#codholiday2023

[peachesofteal]

Light On - single mom/neighbors fic Simon Riley/female reader 🎄 @glitterypirateduck’s December challenge: O Christmas Tree

"What about this one?"

You're standing next to a giant tree, one that's probably double your height. "It's a little big but-"

"I don't know if that will fit in your flat, sweetheart." You huff, hands on your hips, and Emmaline wiggles where she's snuggled against him, tucked up on his chest inside his arms. You've got her in some sort of snow suit, like a baby marshmallow, capped with a red knit hat that ties under chin to keep the ear flaps down, and even though she clearly hates it, and looks a little ridiculous, he knows the whole thing is keeping her warm in tonight's frigid weather.

"Okay. What about this one?" The one you're pointing to now is smaller, but sparse, a little prickly looking. He shakes his head. "You don't like any of them!" You protest, and Emma grunts, babbling some sort of nonsense.

"'m just doing what the boss here is telling me to do." She looks up at him, eyes bright with a little bit of snot beneath her nose, and he wipes it away with his thumb. "There you go, baby girl. I gotcha."

"She's not the boss." You step close with a shiver, close enough that he can see the fog of your breath, peek of your neck beneath your scarf, and he reaches out to pad his fingertips across your chilled cheek.

"Cold?" You shrug.

"A little." You dip forward to give Emma a quick kiss on the cheek, and at the same time, he ducks down, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. He's never going to get used to this. Never. Even now, in this moment, he can't believe he's walking a tree lot with you, debating which one to choose. Him. Simon Ghost Riley, picking out a Yule tree with you and the baby. His family.

There's a bang in the street. A car backfiring, probably, but it's enough that it startles someone else on the lot, and they shout, the combination like a shot of adrenaline to his heart, focus and intensity taking over, his movements shifting to autopilot. His hand covers Emma's head, curling forward at the same as he tugs you into his body with a firm arm around your back, essentially immobilizing you, keeping you close in case- "Simon." You say his name softly, gently, fingers holding onto his forearm. The touch grounds him, reminds him to breathe, and he relaxes slightly. "It's alright. We're okay, we're at the Christmas tree place. You're okay. You're with us." With you. With you and Emmaline. At home. He closes his eyes, repeating it in his mind, twice, three times, for good measure, before he trusts enough to uncover the baby's head and let go of you completely. You smile when he does, bright, beautiful, sweet, still working you touch against his arm, not stepping away.

"I'm sorry." He tries to explain, but you shake it off.

"Don't be. It's okay." You loop your arm through his, sticking close to his side. "Want to keep looking?" You ask, nonchalant, and he's overcome with emotion so strong it could bring him to his knees.

"Yeah, but I... I want..." he stumbles over it, words failing, and you wait, patiently, turning into him so you can look up at his face.

"What is it?" Holiday lights glow behind you, twinkling colors mixed with frosted whites, strung together across trees and posts and big red and green signs, 'O Christmas Tree' playing over the speakers that line the perimeter. He's never been one for holidays, never really cared about any of it, all the excitement lost on him, most of the celebrated days spent alone. But now... with you, with the baby, he feels the magic. He thinks he can even see it, in you, in Emmaline, and he's filled to the brim with the wonder, the anticipation for it all, to experience it all for the first time like this, with his angels.

"I want to kiss you." He says the same words he gave you a week ago, outside on the balcony, and you give you him the same smile, warm and welcoming, lips curling upwards with happiness.

"Please." You beam, and he obliges, your lips parting for his, getting lost in the taste of your mouth, decadent honey dripping across his tongue. You make him dizzy, make him stupid, make him so weak for you, and all he wants is more. He wants it all, wants everything you'd give him, and he has to hold himself back, cognizant of Emma in his arms, pulling away regretfully after five seconds that could last five hours, or days. Years. You clear your throat. "Well, okay, uh- should we?" You motion to another row of trees, and he nods with a laugh.

"We should."

Later, after the tree has been decorated, dinner has been made and cleaned up, fire started in the fireplace, Emmaline has had her bath, and you've changed into your pajamas, he sits on your couch with you curled into his side, both you and the baby asleep. It's late, and the lights are out, and he thinks he probably should have woken you to get you both up into bed, but he can't bring himself to shatter the moment, the silence, the fire, and the sounds of your breathing, face barely illuminated by the glow of the lights. He stays right there, listening to the crackle of the logs, staring at the tree, watching the two of you breathe, heart so full he thinks it could explode. This is it, he thinks. This is the magic.

[milf-murdock]

Frozen (Ghost x Soap x 141!Reader)

Soap x Ghost x 141!Reader (Established Relationship/Established Throuple)

Summary: You, Ghost, and Soap were heading back to the safe house from a quick reconnaissance mission when you’re caught by a surprise ambush. Soap’s quick maneuvering saved your lives, but when you end up overboard in freezing waters, a whole new challenge presents itself.  Warnings: medical inaccuracies, I am clearly not a doctor and also not trained on what to do if you seriously are at risk of hypothermia. But getting naked and using the body heat of your two bulky lovers seems like a good place to start :-)  A/N: This was inspired by this scene in one of my favorite winter movies The Proposal!! I don’t know that it’s a “Christmas” movie, per say, but it’s snowy and wintery and I watch it every Christmas and @glitterypirateduck said that counts!!! So I’m also submitting this for their Holiday Challenge :) 

The speedboat was flying across the dark blue waters, bitter winds nipping at any exposed area of skin. A thick fog made navigating difficult, but you were in good hands as Soap lead the speedy vessel back towards the safe house. Perched on the cushion lining the back of the boat, you scooted closer to Ghost, both to escape the windchill and to hear him better, as you recapped what you’d seen. 

“We’ll need to put through a call to Price as soon as we’re back at the safe house,” Ghost stated, and you nodded in response, already mentally planning ahead to your next steps. With this intel, they’ll probably have you three hit the ground running by sunrise. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shot ringing through the air. 

“They fucking tailed us,” Soap shouted from the wheel as he turned the boat in a different direction in an attempt to shake the pursuers. “Couldn’t see ‘em through the fog.” 

Ghost operated on instinct—up on his feet, weapon in hand before the final ring of the shot even cleared out. He had three shots fired by the time you were on your feet as well, trying your best to stabilize as Soap gunned the engine, sending you flying even faster across the waves. 

The pursuers were finally close enough to clear the fog, their boat’s impressive speed rivaling your own’s. Unfortunately for them, this made the assailants easy targets. Their element of surprise was no match for your and Ghost’s impressive sharpshooting skills. You watched with satisfaction through your gun’s scope as the last man fell. Their boat came to a stop in the middle of the water, quickly disappearing as you sped away. 

Except they weren’t all dead. No, one final shot rang out, a literal shot in the dark from a dying man out into the open air. 

Catching everyone on board by surprise, Soap jerked the wheel to the right to swerve out of any potential line of fire. Still standing, untethered, and unprepared for any abrupt action, Ghost stumbled back before catching his footing, all 250+ pounds of pure muscle knocking into you. Between the momentum of the boat’s turn and the pure mass of Ghost’s body, you didn’t stand a chance. Before a single shout could leave your lips, you were toppling overboard and into the frozen ice water.

Ghost turned to help stabilize you, panicking at the empty space beside him before recognizing your frantic form in the water as the boat sped away. “Fuck!” Ghost shouted. “Turn it around, Johnny, we’ve gotta go back! She fell over!” 

Soap glanced back to see you floating in the water and his heart nearly stopped. 

“Steaming Jesus,” her muttered to himself, quickly yanking the steering wheel to the left, turning the boat around.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Simon cursed as Soap navigated the boat closer to your form. These waters were freezing and with the current windchill, they’d be racing thee clock to get you back to thee safe house. The boat slowed as they approached your figure, and Ghost leaned over the edge of the speeder, both arms extended to grab you. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered, both hands clasping around your extended wrists to help pull you up. The boat came to a stop and Soap scrambled over to help bring you aboard. 

You were shaking. All the many layers you were bundled up in soaked completely through. Both men helped drag your shaking form onto the bench, immediately discarding their own jackets to help cover you. 

“What the fuck happened?” Soap demanded roughly, an edge of panic in his voice that he just couldn’t control. 

“She fell out,” Ghost’s gruff response could barely be heard over the chattering of your teeth. 

“D-d-didn’t fall,” you gasped out. “P-p-pushed me.”

“You fucking pushed her?” Soap looked up at Ghost, equal parts rage and concern flickering in his blue eyes as he pulled you into his arms, pressing his body heat up against your freezing form. His hands frantically rubbed your arms, trying to generate heat with the friction. He glared up at Ghost, who was breaking into a medpack to pull out the emergency thermal blanket.

“I didn’t mean to, obviously,” Ghost grumbled as he tugged you back from Johnny’s form just enough to wrap you in the silver material. You shaking was uncontrollable at this point, the cold wind whipping at your already freezing extremities. “Fuck,” he uttered, taking in the blue hue forming just at the edge of your lips. “We gotta get her back to the safe house, now.” His tone was authoritative. This was quickly turning into a medical emergency. 

Soap nodded, heading back to the dashboard and getting the boat back in motion. Ghost took your shaking form into his arms. “I gotcha, darling, no worries. We’re gonna get you back safe and warm in no time.” He looked down to see you pressed against his chest, eyes fluttering closed. “Nuh uh, none of that, love,” he gently shook your shoulder. “Look at me, gotta stay awake.” Your eyes blinked rapidly as you tried to keep yourself awake. Ghost moved to brush a stray hair out of your face when he noticed it was nearly frozen solid. This is bad. Without a second thought, he had the balaclava up and over his face and in his hand. “Here love, need to put this on.” The exhaustion that gripped your body was too much; you couldn’t even put up a fight as Simon slid the warm material over your head, the soft fabric warming your frozen face. 

Ghost held your body close as Soap drove the boat to safety, pulling up to the dock just outside the safe house. It was a small, inconspicuous cabin in a fairly remote area. Soap gave the area a quick once-over, making sure the coast was clear, as Simon lifted you into his arms—no easy feat as the many layers you had on were completely soaked through.

“All clear,” Soap claimed, one eyebrow raised at Simon’s bare face. It wasn’t anything you two hadn’t seen before; after all, once the three of you were back home in your shared flat, the mask seldom made its appearance until you three were back on a mission. But to see it removed here was just a little surprising. 

“She needed it,” Simon stated matter of factly, brushing past Johnny and quickly heading into the warmth of the cabin. Johnny followed quickly behind, turning the triple locks on the door as soon as the three of you were inside. 

“We’ve gotta get her out of those clothes,” Johnny commented, side-stepping Simon as he headed straight towards the fireplace to get the fire going. 

Simon laid your form on the couch. At some point between the boat and the couch, your eyes had fallen shut, your breathing shallow. You were so still in his arms it set his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Fuck, darling” Simon muttered, unzipping your outer layers and pulling them off of you, his hands shaking slightly in desperation as he stripped the frozen fabrics from your body. He pulled your boots off, sliding the outer layer of pants. Hey stripped you down to your base layer, a tight pair of thermal pants and long sleeves. His mask still rested on your face. 

