders blocked half the spray when he stepped behind her, his body a wall of warmth and solid muscle against her softer frame. Charlie barely reached the middle of his chest; tucked against him like this, she felt small in the safest way possible.

His physique carried the marks of a life built for war. Thick arms roped with old strength wrapped around her waist easily, forearms scarred and tanned from years beneath foreign suns. Water clung to the dense dark hair dusting his chest before trailing lower over hard planes and old healed scars she knew by memory now. His stomach was solid rather than sculpted pretty—strength earned through years of carrying gear, weapons, and men on his back instead of posing in mirrors.

And then there were the tattoos.

They moved with him beneath the water like living things. Black ink curled over one shoulder and down his arm, disappearing beneath streams of water before reappearing across corded muscle. Some pieces were military—unit markings, coordinates, dates etched permanently into skin like ghosts he refused to bury. Others were older, remnants from a younger John before the Army sanded him into a sharp weapon. The ink across his chest stretched when he breathed, dark against wet skin, while another tattoo disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers discarded outside the shower.

She felt every inch of him when he crowded close.

His beard scraped lightly against the side of her neck as he bent down to kiss her neck from behind, rough in contrast to the softness of her skin. One massive hand spread over her stomach, nearly spanning the width of her waist entirely, thumb brushing the faint swell only he seemed capable of noticing already. Against him, her small body was delicate—soft curves beneath his rough hands. Her smaller fingers swallowed his when they laced together.

The difference between them became even more obvious under the spray.

John bowed his head beneath the copper showerhead while water coursed down the heavy line of his shoulders and over tattooed skin. Her wet head fit beneath his chin naturally, tucked into the shelter of his large body while steam wrapped around them both. Her wet golden hair clung damply behind her back and against his chest. His touch remained impossibly careful.

As though he knew exactly how strong he was. 

He knew she was carrying his baby.

She smiled, eyes closing. "You're going to smell like lilac."

"Mm. Worth it." His arms circled her waist, palms splaying over the faint curve.

"How was your day?" she asked softly.

"Busy but dull," he said before he kissed her cheek, beard scratch a comfort she hadn't known she'd missed until it was back. "Miss you."

Her reply was a breathy laugh. "Me too. I slept all day. First-trimester glamour."

He slid one hand up to cup the base of her skull, thumb stroking wet hair from her cheek. "Growin' a human counts as overtime." He angled her face to his; the kiss he laid on her mouth was unhurried, slow as honey. Warm water sheeted down their joined bodies, tiny rivers tracing collarbones, ribs, hips. When they finally parted, foreheads resting together.

"I miss you," she whispered.

"I miss you too." His fingers laced with hers and brought them both to rest over her belly. "Hello there, blueberry. Papa's home."

They took those minutes for themselves, arms locked, water and words and the faint thunder of paws outside the shower the only sounds in the world. Eventually, when the heat of the spray faded and their fingertips began to prune, Charlie shut the water off and reached for a towel. His hair spiked at odd angles, and his eyes heavy with the soft glow she remembered from their London mornings.

He watched her dry herself before drying her hair next. The way his gaze dragged up her small, nakedness made his blood flow below his stomach into his dick. When she passed him a towel, he grabbed it and dried himself before throwing it aside and pulling her towards him as she yelped and giggled.

He kissed her.

She moaned softly before breaking away.

"Grilled cheese?" she offered, cheeks pink while biting her bottom lip, smiling.

"With extra cheese," he bargained and smirked, "and we eat it in bed."

***

The bedroom smelled of butter and cheddar. 

John had stacked the pillows into a back headboard and pulled the blanket up around them, so they sat cross-legged in the center of the mattress, plates balanced on an upturned ammo crate. Winter lay sprawled on the floorboards, belly a proud hill beneath her coat. Every so often she lifted her head to see if more crumbs might rain from heaven; Charlie had pulled on one of his t-shirts since the hem fell to mid-thigh, while John had kept the plaid boxers and nothing else. She bit into her sandwich, mozzarella stretch defying gravity.

"Mmm," she murmured, eyes fluttering closed. "This hits the spot."

"High praise from the future Mrs. Price?" John asked around his own mouthful.

"Uh, yes! Cheese elevates serotonin." She licked a stray drip from her thumb. "Also cures homesickness, fatigue, and husbands who forget to text."

His brows hit parade-rest. "'Husbands,' eh? Promoted me early."

"Consider it a commission," she teased, leaning to swipe the corner of his beard with her thumb. "You were looking a little dairy-decorated."

He caught her wrist before she could retreat and pressed a kiss to her pulse point, tongue flicking just enough to make her breath hitch. "Field hygiene," he murmured, lips traveling to the tender skin inside her wrist. "Gotta keep my little lamb satisfied."

It made her cheeks warmed. 

"Your lamb would like to finish her supper before you start."

He chuckled huskily in return.

"Multitask." He released her long enough to remove her plate, then slid the crate aside and stretched out on his side, propped on an elbow. Free hand traced idle, feather-light patterns up the back of her thigh where the hem of his shirt had ridden high. "Been thinking of you," he said, voice low as dark chocolate.

She chewed her last bit of the cheese sandwich and swallowed. "Do you?"

"Yeah." His grin went pirate-sharp. "I could tell you, or..." He let the words fade, leaning close to her lips before moving his mouth to her ear, hot breath kissing against neck. She shivered and with a hungry, grateful growl, he kissed her. Deeper and longer than the first, as though the hours apart were a wound that only she could close up. His beard softly scratch her skin; his palm covered her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jawline until she nipped his lower lip before pulling away. 

"I miss you too," she confessed quietly.

He kissed her again.

"Captain's orders: we test hypotheses." John teased.

She pushed him back with playful mock. "Eat your dinner."

"Okay." He smiled and moved back before taking an exaggerated bite, crumbs snowing onto her thigh. 

"Messy eater," she scolded, then gasped when his fingers danced up her ribs, tickling mercilessly. "John—!" She squirmed, half laughing, half squealing.

"Gotta work off the calories," he said, sliding on top of her, sandwich abandoned. He pinned her wrists gently to the mattress, boxers brushing her bare legs. "You're cute when you laugh, you know that?"

Charlie, breathless, still smiling. "And you're impossible when you're cocky."

"Am I?" He dipped his head before moving to her jawline, his beard tickling against it as he licked it quick. It made her giggle as she sighed. "Reckon I can fix that." He said huskily and she shivered, toes curling against his calves. 

"Yeah," she whispered, but her hips already lifted to meet him.

When he released her wrists so his palms could explore her body. One hand cradling her cheek while the other slipping under borrowed cotton to stroke the gentle rise of her belly. She giggled.

"Blueberry's listening," she said.

"The kid's first lesson—Daddy loves Mum very much." He kissed her—slow, thorough—until cheese and vanilla body mist she had put on earlier were alike and thought dissolved into sensation.

Her hands slid around his back, fingers finding familiar scars. She broke the kiss long enough to murmur against his mouth, "I want you."

"Hmm," he answered, nose skimming hers before his thumb tipped her chin higher. "Tell me what you want, Mrs. Price."

Her breath came ragged inches close against his lips. For once she owned the high ground: his weight was pinned over her, yes, but in his eyes she found the yearning, the uncertainty—like a man unsure whether to breach a door or stand back and wait for the all-clear. She played it slow, running her fingers of his mutton-chops. 

"I...," she trailed off, licking her lips before finding her voice again. "I want to wake up and see your dumb face. Every day. In the morning."

He grunted a laugh, muffled by the kiss he pressed to her thumb. "Can't promise 'dumb face'. It's me, after all."

"No, I'm serious," she said, her fingertips brushing the hard line of his jaw. She could tell he was smiling into her skin. "I wanted to wake up next to you. Hear you snoring like a bear, have our child climb on our bed and try to snuggle between us or scream at us to wake up in Christmas day."

John went still above her, the teasing edge in his eyes softening into something rawer. His thumb stopped its idle stroke against her cheek.

"Yeah?" he said, quieter. "You've thought about that."

"Every night you're gone," she admitted. "I lie there and make up whole years. Birthdays. Ordinary days. You teaching them to shoot a Nerf gun in the garden because you can't help yourself."