Having gotten the fire started, Johnny was pacing the floor by the couch, watching as Simon discarded layer by layer. 

“She’s not waking up,” Johnny’s voice was tinged with fear. “Simon, why isn’t she waking up?” 

Simon’s hands held your own, trying to warm the frozen digits. He looked up at Johnny. “Oi, look at me, love,” his own gentle tone a stark contrast to Johnny’s panicked one. Soap couldn’t take his eyes off of you. “Look. At. Me. Johnny.” Simon’s staccato words had the full commanding voice of a lieutenant. On instinct, Johnny’s eyes darted to Simon’s, unable to control his response to that tone. Simon saw the light sheen of tears in Johnny’s eyes—he always was the more sensitive of the two—and his heart squeezed with guilt. This was his fault. But he was going to fix it. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Simon’s voice left no room for arguing, no room for doubt. Johnny could only nod in response. 

“Tell me what to do.” Johnny raised one hand to trail across  your cheek, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the mask. 

“We need to get her to the bed,” Simon ordered, his years of training kicking in. He knew exactly the best way to warm you up. He nestled one arm under your shoulders and the other beneath your knees as he lifted you off the sofa, striding to the one bedroom in the tiny cabin. Johnny followed close behind, anxiously watching your unconscious form as Simon held you in his arms. 

“Take off your clothes,” Simon ordered as he set you on the bed, pulling off the last of your layers until you were completely bare. He gingerly removed the mask, setting it flat on the bedside table for it to dry out.

“Si, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Johnny asked, his brows furrowing in concern was he unbuttoned his pants. 

“Trust me, love,” Simon shot Johnny a look meant to soothe as he pulled his own shirt over his head. “The best way to warm her up is gonna be with our own body heat. Anything warmer and we risk sending her into shock.”

Once both men were fully stripped down, they carefully climbed into bed. Johnny was in his typical spot on the right side of the bed, and he tucked himself around your body. “Steamin’ blood Jesus,” he whispered. “She’s cold as fuckin ice.” He held you closer, pressing every available inch of his body against you, even going as far as pressing the underside of his feet up against yours. Once Johnny had you safe in his arms, Simon joined in, pressing up against your backside. He swore to himself as he powered through the initial cold shock and made sure to encompass as much of your bare skin under his warm body. 

They stayed like that are a long while, strong hands grazing up and down your body in an attempt to coax warmth back into you. They pressed kisses all along your bare skin, muttering sweet nothings to bring you back to reality. Simon and Johnny continued to exchange looks of concern as the next few hours passed at a glacial pace. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you came to, eyes blinking open as you groaned. 

Johnny was the first to jump in, relief flooding through him as you stirred. “Hey Bonnie, take it easy, take it easy, eh?” His strong hand was gentle against your bare chest, gently pressing you down as you tried to sit yourself up. 

“Fuck,” you muttered. “I feel like shit.” You screwed your eyes shut, letting the two men fuss over you. 

“I know, love,” this time it was Simon’s deep voice that had you opening your eyes once more. “I am so bloody sorry. S’all my fault.” The guilt in his voice was palpable and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of this instance for a while to come. 

“It was an accident,” you soothed, turning over to face him. You winced—your body ached and your movements were stiff. 

“S’okay, Simon,” you cooed, striving to ensure he could see the forgiveness in your eyes. “M’fine.”

“We’re just so glad you’re okay, lass,” Johnny pressed himself up against your back, trailing kisses down your neck and shoulder. “Gave us quite the scare.”

“‘Course I’m okay,” your words slurred a bit as your lids grew heavy, finding it harder and harder to keep sleep at bay. “I have you two.” 

“We will always take care of you, love,” Simon’s voice was firm, more of a promise to himself than anything. 

“Now rest,” Johnny ordered, pressing a final kiss to the back of your head. “Ye need it.” 

You were asleep before he even finished the words. 

The relief in the air was nearly palpable as both men finally exhaled the collective breath they’d been holding, knowing that you were going to be okay. 

“I’m so sorry, love,” Simon repeated, this time looking at Johnny. 

Johnny reached across your sleeping form to caress Simon’s cheek. “S’alright, dear. We managed.” He smiled down at you. “She’s alright.” 

Simon leaned over to press a kiss against Johnny’s waiting lips. 

“ I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love ye too.”

Masterlist ✧ Ask Box

[cumikering]

Ex bf John Price x reader

1.6k | angst Price was back in Liverpool (part 2)

“John?”

That voice was definite. It couldn't be, but there you stood when he turned.

A soft smile spread across your lips. “I recognised the beanie.”

It was your gift from all those years ago, dark grey with his initials, JMFP, embroidered on the bottom.

He chuckled, the kind that made his eyes crinkle.

“How long has it been? 5 years?”

He shifted his weight. “Thereabouts.” Has it really been that long?

The last time you saw each other was when he dropped you off the train station, three years’ worth of your relationship dragged behind in your luggage. It was much heavier than it looked.

You stood in front of the train, your back to him, unmoving. His heart had been in his throat since the night before, ever since you started packing, when ‘our apartment’ became simply ‘John’s’. His nails dug into his palms, wishing you’d turn around. There were still a few seconds for you to change your mind.

You boarded - your one-way trip back to Liverpool.

“I didn’t expect you to still have it.”

He was exposed. He wished he didn't wear the beanie, but it was always his favourite.

“You alright?

“Never better.” His cheeks ached, or was it his chest? “You?”

He didn’t need to ask. It was easy to see. Your eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the weather. You looked as good as the day he met you.

In his worn fleece button down, he was self-conscious of how he was still the same at best, but who was he kidding - the years hadn’t been kind to him. Nowadays his scruff was an excuse to not have to shave so often.

You weren’t supposed to meet again, and not there of all places, but it was funny really. It was the same place you first met. The memories flooded in.

It was no secret that people could only pick one: military or family. Well, most of them anyway, some lucky bastards got to have both. John didn’t care about having to choose when he walked down this path in life. He never had plans for relationships, and the disinterest served him well, allowing him to excel over his peers. Until you came along.

Still a lieutenant then, John was back home in Liverpool browsing the beer aisle at the nearest supermarket. Next to him, your first summer after uni, you were in charge of the drinks for your brother’s birthday BBQ. You asked if he could help you with the overwhelming selection. When he carried the purchase back to your car, you invited him to the party instead.

You were inseparable the rest of the summer. Each touch seared his skin and he felt 10 years younger. Despite the circumstances, the both of you were unwilling to leave the fire behind. Between deployments, you always made time to visit each other, connection unwavering.

Having you in front of him was surreal. He stood there with knees that didn’t work like they used to, his head constantly thumping. He’d taken a beating and the years between you stretched further, like you were frozen in time and he was… here. You were unforgettable, but the air around you was foreign. You didn’t look at him like you used to. Maybe that’s what happened if he wasn’t your muse anymore.

You would have followed him to the end of the world. He knew it – you did it. After a year, you dropped all you knew. Your family, life-long friends, the job you were after the whole of uni. You started all over for him.

With you, he was on top of the world, the luckiest man defying the odds. Life fell into a comfortable rhythm. You made do; got yourself a decent job, far from perfect but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

On track to becoming a captain, guilt sat heavy in his chest when he left you for weeks on end, but the kisses grew sweeter the longer he went, and your grateful smile at the door told him it was alright. He could have both you and the SAS.

“I got my dream job a few months ago.”

Of course you did. It’s you.

“I heard you got shot in the leg this year. Hope you’re doing better.”

He grimaced. “Who told you?”

“Your mum. She calls sometimes.”

He let out a small sigh. “She always loved you.”

“The 141 doing alright?”

He hung his head and gave a weak nod. He preferred you to not ask.

Death was the soulmate of war. It was the harsh reality how countless comrades of his fell, some you knew personally - their wives and kids and how the horrors haunted even years after.

Distant worry swirled into a dark cloud. Someone else was in the relationship. The reaper loomed as she went down her roll call and it couldn’t help but look like John was waiting for his turn with a smile, his doom as certain as the fall of the night.

At first, John was optimistic. When the thoughts consumed, he calmed you down with a few days at home, never leaving your side.  Over time, it was evident he couldn’t – you couldn’t. Him working overtime didn’t make you miss him more, coming home after weeks apart was no longer sweet.

Each day ate at you, knowing it could very well be one of his last. This was going nowhere but straight into a singular outcome. With each name scratched out, you were haunted by progressively worse nightmares. It was unhealthy - he could see it on you.

You loved rings. He got you one for each anniversary. When he gave you his family heirloom, thinking the commitment would soothe you, you gave it back to him. No ring could unearth the dread in your chest. Nothing would change how this was going to play out.

The rest of the evening was tense, and when you jerked awake later that night, the lump in your throat only swelled. Your whole body begged you to run. He could taste it in your hasty kisses, your touches fleeting.

The fear in your eyes had morphed into guilt. That’s when he knew it was over.

When John came back from his next mission, you told him you were leaving, tears down your cheeks. He knew it was coming, but it hurt all the same.

How could he hate you, even if you left? Even after you dropped everything to be with him. It was always too good to be true.

Happy endings didn’t belong to him. The fact crawled under his skin in the chill of the night, etched into the pastel dawn sky of empty desserts, howled by the wind. He’d done more than enough terrible things to be denied of the niceties of the world. You were the best thing in his, but it was much too late.

You always said you were both too young, that when you decided to be together, you didn’t fully understand what a relationship with him entailed. You said you didn’t want to make him choose, that he didn’t deserve to be forced to choose. Said he was excellent at what he did, and you weren’t going to take that away.

That night before you left, you kissed for the last time. You forced a smile through the tears as he looked at you with gut-wrenching longing. He wanted to remember forever the softness your skin, the gasps you let out when he touched you, the way your eyes shut, his name tumbling out of your lips as your back arched.

John wasn’t a crier, but the unshed tears stung. He chanted ‘I love you’ against every inch of you. Maybe if he said it enough you’d change your mind. He wasn’t in his body when he started sobbing. You held each other until sleep took over, and he thought he wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t wake again.

Perhaps you were right. How far he’d come could only be credited to the undying drive in him. It was a blessing and a curse as it cost him you. So he devoted the rest of him into work. It was the only thing he had, the only thing left to do to make losing your worth it, but nothing softened the blow.

When you left, his world capsized, drained. It took him over a year to put the pieces back together, but he could have sworn you’d taken some with you. You’d awoken a desire in him that never got satiated again. You left him high and dry with a bleeding chest.

You were more than just someone, more than just a partner. You were the one he was going to settle down for, even if he never could figure out how to reconcile the idea.

John closed his eyes. Was this a sick joke the world was playing on him? In the midst of uncertainty, in his unending sorrow where the fantasy of giving it all up had budded, why now?

With you in front of him, the kind eyes, the curve of your pretty lips - he could almost hear you say ‘we should have tried harder’. He knew he would. I just need you to ask. Ask and I’m yours in a heartbeat.

“Nice seeing you, John. Merry Christmas. Take care, okay?”

He let out an unsteady sigh.No matter how much it hurt, no matter how many what ifs and the parallel universes he'd ventured out to, it was for the best.

At least you looked happier. That's the most he could get, as a man with sins too heavy to carry.  Maybe he’d get another chance when the world ran out of bad guys. Maybe in another life.

He forced a smiled and you turned.

He pretended not to notice the glint of gold on your left hand.

@glitterypirateduck @sofasoap @shadofireshinobi @tiredmetalenthusiast @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot @caramlizedtomatoes @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats

[writeforfandoms]

Let It Snow

Find my John Price masterlist

This is for @glitterypirateduck winter challenge! I took inspiration from the song Let It Snow, because who wouldn't want to use this man as a source of warmth. Really.

John Price is your neighbor. Just your friendly neighbor. Nothing more.

At least, until the heat in your flat dies.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, sweetness overload, really this is all just cute and fluff.

Word count: 2.5k

You still weren't quite sure how you'd fallen into this thing with John Price. You'd moved in to the flat next to his, the shared wall between the two of you giving you only hints of his life. Mostly, there was silence. 

But sometimes there was the rumbling of a deep, lovely voice. Singing. The muted sounds of a TV. Music. 

The first time you talked to him, you were coming back from a date that had ended badly. You still weren't sure whether to be angry or upset, and had settled on some potent mixture of the two. 

John Price was standing outside, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, heedless of the chill of the evening. He nodded once to you, gaze sweeping over you. 

“Evening,” he greeted, neutral pleasant. 

“Hi.” You managed a smile. “Haven't had the chance to introduce myself yet.” You held out a hand to him, giving him your name. 

“John Price.” He shook your hand, firm but not painful. Quick. 

“Nice to finally meet you.” You glanced beyond him to your door, the temptation to cry rising as upset won over anger. “Hate to run, but…” 

“Of course.” He stepped back, out of the way. “Have a good night.” 

You bit your tongue to keep the bitter words trapped, simply nodding to him before stepping past him. Your hands only shook a little as you unlocked your door and stepped inside. 

You kept your emotions to yourself until you showered, hot as you could stand. Then you allowed yourself some release. 

After that, it became much more common to see him, at least when he was home. You passed him frequently when you came home, and once or twice he rescued you by getting the door when you had bags of groceries. 

The two of you circled each other, pleasant and friendly and not much else. 

Despite his charm, despite his kindness, despite his obvious good looks… you couldn't believe anything more. He was friendly, and that was all. He was neighborly, and that was all. 

Even if he was good-looking. Even if the way he looked at you made you both self-conscious and want to preen. Even if you developed a little crush on him despite your best intentions. 

And you held on to those thoughts all the way up until your heater broke. 

You stood in the middle of your flat, shivering, bundled up in layers and silently cursing the snow outside. And cursing the landlord, who promised he'd get the heater fixed… in a couple days. Three, or maybe four. But you'd be fine, right? 

Which left you seething and debating the merits of buying a space heater, if you could find one. It was late in the season, but maybe you'd be lucky… 

The knock on your door startled you, and you about jumped out of your skin. Who…? Frowning, you stepped forward slowly, hands trembling from the cold and nerves. 

John Price stood outside your door, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest. 

“John?” You blinked at him. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, might be able to help you.” He scratched at the hair on his jaw, brilliant blue eyes holding you captive as easily as breathing. “Heard something ‘bout your heater through the wall.”

You warmed, ducking your head briefly, even though you knew you had nothing to be ashamed of. “Ah. Heard that, huh?” You huffed a little laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, I forget how thin these walls are sometimes.” 

“Don't fret,” John assured you. “I'd offer to take a crack at your heater but I might make it worse.” 

You smiled, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “It's fine, I think I'll just go find a space heater.” 

John paused, not moving from your doorway, one hand hooked at the collar of his shirt, gaze fixed on you. “Or,” he offered slowly, weighing each word as he spoke. “You can stay at mine.” 

You blinked. Twice. “...Beg pardon?” You must have misunderstood him. There was no way–

“I've got a second bedroom,” he said, shrugging, like it was nothing. Like it was that easy. “You're welcome to it. Be awful cold without heat.” 

You swallowed. That was… a lot. And far too generous. “I couldn't, that's too kind.” 

His lips quirked in a smile, the first real one you'd seen from him. “Yes you can,” he countered. “It's just a few days, yeah? Won't bother me, I wouldn't have offered otherwise.” 

You bit your lip, torn. It would be warmer to stay with him, and cheaper. “Are you sure?” 

“I'm sure.” He even nodded for emphasis, holding your gaze. 

“Okay.” You breathed in slowly. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

“Gather up whatever you need,” he said, something pleased in the tilt of his lips. “Just knock when you're ready.” 

“Thanks.” You waited until he stepped back and turned towards his own door to close your door.

Not that it helped at all with the temperature. 

Clenching your jaw and trying not to think about it, you grabbed a bag and some clothes. You weren't going to impose on him any more than necessary - you'd come back to shower and take care of your own things. And you'd be fine at work. 

Your first knock on the door was tentative, almost too soft. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, a little anxious. You knew enough about John Price to trust that he wasn't a crazy murderer, or anything like that. He'd always been friendly. 

You were mostly sure you could trust him. 

The door opened, warmth spilling out over your half-frozen fingers. John had shed his jacket, leaving him in a soft-looking shirt that clung to his chest in ways you tried not to notice. 

“C'mon in.” He stepped out of the way, ushering you in. You couldn't help but shiver as the warmth of his flat cocooned you, your skin tingling where it was exposed. “Bedroom's this way.” 

You followed him quietly, though you couldn't help but look around curiously. The flat was sparse but clean, walls mostly bare. Simple furniture in the main room, very little decoration. 

It felt a little impersonal… except for the book on the couch, the couple dishes in the sink. 

John led you back to the bedroom, nodding you inside. The bed was made up all in pale blue, with an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Honestly, this was better hospitality than you'd gotten from some family members. 

“Thank you, really.” You paused in the doorway, still clutching your bag. 

He smiled again, easy as anything. “My pleasure. Get warmed up, I've got the kettle on.” 

You couldn't help but smile at his retreating back. He was too kind. 

It didn't take long to warm up enough to be comfortable, and you even shed a layer to be more comfortable. “Should I keep my shoes on?” You called from the doorway, uncertain. You couldn't recall if he'd been wearing any. 

“Nah, leave ‘em.” 

You kicked your shoes off but left your socks, padding out to the kitchen to a charmingly domestic scene. John stood with one hip leaned against the counter, mug in one big hand, another steaming gently in front of him. He was also wearing socks, thick gray ones.

“Got milk and sugar, if you'd like.” He nodded to the mug to be clear what he meant. 

“Thanks.” You fixed your cuppa and clutched it between your hands, fingers tingly-hot as they finally fully thawed. “Can I at least treat you to dinner?” 

He tipped his head down a little, smiling. “Won’t say no to that,” he murmured. 

Discussing food was surprisingly easy with him. He seemed happy to go along with whatever you wanted, although true to his word he didn't argue with you about paying. 

The first night passed easily, with bits of conversation between the two of you. You caught him looking at you more than once, something soft in his gaze. Like he couldn't believe you were here.

You warmed under that gentle gaze, the little embers you'd tried to smother in your heart catching and trying to grow. 

Two days passed in the same kind of ease. His flat was bigger than yours, and set up backwards as far as you were concerned. The second time you opened a door expecting the loo and got the linen closet you swore loudly. John just laughed at you, leading to a round of playful bickering. 

(“It's not my fault that this is all backwards!”

“Well perhaps if you looked before you opened the door you'd realize it was on the wrong side.”

“Perhaps if this place was oriented correctly I wouldn't have to.”) 

The two of you got along quite well, better than you'd expected. Better than you'd ever hoped. The ease with which the two of you conversed fanned the little flames secreted in your heart. 

The fourth morning was clear and cold, faint light coming through the window in your room. You dressed, even more glad to be in John's nice warm flat when a perfunctory look out the window showed snow still falling. 

“Morning,” John greeted you, flashing you a smile, hair still a little rumpled from sleep. You tried not to be charmed. 

(It didn't work, you were hopelessly charmed by him.) 

“Good morning.” You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him. “How long have you been up?” 

“Couple hours. Tea?” 

You hummed your assent, though you drifted to the kitchen window to look outside. Snow drifted down in fat flakes, languidly coating the world in white. “How long has it been coming down?”

“Started in the middle of the night.” John pulled out the mug you were beginning to think of as yours. “Don't have to go anywhere today, do you?”

“Fortunately, no.” You shivered at the thought of having to go out in the cold. You kind of hated when it got this cold - the snow was pretty but ice made for treacherous commutes to work. “You?”

“No.” The mug clinked as he set it next to you. “Got everything I need here.” 

You turned, just catching the tail end of his teasing little smile as he stepped back. You blinked at him but didn't push, not quite sure if you wanted to know. 

Tea was perfect to keep you warm, and you settled near John. He shifted enough to press his knee to yours, and you just relaxed into it. 

He'd gotten you used to little touches over the last few days, and you didn't quite want to admit how much you loved it. 

“Care to make a day of it, then?”

You blinked at John, curious. “What do you have in mind?” 

“We could watch that movie you've been wanting to watch.” John's lips twitched in amusement. “More tea. Order in for lunch.” 

“You're going to spoil me,” you teased, although you were only half teasing. 

“Only if I'm doing it right.” He smirked, watching you as you ducked your head, fiddling with your mug. 

“You don't have to, you know.” You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, gripping your mug a little tighter so you wouldn't fidget with it. 

“What if I want to?” He tipped his head a little, watching you, blue eyes intense. 

You warmed under that look but resisted the urge to hide. “Well… that would be a different story.” 

Emboldened by your reaction, John moved closer, his thigh now pressed against the length of yours. “I'd like to spoil you for longer than just the few days it takes to get your heater fixed.” 

“Would you really?” You blinked at him, a little incredulous and a fair bit flattered. 

“I would.” One of his hands landed over yours, big and warm and calloused. “Would you let me?”

You swallowed. Part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to bask in the warmth of him, wanted to give in. But you were scared. There were so many things that could go wrong… 

“I don't know,” you whispered, your fingers curling under John's. “I could try.” 

“That's all I ask.” He leaned a little closer to you, so close he could probably feel the thump of your heart. “Just need to talk to me, hm? Tell me if anything is too much.” 

You nodded, swallowing, eyes wide as he held your gaze. “Okay.” 

“Good.” He backed off again, slowly pushing to his feet. “Go get the movie set up, I've got tea handled.” 

You blinked, feeling almost bereft as he stepped away. But you shook the feeling off, instead going to the couch to set up the movie. 