He huffed something between a laugh and a breath let out too fast. "Nerf gun's a good starting platform. Builds discipline."

"John.

"I'm listening." He pressed his forehead to hers, and for a moment neither of them moved. They could hear Winter's tail thumping once against the floorboards like a metronome keeping time that neither of them said aloud. "I want that too," he murmured finally. "More than you know. Didn't think I'd get to want it, before you."

Her throat tightened. She reached up, fingers threading into damp hair at his nape. "Well, you've got it now. Whether you're ready or not."

"Oh, I'm ready." His mouth curved again, that pirate-grin returning, though gentler at the edges. "Been ready since we met, if I'm honest. Just took me a while to say it out loud."

"Say it now."

He kissed her instead and when he finally pulled back just enough to speak. "I love you. You and Blueberry both. Whole ridiculous package."

Her eyes stung, and she blinked hard, laughing wetly. "Don't make me cry, I just showered."

"Copper Support Corps'll issue you a refund." He kissed the corner of her eye, catching the single tear that slipped free, then trailed lower, along her jaw, her throat, unhurried in a way that made her breath stutter and her fingers tighten in his hair.

Winter huffed from the floor, resigned, and then leaves the room. As if she'd decided the humans could carry on without an audience. As he kissed her forehead, she smiled back. Her brown eyes hadn't left his wintry eyes. His hand rested low on her belly, thumb tracing slow circles there out of habit now, a silent conversation between him and the child he couldn't yet feel kick.

"Tactical patience," he murmured, the grin still playing on his lips. His thumb traced the ridge beneath her eye, then drifted down the slope of her throat like a scout mapping unfamiliar terrain. 

Then, he leaned down and kissed her.

Below the mattress Winter huffed and curled into a tighter ball—apparently satisfied the pack was safe before drifting back to puppy-dreams; Her breath hitched as his lips crashed against hers. Allowing his tongue to slid into her mouth like he owned it, hot and demanding. She moaned, fingers twisting into his damp hair, yanking just hard enough to make him growl against her lips.

"Love," he rumbled, voice thick with want. His accent dripping like honey laced with whiskey.

She could feel his other large and rough hand move—rough palms skating up her thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just to hear her gasp. Moving up the hem of his stolen shirt higher, exposing the creamy curve of her ass, John didn't hesitate. He palmed her like she was his salvation, fingers kneading, spreading her just enough to tease. His other hand covered her neck gently, not to place pressure but to hold her.

"Charlotte," he murmured, nipping at her lower lip.

She arched against him, making her tits pressed against his chest. Her nipples pebbling under the thin cotton. She could feel him through his boxers—thick and hard—grinding against her underwear like he wanted to fuck her raw right then.

"John—" she whimpered, breaking the kiss to pant against his mouth. His scent—musky and masculine, him—flooded her senses. She humped against him gently, which made him groan before he jerked forward with added pressure. His erection strained against her underwear, leaving her breathless.

"Christ, I need you," he gritted out, one hand fisting in her hair to drag her mouth back to his.

Their tongues tangled, wet and filthy, saliva smearing between them. Charlie rocked her hips against him, shameless in her need. Which, she could feel her own arousal soaking through her panties. When his large free hand slid under her shirt, calloused fingers tracing her belly before cupping her tit. He squeezed, rolling her nipple between his fingers until she cried out, back bowing off the bed. "Ah—!"

"Shhhh," he cooed, thumb flicking over the peak. "Relax, love. I just want to tease and squeeze your tits. I know you're gonna get milk from these, all for my pup. I would like to taste them myself too."

The image sent a bolt of pure lust straight to her core. Charlie whimpered, thighs clamping around his hip. 

"You're crazy," she said, half panting and half conscious.

John chuckled darkly, his hand still kneading her breast, his fingers pinching her nipple just enough to make her gasp. "Crazy for you, wifey," he growled, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that made her pussy clench. "You have no idea what I've been imagining while I was gone. All those fucking nights, lying in my cot, thinking about you. Your tits, your sweet arse, that sweet, tight cunt of yours. I'd jerk off thinking about you, fucking my fist like it's you, imagining how wet you'd be for me."