It only occurred to you long minutes later, when John brought your tea fixed how you liked, that you'd gotten very comfortable here very quickly. But so had John. He'd learned your preferences faster than you'd expected. 

“Warm enough?” He asked, voice a low purr as he settled next to you. 

“Yeah,” you answered, which was mostly true. Your feet were chilly, but that was manageable. 

He eyed you for a moment, and you had the feeling he knew exactly what you didn't say. But he didn't say a word, just grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over your lap, fussing over you in a way totally foreign to you. 

Foreign… but nice. 

Halfway through the movie John paused it to discuss lunch. You ended up not ordering in - snow was coming down harder now, a thick coating of white obscuring streets and sidewalks. Neither of you wanted to go out, or force anyone else out. 

“We'll find something here,” you said with a shrug, unconcerned. “I've got food at mine, too.” 

John hummed, one arm settling around your waist. “Could do cheese toasties.” 

“Are you offering to cook for me?” You couldn't help your smile, or the way you leaned in closer to him. 

“Can’t make anything fancy,” he murmured, smile small but warm. “But I can do this.” 

That smile finally did you in. You kissed him. Nothing more than a brief press of your lips to his, just enough to feel the warmth and pressure, the gentle scratch of facial hair. He looked a little stunned when you pulled back… for all of two seconds. Before he kissed you again, one big hand cupping your cheek. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered when he pulled back, scant space between the two of you. 

“More than,” you assured him, hands resting against his chest. 

He hummed, the sound vibrating against your hands, and kissed you again. 

If this is what him spoiling you looked like… Well. You could get used to this. 

Even if it kept snowing like this. You weren't worried about being cold anymore. 

[shotmrmiller]

Happy trails, John.

A/N: I've been meaning to write the captain my captain but he's my holy grail—look but not touch even though I'd beg him to let me make him lonches at 4 am. Also, I watch Die Hard every Christmas because it IS a Christmas movie, argue with your demons. In response to @glitterypirateduck's prompt thing which inspired to me to write something cute and civilized.

“Just once, I’d like a regular, normal Christmas. Eggnog, a fucking Christmas tree, a little turkey. But no. It’s always ‘Die Hard’.”

“John, love. You’re being overdramatic. It’s just the holidays with my parents.” 

You rolled your eyes as you stuffed your clothes into the luggage bag, preparing for the trip.

“I know, love, but I wanted to spend a quiet Christmas with my wife— but no, the in-laws have to call with their ‘Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs…’ ", he said with a mocking lilt in his voice.

You snicker and say, “I promise we’ll leave as soon as it’s polite.” 

“Sure, sure, I go out and keep the world safe just so when I can get a little reprieve, it’s to not spend it alone with my wife. I’m feeling a little fuckin’ underappreciated.”

You closed the zipper on your bag and went over to the bathroom where John was grumbling his displeasure. Looping your arms around his waist, cheek to his shoulder blade you say, “It’s just Christmas, hun. We’ll have New Year's all to ourselves and we can even have the boys over to celebrate. I’ll even tell you what I got you for Christmas.”

That seems to distract him a bit, as he turns his head a tad with a curious tilt.

“I bought you a Lagavulin 16-year aged single malt scotch.”

His eyes warm with appreciation and he lets out a resigned sigh.

“Right, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Stepping out of the bathroom, you turn to look at the time. 

“Jesus Christ, John! We’re gonna need a miracle to get to the airport on time!”

You’re hastily grabbing your bags, yanking them off the bed and you see John on the phone.

“John! Get your bag—”

Suddenly, there are tires screeching outside on the driveway. John walks past you with his bag and picks up yours as well, before jerking his head at you towards the front door. 

“You wanted a miracle. I give you— The TaskForce 141”, John says, tossing the bags in the trunk of a truck that has Ghost, Johnny, and Gaz in it.

You don’t even care to question why they’re here— you just hop in the back seat immediately and buckle up.

John’s foot is barely inside the truck when it’s speeding off, tires screeching on the pavement. The entire drive has you almost nauseous with the jerky turns and harsh brakes. At a particularly abrasive step of the gas that has your neck jerking back towards the headrest of the seat, you turn towards John with a white-knuckle grip on the driver and passenger seat— you ask “Who’s driving this car? Stevie Wonder?!”

Johnny, sweet Johnny turns with a confused furrow on his brow and says, “Whad’ya mean, lass? It’s just L.T.” 

You’re at the airport in no time with the no-question illegal speed Ghost drove at, and you’re stumbling out of the vehicle with shaky legs. At least you made it.

Gaz grabs the bags from the trunk and places them on the floor but you’ve already run off to check in before it’s too late. John thanks Ghost for the help and after Johnny is rolling his window down— “I heard you’re going to America. To California, specifically.”

John grunts in annoyance at remembering the trip, and he sees Johnny grin cheekily at him before he says, “Yippy-ki-yay, motherfucker!”

[siriusleee]

For @glitterypirateduck Call of Duty Christmas Special. Author's Note: For the holiday season, I wanted to write some things for some of my mutuals I've met the past year I've had my blog. This is for @gazs-blue-hat, who is one of the most supportive people I've ever met. Christmas Song: Last Christmas Premise: You need a date for your family's Christmas dinner. Johnny is willing to be it.

This is stupid. The dumbest idea you’d had in ages, but the thought of going home this Christmas to see your sister snuggled up on the couch with her long-term boyfriend while your mother regulated you to helping in the kitchen was enough to make you do something stupid. 

It had started with a Facebook post someone else made as a joke. “$100 bucks and I’ll go to your family Christmas and pretend to be your boyfriend. $150 and I’ll kiss you in front of everyone and compliment your mom.” You’d sent a screenshot to Johnny, something quick, hoping he’d send a joke to make you feel better about the upcoming shit show.

Christmas exploded around town - lights dripping from each tree, fake Santa’s climbing up trellises. And with it, your mood turned blacker each day. It seemed like every minute someone was messaging you for something new: don’t forget to dress up for the family Christmas photo, bring rolls, are you bringing anyone?, are you bringing anyone?, are you bringing anyone?.

The lowest moment was a phone call from your sister’s boyfriend. You answered the call at your desk, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and ear.

“What’s up?”

“Hey, I was wondering what your ring size is.”

Your fingers slow on your keyboard; through the speaker, you can hear the hustle and bustle of some shop. 

“I wear a size 8. Why?”

Silence. And then -

“I’m going to ask your sister to marry me at Christmas this year, and I know you guys are the same size. Don’t tell anyone?”

You had always liked your sister’s boyfriend, but at that moment you could have strangled him. Annoyed, you’d shoved yourself back from your desk, muttering something about taking a break. You slammed your phone down so hard, you were relatively sure that there was going to be a crack in the screen, but you were too bummed out to worry about it. 

Johnny found you at your post outside, an unlit cigarette held loosely in your fingers. 

“I thought you quit smoking, bird.”

His breath clouds around him, and he sits close enough to you that his knee rubs against yours. 

“I did. That’s why I’m just holding it.”

He winces at the tone in your voice, hand coming up to rest itself above his heart in mock hurt.

“Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

“Bug off Johnny.”

He knocks his knee into yours, hands tucked beneath his armpits to keep warm.

“Christmas dinner?”

Your shoes tap a maniacal pattern onto the concrete as you try to figure out how to say it all, without sounding so horrible.

“My sister’s boyfriend is going to ask her to marry her on Christmas.”

Johnny ‘hmms’, chewing on his chapped lips.

“You can always pay me like you said the other day.”

“Shut up Johnny.”

Three days later, after all the non-essentials had been sent home for Christmas dinner your phone buzzed; you glanced down at the screen from your perch on the couch, half expecting it to be another annoying family member. 

Your fingers tapped against the screen, trying to figure out a way to tell Johnny to knock it off, the joke’s not funny anymore. Instead, you find yourself tapping out the time and your address.

Smoothing the wrinkles from your skirt, you start to think that maybe Johnny was just screwing with you - that this is all some elaborate joke and you’ll have to do this all by yourself. Maybe Johnny’ll laugh about it when the two of you return to work in a few days, maybe-

A tentative knock on your front door breaks you from your near spiral. Before you can talk yourself out of the entire thing, you fling the door open. Johnny stands grinning at you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. His mohawk is freshly touched up, and whatever cologne he put on rolls off of him in hypnotic waves. 

“You look nice,” you say, words falling flat and lame between the two of you. But Johnny doesn’t seem to mind as he holds his arm out to you. 

“You look nice too, birdie. You ready?”

Johnny opens the car door for you. You take the moment it takes for him to walk around to his door to peer at the inside of the car - fresh vacuum lines cover the floorboard, and a new Wintergreen scented tree hangs from the review mirror.

“So,” Johnny says, climbing into the driver's seat, ��tell me everything I need to know.”

You describe everyone on the drive there: your Aunt Mary, your Uncle Gary, your cousin with the glass eye who gets upset if you stare too long; your sister and her boyfriend. You point out each turn for Johnny, and with each turn of the wheel, your mood grows brighter. 

Until Johnny pulls into your parent’s driveway, right behind your sister’s car. 

“Alright, Bonnie?”

“Yeah, let’s just do this.”

You don’t get to open your door before Johnny hops out, pulling your door open and holding out his hand for you. 

The front door opens to an explosion of people and Christmas music. Johnny is immediately taken in by your aunts, and he suffers through the pinched cheeks, and he doesn’t mind when your grandma kisses him on the cheek. By the time he makes it back around to you, there’s lipstick smudged on his cheek.

“They love you, Johnny,” you say, reaching up to wipe the red smudge away. “I’ll have to pay you extra I think.”

“You think they’ll let me take an extra plate home as a tip?”

“Of course they will.”

The two of you hide out in the corner, watching the little kids run around with their new toys; one of the boys shoves a Nerf gun into Johnny’s hand, and you see a flash of fear cross all the kid's face when Johnny racks it with extreme precision, but Johnny still lets all of them tackle him.

Your sister and her boyfriend stand on the opposite side of the room, refusing to take their hands off of each other. You do your best to ignore them, but there’s a clock inside you, ticking down the minutes until you know he’s going to drop down on one knee. 

After Johnny fights off all the kids and returns to you, red from laughter, you don’t stop him when he grabs you around the hips, pulling you into the dining room with him. You hear the titter of your mom and aunt as they fawn over Johnny behind the two of you. 

You almost pull away from him, until he stops you in the hallway, pointing upwards to where your mom tacked mistletoe on the ceiling. You feel the blush creep up your neck, and try to send him a message that this is way out of the agreement for the night. When he kisses you chastely on the lips, you don’t say anything, but you can feel the huge grin on your face. 

He rests his hand on your knee throughout dinner and listens intently when your grandfather talks about his days in the War. 

It’s more than you could have asked for. And after dinner, when all the adults start handing presents over to each other, you know it’s about to happen. You see your sister’s boyfriend fidget with something in his pocket, and your stomach twists. You try to focus on the music pouring in a little too loud from the speakers, the Wham! version of Last Christmas, but you can’t take your eyes off the two of them.

Johnny’s hand taps against your elbow, pulling your attention away from what’s going to be the end game of the night. He’s holding out a little box towards you, wrapped haphazardly. 

“Oh Johnny, you shouldn’t. I didn’t get you anything.”

His grin is crooked as he shoves it into your hands. 

“I didn’t ask you to get me anything, birdie. Anyway, it’s part of the pretending, isn’t it? Besides you can get me on my birthday.”

You unwrap the box, fingers sliding beneath the too much tape, to rip the paper away until it falls to the floor and all you’re left with is a black velvet box.

“Johnny this is not funny, you jerk.”

His grin is infectious as you open it up, a little silver pendant sits nestled in the velvet, an ‘S’ charm attached the the chain. 

“Can I?” Johnny asks, and you nod, holding the box out so that he can take the necklace out. 

He puts it around your neck, calloused fingers soft against your skin as he does the clasp. 

The room explodes in cheers around you; out of the corner of your eye you can see your now future-brother-in-law on his knee in front of your sister, but you stare at Johnny instead. 

The last lines of Last Christmas fade from the speakers, Johnny’s hand interlaces with your own and he tugs you closer. 

“I think I want to do this next year.”

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Angsty winter Ghoap drabble (god help me)

***

“Aye, it’s alright little one, Da’s here,” Johnny coos at the little girl, who just gurgles in her cot, arms outstretched.  He reaches down to her and pulls her into his, her weight against his heart comforting, and Johnny can’t help but close his eyes, inhale, breathe.

Christmas is hard on Johnny, and the baby girl who settles easily against him, burrowing into her Da's chest, comforted by his familiar scent, is a reminder of why.

But…December is Johnny’s favourite month of the year. It’s Simon’s too.

Johnny sees him everwhere and in everything; the frozen pond on which they'd skate, the glittering lights of the tree that amuse the little one, makes her laugh her awkward baby laughs, the sound of the crackling fire that Simon would build every year. It's the sweetest torture.

Johnny tries his best to be happy for their little daughter's sake, it's her first birthday without one parent. Johnny builds snowmen with her, and makes her hot chocolate, and shows her the pretty lights on the big tree in the centre of town, but she's entirely like Simon in all the ways that matter. Even at just a year old, she can tell when her Da's not quite feeling it, and she wraps her tiny arms around his neck and falls asleep there.

Bedtime is the worst. Johnny hates bedtime. It's not the lack of heating that makes their bedroom the coldest room in the house. No, Johnny's convinced he's the one exuding the cold. It comes from the hollow place inside him, the walls of his heart that throb and ache with Simon's absence that he feels deep inside the marrow of his bones. During these nights that already feel like they don't end, Johnny finds that the silence deafens him.

Someone had to stay home with the wee one, and they'd both agreed that it would be Johnny.

And Johnny was proud of Simon. Insanely proud.

He'd found that sharing Simon with the 141 came easier to him than he would've expected, but neither of them had anticipated the first extension of Simon's deployment. Then the second. Then the third.

He's selfish.

His daughter misses her father.

He misses his husband.

And he feels the now-familiar hole in his chest throb.

***

His eyes never close, but morning comes anyway. He tries his hardest to force a smile on his face, prepares to play the part that his daughter requires of him.

It's Christmas morning.

He's not entirely surprised when his father greets him at his front door, telling him he has some last minute additions to make to the presents under the tree. Johnny's father spoils his little grand-daughter rotten, and Johnny doesn't mind at all.

He knows he misses Simon too, a man he'd accepted as his son all those years ago.

He busies himself by cleaning up after breakfast, but he is surprised to see his little daughter all dressed up in her out clothes. Complete with little skates in her grandfather's hands. She fusses, uses chubby hands to make clumsy little swipes and attempts to make a grab for it, but her grandfather just bounces her on his arm and boops her nose.

"Take 'er skatin,' son. She'll love it. Jus' like her Da."

Johnny figures there's nothing else left of his heart to break, so he does. He takes her skating.

The wind howls and whistles with a vengeance against their ears, but the wee one is distracted by the sight of the trees on their way - bright and glistening with snow and ice. Johnny's heart aches at the sight, wishing that Simon had been there to see what looks like one of the most beautiful Christmas mornings he's ever seen.

When he gets to the pond, the snow threatens to blind him, and he has to squint against it, briefly covering his eyes, but then Johnny he sees him.

Simon is there, skates strapped across his feet, gliding effortlessly on the frozen pond.

Johnny's hand goes automatically up to his chest in a movement of both shock and to soothe himself. He's imagined Simon before - sees him everywhere in December - but his hallucinations have never been so vivid before.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," the ghost speaks, and Johnny swallows. Hard.

"Simon?"

"'M here, love."

When Simon's outstretched hand makes contact with Johnny's trembling fingers, it's gentle - sweet and warm and full of everything Johnny's been deprived of for months.

"For how long?" Johnny's whisper is pained, hating how much he needs to know. It's senseless and cruel to ruin the moment with the potential answer, but Johnny's always been the more selfish one.

Simon pulls him into his chest, and Johnny hears the sound he's missed most in the world. They cradle their daughter between them, and Simon places one hand on her back, while the other caresses Johnny's beard.

Simon steps forward to place his lips against Johnny's and whispers the words that he's wanted to say for years, the words that Johnny's wanted to hear for years.

"For always. It's over."

***

@glitterypirateduck: I listened to Winter Song by Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson too many times and then saw the ice skating fanart that valiants made and felt some angst winter thoughts rattling in my mind brain and LOST MY MIND IN THE PROCESS.

Bon apple tit!!!! No one ever look at me again!!!

[wallwriterstuff]

The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.  

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

[peachesofteal]

Light On - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader - 18+ MDNI brief suggestive content, Christmas vibes (these characters do not celebrate Christmas religiously) 🎄 There'll be much mistltoeing / It's the most wonderful time of the year - for @glitterypirateduck's cod holiday challenge

"She's lovely." Laswell comments, standing at his shoulder in the living room.

"She is." He answers, but doesn't bother to look at her, too transfixed on you, watching the way you smile and laugh, champagne flute in one hand, baby in the other. Blood rushes through his body as he stares at you, marveling at how bloody good you look with the baby on your hip, and even though he knows it's an archaic mentality, he can't help but dream about giving you another. Kate gives him a smirk that he just barely catches from the corner of his eye, and he cuts her an exasperated look. "Excuse me."

"By all means."

He makes his way to your side where you're chatting with Gaz's date, Lily, wine colored velvet dress draped across your body, snug and silky across your skin. Your hair is done, styled differently, arranged on top of your head instead of your usual or pulled into something looser, shiny gold cuff curled around the top of your ear. You’re stunning, and his mind turns over, trying to determine if it’s okay or appropriate to tell you for the third time tonight that he’s obsessed with you, that he wants to get you home and worship you, wants to rip your dress off and ruin it. He wonders if you’ll let him take you home early, if you’ll be quiet for him when he bends you over the bed, if you’ll come on his cock all breathy and sweet with his name on your lips.

Emmaline sits embraced in nook of your elbow, white and green dress complemented by tiny, shiny, black shoes, babbling away at anyone who will look at her. She lights up when he steps closer, trying to tip out of your grasp towards his, discontent rising in her crumpled little brow when she can't break free.

"Hi." You beam, his hand finding the small of your back, Emmaline wriggling around to face him, leaning back with a big smile, knocking her head into his side. You roll your eyes at Lily. "I've become chopped liver to my own baby."

"Alright, sweet pea. C'mere then." He settles her on top of his forearm, chubby fist knotting into the collar of his shirt. "Let's give mama a break, eh?" You smile, relieved, reaching up for a kiss, tip toes stretching until he leans to meet you, and when you pull away, you give Emmaline one on her cheek, bright baby giggles echoing through the room. "We're going to see what the team is up to." He bounces her, and your thumb strokes a soft circle into his waist.

"Okay."

"There she is!" Gaz calls, and Emmaline squirms in Simon's grasp, pressing her face into his neck, head tilted just slightly so she can still see the guys, cheeks dimpled. She watches Kyle cautiously, incredibly shy, and Simon whispers to comfort her.

"What's wrong, baby girl? You're alright. It's just Gaz." She mouths at his shirt, and he smooths a hand over the back of her head softly. "She's not usually so reserved, loves attention."

"Ye're scaring her." Johnny admonishes as huffs, breath rolling in a fog through the chilled air, but when Simon turns, Emmaline whips around, peering over his shoulder to stare at Gaz, expression delighted.

"I don't think she's scared, Soap. Looks smitten to me." Johnny clucks his tongue, half outraged, and Gaz just laughs, stroking her cheek as she coos soft sweet nonsense towards him, making Johnny scowl.

“’m supposed tae be her favorite.” He grumbles, and Price barks out a laugh, clapping him on his back.

“Gotta get your own for that, son.” He shakes his head, reaching a finger out to her fist, letting her grab onto him. She immediately starts to drag it towards his mouth, and Price lets her, chuckling softly under his breath. “Needs something for her teeth.”

"I think we've got something in her bag." Simon rubs her back, watching how her eyes light up when she spots Price's beard, tiny fingers mindlessly drifting towards his chin. "Mama's been giving you frozen pacifiers, huh?"

"Ye should try scotch, my maw used tae give me some, when ah was a bairn." Johnny tickles his fingers across her side and she shrieks into a giggle fit, nearly choking on laughter that has him glowing with pride. "Who's yer favorite uncle, Emmaline? Is it Uncle Soap?" Johnny whispers in his best baby voice, and Simon snorts.

"She can't have scotch, MacTavish. She's a baby, and-"

"Alright out here?" You're standing in the door, half in, half out, teetering precariously on the top step, and for the hundredth time tonight you take Simon's breath away, light from the kitchen shimmering behind you like a halo, framing you in a soft, warm yellow glow, his stomach clenching.

"We're alright." He promises, already making his way towards the doorway, taking the stairs until you're within arms reach, Emmaline clapping her hands together when she spots you. "You okay?" He keeps his voice low, yet still tender, trying not to give the guys too much ammo, and you smile, spectacular and sweet, enough to make him melt on the spot.

"Yeah, just wanted to check on you two." You brush a finger across Emma's cheek, mouth opening to say something else when Johnny's voice rings across the patio, cheeky and smug.

"LT, ye're standın' under mistletoe." He hadn't noticed the cluster of greenery tacked to the bricked arch just outside the door, but it's hard to miss now, and when you glance above your head and laugh, he shrugs his shoulders. "Well..."