Charlie moaned, her hips grinding against him instinctively, her panties now soaked through. "John—"

"Yeah, you like that?" he growled, his free hand sliding down her belly, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip before dipping under the waistband of her panties. "You like knowing I've been hard for you. Imagine how I'd spread those legs and fuck you senseless. How I'd make you scream while I pound into you. Me stretching your tight little pussy."

His fingers brushed over her clit, and she gasped. 

"Fuck, you're ready," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

"Honey, please—" she begged, her voice trembling, her hips rocking against his hand.

"Tell me," he demanded, his fingers circling her clit, teasing her mercilessly.

"I—" she gasped, her body trembling under his touch. "I've been thinking about you...coming home...filling me up...like I'm yours."

"That's right," he growled, his fingers slipping lower, dipping into her slick heat. "You're mine, Charlotte. My wife, my woman, carrying my baby. And I'm gonna fuck you tonight."

His fingers thrust into her, curling just so, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. "Ahhh!"

His lips trailing down her neck, his beard scratching her skin. His fingers worked her pussy, thrusting in and out, curling against that sweet spot that made her see stars. His thumb brushed her clit, and she gasped, her thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. She moaned in high-pitch while panting hard. His lips brushing hers while his fingers moving faster now, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. 

"Come for me, love." He purred.

She shattered, her body convulsing as her first pleasure ripped through her. All while her pussy was clenching around his fingers. She cried out, his name spilling from her lips in a desperate moan. He groaned, satisfied. His fingers slowing as she came down from her high. 

"Fuck, you're beautiful when you come," he drawled. He pulled his fingers from her, bringing them to his lips, tasting her arousal. "Mm," he growled, his eyes dark with lust.

Charlie whimpered, her eyes half-lidded as she looked up at him. "John—"

"Yeah, love," he murmured, his hands moving to the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs. "Now it's my turn."

He stripped off his boxers. His cock springing free, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He climbed over her, his body pressing hers into the mattress, his cock grinding against her slick folds.

"Ready for me?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

"Yes," she whispered. Her legs parting for him as her eyes locked on his.

He kissed her, deep and filthy, as he slid into her, filling her completely. She gasped, her nails digging into his back as he buried himself to the hilt. He clenched his jaw and sighed hard, waited a few before he thrust against her a few times.

"Oh, shit~" he moaned before grinding against her again. His thrusts became shallow until he began picking up the pace. Each one dragging a moan from her lips. His cock stroked that sweet spot inside her, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. Breaking the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck all while her hips rock against his. 

Her nails scratching down his back as pleasure built inside her once more. Leaving him to hiss back, his thrusts grew harder, faster.

The room echoed with the sharp rhythm of their bodies meeting, a symphony of bed creaking and ragged breaths. His hands found her hips, holding her steady as he moved, each thrust punctuated by a low grunt or a whispered curse. Her heels dug into his back, spurring him on, in perfect measure between slow and fast. He didn't need words to understand her demand.

"Fuck..." John gritted out, jaw tight, breath ragged against her cheek. "Every. Time. You—" his voice broke, a low moan tearing from his throat "—milk me dry." He groaned as her nails scored his back, leaving fiery trails that fueled his desire. Her breasts heaved with each thrust, the sight of her, shirt rucked up, driving him mad. Pausing, he hauled her up, tearing the shirt off before pinning her back down. He leaned over, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking until she cried out. Lavishing attention on one breast, then the other. Her hands in his hair, guiding him, his tongue circling each peak before gently grazing with his teeth, drawing out another groan of pleasure from her.

He could feel her walls clenching around him, her orgasm building, and he knew he wasn't far behind. But he wasn't ready to finish yet—not inside her, at least. With a guttural grunt, he pulled out, his cock slick with her arousal. He grabbed her hand, guiding it to his aching shaft.

"Stroke me," he commanded, low and rough. "Fast. Make me lose it."

Charlie sat up and obeyed immediately. Her eyes locked onto him as he shifted, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he leaned back against the headboard. She could see the pulse in his neck throbbing, his need raw and exposed. When she moved between his thighs, her small hand reaching out, wrapping around his length. He was hot, hard, and wet in her grasp. Her thumb found the ridge beneath the head, swirling over it with every upward stroke. Allowing his eyes to close tight, letting out a guttural sound echoing from deep within his chest. 

She watched as his head lolled back, a litany of curses spilling from his lips like a dark prayer. His hips lifted slightly, instinctively seeking more of her touch. Charlie leaned to him, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving deep into her mouth. Their breaths mingled, hot and desperate, all while her hand was pumping him furiously. 

He could feel the pressure building.

"Put it in your mouth," he hissed against her lips, breaking the kiss to stare down at her with lust-filled eyes.

She hesitated for only a moment before moving down and wrapping her natural pink lips around the head of his cock. Her tongue flicking over the sensitive slit. When she took him deeper, her hand still working his shaft as she sucked him down until her nose brushed against his pelvis. 

His fingers wound into her hair, gripping at the root as a groan tore out of him. He set the pace with his hips, slow at first, then relentless.

"That's it," he breathed. "Fuck—yes—!"

His raw words brought a flush to her cheeks. 

The sight of her concave cheeks and the slick, liquid sounds escaping her mouth uncaged feral within him. He was close, the intensity in his groin almost unendurable. With one last thrust, he buried himself fully in her mouth, head thrown back, a shout tearing free that dissolved into a low, broken moan. Allowing his hot seed to flow down to her throat.

She took everything he gave her. 

Eyes squeezed shut, a low moan escaping her throat, she held still as he shuddered and finally pulled back, breathless. A beat passed before she looked up at him—lips swollen, eyes soft and glassy, something like satisfaction curving at the corner of her mouth.

"My girl," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Charlie climbed back onto his lap, her arms winding around his neck. She pressed her lips to his, and he could taste the saltiness of himself on her tongue. A sensation that drew a low moan from deep within him. He intensified the kiss, his hands exploring her body. She didn't waste a second. The moment their lips broke apart, she was already straddling him. Her thighs bracketing his hips, her slick heat hovering just above his half-harded dick. His shaft was still glistening from her mouth, twitching against her folds like it was begging to be buried inside her again.

She didn't make him wait.

With a slow, filthy roll of her hips. She sank down onto him, taking every inch until his balls pressed against her ass. A gasp tore from her throat—God, he was so big, stretching her open. She was made for him.

John groaned. His hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, yes—" His voice was wrecked, rough with lust.

She didn't give him time to recover.

Bracing her hands on his chest, she started riding him—hard, fast, desperate. Her tits bounced with every movement, her nipples stiff and aching, her cunt clenching around him. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and the creak of the bed beneath them.

His large hand grip tightened, guiding her movements, forcing her down harder each time she rose. "Come on," he growled, his accent thick with need. "Take what you need!"

She whimpered, her thighs burning since her pussy was throbbing around him. Every drag of his cock hitting against her walls sent sparks shooting up her spine. Making her clit rubbing against him with every bounce. She could feel her third orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, threatening to snap.

"John—ohmygod—I'm—close!"

"Yeah?" His grin was feral. "Come on, love. Squeeze me."

That was all it took.

Her back arched, her mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure detonated inside her. Her cunt clamped down on him, milking his cock like she was trying to wring every last drop from him. Stars burst behind her eyelids. Leaving her body shaking, all while her nails raking down his chest as she rode out the wave.

John wasn't far behind.

With a snarl, he flipped them. Pinning her beneath him, his hips pistoning into her with brutal, unforgiving strokes. His cock hit deep, grinding against that sweet spot inside her that made her see stars. Charlie moaned, her legs locking around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. His thrusts turned erratic, his breath coming in ragged pants. Then, with a guttural groan, he came again. His cock pulsing inside her, flooding her with hot, sticky juices. She could feel every spurt, his hips jerking against hers as he emptied himself into her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with a satisfied sigh, John collapsed on top of her. His weight pressing her into the mattress. His lips found her neck, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to her sweat-slick skin.

"Christ," he exhales against her mouth, forehead dropping to hers. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said breathlessly. Her eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion washed over her.

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✨Chapter 130✨

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