"Well?" You raise an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. Enough of both for him, encouragement not needed in the first place, his lips finding yours easily, pulling you into the bulk of his body, wrapping an arm around your waist while still holding Emma against his chest in the other. She bridges the gap between you, both of his girls safe and sheltered in his arms, and he blocks out the sound of Gaz and Johnny's shouting and whooping, focusing on the taste of your tongue, smell of your skin, plush lips against his. It's everything, you're everything, you and Emmaline- his family, his to love, to care for, to protect, emotion welling up in his chest that has him pulling away and pressing his nose against the top of your head, mouth finding your temple, your cheek, his eyes closed and breaths measured.

"Merry Christmas." He whispers, still holding you tight, and you dip forward to press a kiss to Emmaline's scalp, your hand reaching for his jaw, thumb reverently stroking across the scar on his cheek.

"Merry Christmas Simon."

[milf-murdock]

Baby, Please Come Home 

Simon “Ghost” Riley x female Reader

(Alternatively titled: Not the Good Bourbon!)

🎄 @glitterypirateduck’s December challenge

The snow’s coming down I’m watching it fall  Lots of people around Baby please come home  They're singing Deck The Halls But it's not like Christmas at all 'Cause I remember when you were here And all the fun we had last year pretty lights on the tree I'm watching them shine you should be here with me baby, please come home

A/N: I love this song and it was giving such pining energy and this entered my head and I just couldn't... let it goooo ❄️

It was Christmas Eve and from your spot on the sofa you could see the snowflakes falling just outside the window. The gentle blaze from the fireplace kept you nice and warm as you watched the steady stream pour from the sky. The fire warms your toes. The mug of hot cider spiced with rum warms your hands and your belly. The warm glow of the Christmas tree washes your shared flat in its soft hues, like a comforting embrace. 

It was perfect. With one glaring exception. 

Simon’s mission had run long. Again. 

You both knew it was a possibility. He had warned you that it was a complex mission—target on the move, long stakeouts, tricky extraction, the usual—though there was only so much he could say due to the confidential nature. But he had promised to be home from the holidays, his firm grip on your chin forcing you to look up at him as he made the vow. 

You thought back to that bittersweet goodbye. The familiar caress of Simon’s hand on your cheek. The sensation of his lips pressed against yours, as if he could kiss you hard enough to last through the next several weeks. The longing in your heart as you watched his body walk out the door. As a habit, Simon made sure to never look back; he knew that a final glance would make it damn near impossible to keep his feet moving. 

A crack of the fireplace brought you back to the present, and you took another sip of the spiked cider, the burn feeling good, grounding. It took the edge off the pain, just a tad. Just enough. 

Untangling yourself from the heavy knitted blanket, you made your way to the large window to get a better look at the falling snow. It never ceased to amaze you. Simon hated the snow, always complaining. You'd tease him endlessly about his Grinch-y behavior—he had to be the only man in the world who would complain about snow on Christmas Eve. 

You couldn’t help your smile, tinged with sadness. From your new vantage point you could spot a few kids playing in the snow down below. If you really focused, you could hear the distant familiar tune of Deck the Hells playing from a few doors down. And yet, despite the picturesque nature of the whole scene, it just didn’t feel like Christmas. Not really. 

“You should be here with me, Si,” you sighed into your mug, taking another sip.

“Please come home, baby.” You muttered out a solemn prayer to whoever may be listening, a plea to bring your man home safe. 

______________________________________________________________

Simon growled in frustration as he sat in the London traffic. The honks of the surrounding cars only added to his growing frustration. “For fucks sake, doesn’t anybody in this goddamn city know how to drive?” He pounded the dashboard in irritation. “It’s the bloody snow,” he grumbled, cursing the white flurries that flew all around the still cars. 

In the back of his mind, Simon knows how happy his love must be at the snow. You lived for this kind of thing, a Christmas Eve snow that most certainly ensured a white Christmas. As much as he hated the damn weather, it warmed his heart the way you would smile up at the sky and exclaim with all the excitement you could muster, “It’s snowing,  Si!” You could barely contain yourself. No matter how many years the two of you spent together in Britain’s chilly winter, you never seemed to grow tired of the phenomenon. Your childlike wonder of the world around you was just one of the many things Simon loved about you. 

Simon absently wondered if you were watching the same snow from the warmth and comfort of their shared home. He could see it so clearly: the wonder in your eyes, the curve of your lips, the way you practically glowed in the soft light. It warmed him from the inside out.

He just needed to get home to you. It had been a grueling and physically demanding mission, but his main motivation was being home, with you, for Christmas. He would do anything to make it happen. 

The cars started a snail like pace on the road again. “Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered, shifting into gear and beginning the steady route to his home, his love. 

______________________________________________________________

With a sigh that could rattle the ornaments on the tree, you slammed the power button on the remote, shutting off the telly. You loved a cheesy holiday movie as much as the next gal, but you just couldn’t take it—every love confession just grating on the raw nerves of your frayed heart. 

In an effort to keep yourself busy,  you reheated some more cider on the stovetop, popping by the bar cart to top off the glass. You eyed Simon’s good bourbon, silently debating. “Oh he’ll be livid if he finds out I mixed this with the cider,” you think to yourself. “Though,  s’pose he won’t be here to complain about it, will he?” With a shrug, you gave a healthy pour into your mug, before bringing the bottle to your lips and taking a swig. And another, for good measure. “That one’s for you, Si,” you muttered, trying not to sputter as the liquid burned its way to your belly, warming you from the inside out. You weren't usually this morose when Simon was gone, but something about the holiday season had you extra bitter. 

There was a thump outside the door, and you nearly dropped the bottle as you jumped. You didn’t dare let yourself hope as you started stalking your way to the door, heartbeat racing. The click of the lock echoed in the silent flat, and you stood there, waiting, heart in your throat, unable to move as the door opened towards you. 

Simon’s hulking frame filled the doorway, his blonde hair pointing every which way, a clear sign his mask was freshly pulled off. 

“Happy Christmas, love,” his low voice sounded like honey, and on instinct you felt the familiar pickling sensation of tears fill your eyes. 

You blinked. And then you were in motion, sprinting to close the gap before throwing your arms around Simon’s neck, trusting him to catch your racing form. 

Two strong arms folded around you, lifting you up off the ground, and Simon held you as close to his body as he could. Your familiar weight in his arms, his nostrils flooded with the smell of your perfume, and he could only think of one word, blaring in his mind like a neon sign: home. This was home. You were his home. 

“You’re home,” you muttered, pressing your face deeper into his neck, squeezing him closer. 

“Course I am. I promised ya, didn’t I?”  Simon quipped. 

Carefully setting you down on your own two feet, Simon did his best to steady you as you leaned up on your tip toes and finally brought your lips to his. 

Simon swore internally.

If you were home, then your lips were heaven. 

Simon wound one hand in your hair, pressing you even closer to him, the other hand trailing down to your supple hip. His tongue traced the edge of your lips, begging for access, which you were never one to deny. He drank in your kiss like a man dying of thirst, a familiar taste on his tongue. When the two of you finally came up for air, Simon couldn’t hold back his cheeky grin. 

“Babe, is that my good bourbon I taste?”

[cumikering]

Keegan Russ x reader

3.5k | fluff, second chance, childhood friends

You matched with Keegan on Tinder

@glitterypirateduck’s holiday challenge, inspired by I Don’t Do Drugs by Doja Cat

“No way.” You shook your head. “Not Keegan goddamn Russ.” You chuckled as you stared at his profile.

It’d been over 15 years since you saw him last. His teeth might have been straight, bowl cut replaced by a far more fitting fade cut, but his sharp blue eyes and easy smile remained. They were unmistakable.

This dude hadn’t crossed your mind in years, but you were pleasantly surprised to see he’d grown to be a tall and athletic Marine. You hated to admit that he got hot, even that not having a stupid haircut wasn’t a very high bar to begin with.

You zeroed in on his smile again. He was attractive and he knew it. He couldn’t have been there for anything serious.

You laughed to yourself. “What the hell,” you said and swiped right on him.

At the other end of town, Keegan laid in bed, swiping mindlessly on his phone.  Left… Left… Oh!? … Yeah, another left… Until his hand froze when he saw your card.

“Goddamn,” he muttered as he rolled to his side, clutching his phone. Where the hell were you all this time?

He took his time ogling your photos. The first one was a full body picture, your figure on display in your tight jeans. The second was a selfie, your eyes bright, donning a brilliant smile and glossy lips. The last two were group photos. He loved your style – comfortable yet tasteful. Your genuine laughter and the twinkle in your eye as you sat among your friends mesmerised him.

Okay, so you were the life of the party.

Keegan often worried about not having enough to say and preferred chattier dates who’d lead the conversation. Evidently, he didn’t have to worry about that with you…  Because you probably wouldn’t even look at him twice. With looks like that, you could have anyone.

He lay on his back and gawked at your selfie again, biting his lip.

“What the hell,” he said to himself and swiped right.

He nearly dropped his phone on his face when it chimed right away. It’s a match! He gasped.

He stared at the empty chat window, fingers drumming on his thigh as he contemplated what to say. He wished he had more game.

After a minute, he settled with a simple Hi, hope you’re doing alright :) are you from the area?

You seemed a little quiet the first day of texting, but he’d expected that, a usual occurrence in his endeavour. Keegan didn’t relent, coming up with discussions, although some he had to admit were rather lame. Soon, you asked him specific questions about himself, allowing the conversation to pour throughout the days. He stopped thinking too hard when replying.

As it turned out, you were from the same hometown. You went to different high schools, but had a few mutual friends, although none he knew anymore. He barely kept in contact with anyone back home safe for the handful of his close high school friends.

Now that he reached for his phone far more often on base, grinning at that, it took no time for people to notice the newfound habit.

“We need to tell command someone’s hardly working.” Ajax nudged Kick, nodding at Keegan at the far end of the rec room. “He keeps looking at that one selfie.”

He chuckled. “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is. Don’t get catfished, bro.”

“Or ghosted.” Ajax roared in laughter. He had no business sounding so proud of his pun.

Keegan’s eyes narrowed at them before looking back down at his phone. He wasn’t going to let his buddies stop him from sending you the What kind of bread are you? quiz.

At night, it’d also become a routine to text. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but it grew to be the highlight of his day. He could unwind and laugh with you without having to wait long to have you text back. His bed felt less empty, a little less cold.

“I’d really like to meet you. You’re wonderful,” he said longingly at his phone.

He knew he wanted to after the third day, but didn’t initiate a date in fear of moving too fast and appalling you. But after over a week, with his next deployment inching closer, he’d grown impatient and a bit mad at himself for overthinking the matter. He didn’t remember asking anyone on a date being that unnerving.

Unprompted, your name flashed across his screen, sending his heart racing. Keegan sat up and cleared his throat before answering.

“Hey,” he said with as much smoothness as he could muster.

“Hi, Keegan.”

He could hear the smile in your voice, and he prayed he had even a fraction of the effect you had on him, on you.

“I was wondering if you’re into soccer?”

His brows furrowed. Hell no, he wasn’t at all.

“You want to watch the World Cup screening with me Saturday night?”

But for you? Well for you, he was the biggest fan in town.

“Sure,” he answered immediately. He couldn’t believe his ears. Was it Christmas already?

“For dinner, there’s a taco truck I like near the sports bar, if you’d like to try.”

He tried not to smile too much, but he was failing miserably. He was two seconds away from puking out the butterflies in his stomach.

“Sounds great,” he breathed. “I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

“Me too.” Your easy voice calmed him.

Kick’s comment crossed his mind. He stilled for a moment and decided he didn’t care what you looked like. The little of you he got to know the past week was enough to get him hooked.

“Well, I only wanted to ask that. I’m going to bed.”

“So soon?”

You let out a small laugh. Oh, he wanted to stay on the phone all night.

“Talk to you again tomorrow, okay? Send me more quizzes.”

After you hung up, he bit down a silly grin as he pulled up your photos again.

The following night, struck with a sudden burst of confidence, Keegan called when you were both in bed. He’d expected the pauses on his end (which was why he always preferred texting), but you didn’t seem to mind. At least he knew you weren’t opposed to talking to him. You stayed on the line for half an hour, your laughter lulled his reeling mind.

Saturday couldn’t have come sooner. He’d shaved that morning and put on some cologne before taking way too long to pick an outfit. He hoped it didn’t look like he was trying too hard.

You declined his offer to pick you up. He didn’t take it personally - he was a patient man after all. But when he’d arrived a little too early, he started to lose his cool the longer he leaned on the streetlamp.

He had to do a double take when he caught sight of you walking towards him. Oh, look at the way you lit up, your smile the same brilliant one like in your photos. You were in those delightful jeans again, your hair bouncing to your steps. He straightened up and met you halfway.

“Hi,” you said when you got to him.

“Hey.” His smile didn’t waver. “You look great.”

You took the words out of his lips, the words that he already had so few of. This was the opposite of catfish because you were far prettier in real life. He needed you to hold his hand because he wasn’t going to look where he was going.

He couldn’t wait to brag to Kick and Ajax.

You looked up at him, eyes bright. “Thank you. You look nice yourself.”

He followed you to join the short queue. He stole a glance as you ordered.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said to the cook, giving your hand a gentle nudge when you tried to pay.

First skin contact. Innocent enough.

But why did it get so warm all of a sudden? He hoped he wasn’t sweating. Fuck, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he shove them in his pockets? How close was the acceptable distance to stand next to you?

Well, he certainly stood close enough for you to catch a faint waft of his cologne.

You meant it when you said he looked good. He wore a light jacket over a black shirt, light washed jeans and sneakers. His jet black hair was styled, a little longer than in his photos. The way he stood with his hands in his pockets accentuated his build, his watch a nice touch.

Sure, curiosity got you at first. It quickly came to light that he didn’t recognise you – granted you used a nickname – but you found it amusing nonetheless. You didn’t even mean it to get that far but after talking to him, you couldn’t help but want more.

Dating was always daunting; putting your heart on the line like that rendered you vulnerable. It wasn’t that he didn’t reciprocate – his company was delightful, but whatever you had between you felt stagnant. You thought your initial assumption was right: he wasn’t looking for anything more. Was this a mistake after all?

You sat on the bench nearby, the drinks between you. You took two bites before you stalled.

Your face twisted. “Why’s this hot?”

“Is it? Mine isn’t at all.”

“It is ridiculously hot.” You blinked the tears away.

“Can’t be. Let me try.”

You handed him the taco, instead he grabbed your wrist and leaned in for a bite.

He gave you an amused smile. “It’s not hot at all. Here, I’ll have yours.”

By now, a few drops of sweat had broken out of your forehead. You didn’t question it when he swapped the paper plates on your thighs and took a huge bite.

It wasn’t supposed to be hot! This was so uncool, at your first meeting at that. Your gaze trained on the ground as you took a small bite of his which actually tasted normal. When you looked up, it was his turn to frown.

“Wait. It is.” He put the taco down. ”It is hot.”

“I told you!”

“Oh God. Oh shit,” he hissed, scrambling for his drink. “Why is it so hot?”

You stifled a giggle. “They must have put the wrong sauce in mine, because yours tastes fine.”

“My tongue had never known such pain. What the hell is in this thing?” He continued gulping down his drink. “Oh no, it’s getting worse.” He sniffled before shoving the last half into his mouth.

“You know you don’t have to eat it, right?” You busted into laughter as he chew with all his might. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

His brows knitted, the agony in his watery eyes as clear as day. You handed him a serviette.

“That’s inhumane, but I’m a man of my word,” he said between hisses, wiping at his forehead. “My mouth is on fire. I need to inhale fire extinguisher.”

You could only offer him your drink which he gladly chugged. Still giggling, you finished your meal before making your way to the bar.

“I’m sorry, that was really embarrassing.” He grimaced through his drying tears, forehead still damp. “But at least you’re laughing. I like it when you laugh.”

You wanted to kiss him right then.

Keegan was the first man to make you willingly lose sleep in a long time, but his inaction didn’t sit right with you. Self-doubt inevitably crept up - maybe you simply weren’t his type, but you were too hooked to not at least shoot your shot despite your mounting fear of rejection. Your heart lodged in your throat when you called him that night.

Oh but his voice was so calm and soothing, and what for? He got you hanging onto every word - some straight up sounded like he was purring. Like now, he had to lean in closer and closer to talk over the noise as the bar continued to fill up. The deep rumble of his laughter so close in your ear got you biting your lip.

You didn’t want to like him so much, but here you were smiling non-stop the past hour. He’d taken his jacket off, his sturdy arms on display as he lay back. Now that was the highlight of his outfit. It didn’t help that he kept looking at you like that either; blue eyes piercing, brows striking with a cool smile.

It was unfair how effortlessly charming he was, like it was simply an unfortunate by product of being Keegan Russ, like he didn’t even mean it.

Well, evidently, Keegan was literally sweating about the humiliating incident. He sincerely hoped you wouldn’t excuse yourself to the bathroom to stand him up, but the smile hadn’t left your pretty face ever since. That was a good sign right?

Halfway into the first half, he extended his arm along the back of your seat, eyes still on the screen pretending to not notice the way your lips curled in amusement. You dragged your chair against his, thighs touching now. His fist clenched when you placed your hand on his knee.

He was secretly glad this was your first date – if he could even call it that. At least there was no pressure to keep making conversation and he could focus on your company, which he thoroughly enjoyed thus far. Was wrapping his arm around your waist an appropriate next move? He itched to be closer.

“How long have you been on Tinder?” You turned to him during halftime.

“A few months now.”

“Any luck?”

He looked away, shaking his head. “I don’t get a lot of matches, and when I do - even after many weeks of talking… Well as it turned out, people just aren’t very interested in dating long distance.”

When his eyes flicked up and met your sympathetic look, he wondered if he shouldn’t have been so honest.

“You? Any luck so far?” he asked quickly.

“I went on a few dates with someone who looked an awful lot like my first crush.” You let out a small laugh. “But that’s all. It didn’t work out.”

A speck of jealousy flickered in his chest. “Tell me about him. Your first crush.”

“Well, I was a late bloomer. It was in high school, he was a sophomore when I was a freshman.”

“Handsome dude?”

“Yes, but I actually never spoke to him.” You tilted your head and smiled. “Well, I did once, kind of. I don’t know what possessed me, but one day I walked up to him and gave him a bar of chocolate. He said thanks, and that was it.”

You looked over him. The crowd had started to move towards the bar

“I’ll get us more drinks before the wait gets too long.” You stood up.

Keegan perked up; he wasn’t going to miss his chance. When you came back, he’d mustered all his courage to tug on your wrist to sit on his lap. There was a glint in your eye as you indulged and he snaked his arm behind you, hand on his knee. You had a playful smile on your lips when you moved it to your waist and wrapped your arm around his neck.

He leaned onto your shoulder, his chest pressing against your side. He watched the way your eyes transfixed on the screen, how your glass would freeze against your lower lip at times. He couldn’t help smiling when you tensed up whenever someone got close to scoring a goal. His other arm wrapped around your waist.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off you when the bar erupted in cheers. You turned to him with a proud grin. Oh, your lips were just right there. He wasn’t going to survive the night.

Your favourite team won and you left the bar beaming. You were glad he offered to walk you home because you still wanted his presence. Your fingers curled around his forearm.

“I didn’t get to ask about your first crush.”

He chuckled to himself. “We were in fifth grade.”

“You ever told her?”

He shook his head. “She hated me. My friends used to tease her about her weight. I didn’t join in but I hung around anyway. I guess when you’re young you do dumb things to fall in.”

You remembered the raucous boys he hung out with.

“Over the summer, I convinced myself to finally say something, but she’d moved away.”

Had he not looked at where you were going, he’d have seen the shock on your face. Your heart skipped a beat. Is he talking about me?

“What was she like?”

“My memory’s fuzzy now, but she had two other girlfriends they teased too but she always stood up for them. Oh, was sassy too.” He smiled. “I used to stand around to overhear her jokes. If I laughed along, she’d stare me down until I left.”

You laughed, too hard for someone who supposedly wasn’t involved in the story. You remembered that too, the way prepubescent Keegan Russ and his dumb bowl cut scrambled away when you gave him bombastic side eye.

You couldn’t believe it. He had a crush on you?

“I think had I spoken up, we’d have been good friends.” He glanced at you with a smile. “You know, when I heard she’d moved away, I came home crying and my mum smacked me upside the head. Told me not to hang around with the shithead boys anymore.”

You stopped in your tracks and took your hand off his arm. “You really don’t recognise me?”

He turned to you, brows furrowed. “What?”

“You used to paste Superman stickers on my Barbie backpack.”

Keegan’s eyes widened. He turned away, a hand over his face, laughing out of pain. No fucking way. He wanted to disappear.

You chuckled. “A new one whenever I managed to peel the previous one off. Said they were boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t recognise you at all.” He lowered his hand. “But you don’t even have the same name?”

“It’s the internet. You’re the weird one for using your real name.”

His brows rose. “You knew it was me all along?”

“Right away.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” He chuckled. “That’s just mean.”

“Was wondering if you remembered, but we were kids. I’m not surprised you didn’t recognise me or forgot.”

The corner of is lips pulled. “Well, I didn’t forget.” And probably won’t. You haven’t left my mind the past week.

And that voice was back, of course. He definitely knew what he was doing, and still you couldn’t get enough.

“Wait, no. Is this it?” He frowned. “Did you talk to me the entire time- meet me just for this?”

“No! No. I wanted to see you.” The edge in his voice stung more than you expected. “I… I didn’t think you’d even want to, because you didn’t make a move.”

His cold eyes searched yours, making your heart ache. If only he knew how much he made you smile, how many times a day you wished he’d replied when you checked your phone. You never wanted to see that pain in his face again.

“Please don’t lead me on,” he finally said, his gaze softening. “Not when you know you don’t want this.”

You wanted to hold him. “I promise I won’t. I know it’s early to say, but I want to try.”

He took a small step towards you. “Are you sure you like me?”

Suddenly he was once again the young Keegan who couldn’t meet your eyes, asking if you wanted to share the last of his favourite chocolate with him.

“Are you?”

“Positive.” His icy blues were back on you. You saw the wary hopefulness in them.

You closed the gap, arms wrapping around his waist. You let out a small sigh as your head rested on his shoulder.

“May I see you again?” He pulled you closer, his voice lighter now. “I want to go on a date. A real one, with my first crush with the death stare.”

You laughed against his neck.

Keegan hated getting ahead of himself, not knowing how many more times his hopes could be shattered before the shards get too small to meet again. But as he held you, he let his mind drift, just a little further, just this time.

With his eyes closed, he thought that maybe in the future - perhaps soon enough, someone would be waiting at the base to welcome him back with a smile and an embrace just like this.

More Keegan: fake dating, werewolf AU

A/N: I think the song represents the uncertainty in the initial stages of falling, when you keep trying to swallow the hopefulness, cautious of each other’s intentions as to not get hurt. It takes bravery handing your heart over to a stranger, unsure if they’ll just stomp on your feelings or be the best thing ever.

@sofasoap @b1rds3ye @macravishedbymactavish @shadofireshinobi @two-gh0sts

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Call of Duty Christmas 2023

(aka this year's new fixation hit so hard I had to draw this)

@glitterypirateduck for CODHOLIDAY2023

[siriusleee]

For @glitterypirateduck Call of Duty Christmas Special. Author's Note: For the holiday season, I wanted to write some things for some of my mutuals I've met the past year I've had my blog. This is for @lethargicluv - have fun with finals. Christmas Movie: White Christmas Premise: Simon is your neighbor; neither of you want to spend Christmas alone.

It’s bitterly cold outside, but the plates in your hand keep you warm as your boots crunch across the snow covering your yard. Thankfully it’s a quick trip next door; you knock the crusted snow off of your boots on the steps before juggling the plates around so you can knock on Simon’s door. 

You see his curtain twitch and know that he’s looking out to see who’s knocking. Half a minute later, you hear the locks being undone and the door swings open.

“I brought you dinner,” you say before he can say anything, shoving the plates towards him. “I saw your truck pulled in late, and I had extra. I figured you hadn’t eaten.”

His eyebrows knit together above the black hospital mask he’s always wearing, but he still reaches out to take the plates from you. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem!”

The two of you stand awkwardly in the cold until finally, you give a half turn, shooting a smile over your shoulder at the man glowering in his doorway.

“Have a good night!”

The next day the plates are washed and stacked on top of each other outside your front door. 

It starts a game between the two of you: every time you bake something there’s just too much extra for yourself, and every time Simon spots something wrong at your place he’s there to fix it, grumbling about your shit landlord. 

“You’re going to break your neck one of the days,” he grumbles at you, bouncing on your front steps, the wood bowing beneath his weight. You frown at him from your spot at the front door; you’re still bleary-eyed from the sleep he interrupted with his knocking on the door. 

“I’ll call the landlord and have him fix it,” you tell him, biting off a yawn. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

You can tell from the way he stands that in less than an hour, he’ll be there with a hammer to straighten everything back up. 

It goes on for weeks until you’re knocking on his door again, but this time empty-handed. Simon opens the door, fully dressed like he somehow expected your request. 

“Do you think you help me get a Christmas tree?”

You almost expect him to say no, but agrees without question, and an hour later finds the two of you wandering between pre-cut Christmas trees. The snow falls lightly, tangling in the fur around your hood. 

The aisles are thin, picked almost clean of everything but the Charlie Brown trees. You pause to look at one, fingertips tracing the green needles before moving on to the next.

“Bit late for a tree isn’t it?” Simon asks from behind his mask, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Yeah probably. It just felt a little depressing around my house.”

You’re evaluating the trees with an air of expertise, but not knowing what you’re looking for. While you do, you find yourself talking to Simon, just to fill the silence. 

“I usually go home each year, but my parents are going on a vacation this year. I wasn’t going to decorate for just myself, but then everything seemed so boring and drab. What do you think of this one?

This one is skinny and little but still filled out more than most of the trees on the lot.

“I don’t think it’ll hold any ornaments,” Simon says, amusement coloring his voice, “but it isn’t the worst-looking one.”

“That’s fine because I don’t have any ornaments.”

You step back, admiring the tree before giving yourself a small nod. 

“Yeah, I think this one. Do you think we have to ask the guy-”

You don’t have the sentence out of your mouth before Simon gently nudges you out of the way and shoulders the tree. You trail him back to the front of the lot, watching how green needles shower onto his back. He pauses just long enough to let you press a bill into the lot owner's hand before setting off to his truck. 

He doesn’t let you help tie the tree down in the back of the truck, telling you to go buckle in instead. You watch him wrestle with the limbs in the rearview mirror, hurriedly pretending to be playing on your phone when he climbs in.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

Christmas music plays on the radio as Simon takes the two of you through a drive-through, passing your burger and fries without hurry. The two of you eat in the parking lot, and you try not to stare at his face as the two of you eat. 

“Are you - are you doing anything for Christmas this year?” You ask timidly, picking at your fries. In all the weeks the two of you had spent rotating around each other, you’d never seen anyone else at his house, never heard him mention anyone else. 

“Watch TV and sleep,” Simon replies, wiping his hands on a napkin before tucking his trash into the bag. “Don’t do much other than that usually.”

“Oh.” Is your simple reply, and then you speak again before thinking. “Do you want to come do Christmas at my house? Just me and you?”

You see the way he moves slower with the trash and the way he hurriedly pulls his mask back over his face. You think you’ve overstepped a boundary, but Simon finally answers as he puts the truck into reverse.

“Ok.”

It starts a nervous excitement in you. You can’t remember the last time someone’s come by to visit, much less the last time you’ve had someone over for a holiday. You find yourself nearly on your hands and knees scrubbing at the baseboards to try to get the place gleaming. The Christmas tree Simon carried into your house is sparsely decorated, but what you lack in ornaments, you make up for in enthusiasm. 

You hadn’t known what to cook - would a guy like Simon like traditional Christmas food? You’d spent forty-five minutes at the grocery store standing in front of the Christmas hams before your hands migrated over to the steaks. What man doesn’t eat steak? You’d chosen two: a bigger one for Simon, and promptly spent too much money on all the sides. 

It all culminated in your house being cleaner than you’d ever had it, the steaks cooking in the oven, and your fingernails nervously bitten down as you tried not to watch out the window obsessively to see when he would finally exit his house. 

Five minutes before he agreed to be at your house for dinner, you spotted Simon exit his front door, not bothering to lock it after it swung shut behind him. You leave the television on to try and fill the silence - Bing Crosby talking about Christmas in White Christmas - and open the door just a minute too early to be completely casual. 

Simon stands on the bottom step, too tense to be casual himself. His black mask is gone for the evening, and it’s an act of extreme willpower not to stare at his face. You have to force yourself to keep your eyes on his own.

“Hi,” you feel lame, so you keep going, “you’re right on time.”

“Traffic was pretty light tonight.”

You laugh; the corner of Simon’s mouth twitches up, and your stomach flips. You step aside, a wordless invitation, and Simon takes it. 

He looks gargantuan in your living room as he takes in the last-minute Christmas decorations, and the classic Christmas movie on the TV. His nostrils flare.

“Smells good.”

You feel a satisfied blush start at your chest, so you scurry around him to try to hide it. 

“Thanks; it’s the chef special tonight.”

You check the potatoes; the entire time you can feel Simon’s eyes boring into your back. It makes you nervous in a way you haven’t been in a long time, your fingers hesitate on the pan before turning around to face him again.

Simon’s leaning against the kitchen island - much too casual for the irregular heartbeat that you’ve had since you first opened the door for him. Nervously, you rub your hands on your dark jeans and try to think of something to say that doesn’t make the conversation fall flat. 

“I didn’t get you a present; I couldn’t figure out what to get a guy like you.”

“I don’t need anything; it’s nice enough you invited me over.”

You lean across the counter, emboldened by the look on his face. You trace the edge of the countertop and let yourself study the wrinkles and scars that litter Simon’s face. 

“How else was I supposed to pay you back for all the things you’ve done around here.”

Simon shrugs, a mischievous look in his eye that you want to follow, but not tonight. He pulls out one of the bar chairs with his feet, settling down on it like he’s always been there. 

“You’ve got some loose shingles on the roof - I think I’d fix those for a New Year's dinner.”

Your grin is so wide it nearly breaks your face apart. 

“I can do that.”

[random-thot-generator]

Where the Love Light Gleams

A 'LOVE THY FRENEMY' HOLIDAY ONE-SHOT

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

-

Summary: Simon comes home for Christmas.

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, So. Much. Fluff., No use of Y/N

(Notes: Wrote this for @glitterypirateduck and her Christmas fic challenge. Merry Christmas, Ducky. Love you, my enabler! (((hugs)))

My inspiration was the song 'I'll Be Home for Christmas'. Thought it would be perfect for Ghost, since he has such a tragic association with Christmas Eve. Decided to give my favorite masked man a happy Christmas for a change. Oh, and there's a little musical accompaniment for the last scene in the fic. It's linked. It's how I imagined Fiona and Ned would sound when singing the song. Hope you all enjoy and happy holidays. May your love light always gleam.)

Word Count: 4.2K

[image via TENOR] [Skull Divider] [Mistletoe Divider] [Banners]

I'll be home for Christmas You can plan on me Please have snow and mistletoe And presents under the tree

Christmas Eve will find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams

— Kim Gannon and Walter Kent, 'I'll Be Home for Christmas'

-

Simon doesn't 'do' Christmas.

He's not told you why he doesn't celebrate the holiday, but it's something deep-rooted and painful, something he avoids speaking about or even acknowledging. You don't push; that's not the way to get Si to talk. You accept it as is and wait for it to come out in its own way, in its own time.

When you mention decorating for the holidays, he offers no comment. He usually likes to tease you about such things, seems to find it amusing how much you love decorating for each season and holiday, but Christmas is different. It pulls a dark shroud around him that leaves him brooding and quiet.

He doesn't gripe like he would when retrieving your boxed decorations from the attic, never utters a complaint when you ask him to help get the tree in its stand. Yet he doesn't linger once you begin to decorate it, instead taking himself off to the pub, returning hours later reeking of scotch.

When he announces a few days later that he's most likely going to be deployed over Christmas, you're not surprised; disappointed, yes, but not surprised. You don't ask if he volunteered for the assignment; you don't want to know.

"Sorry, doll," he mutters after giving you the news, then he takes himself off to his office and closes the door. You'd be more upset about it, but his apology is sincere, that invisible shroud hanging heavy on his shoulders and bowing his head.

When you follow him to the door a few days later to say your goodbyes, you hug him tight and whisper, "Going to miss you, Grumpy. I'll check in, alright? So, don't worry about me. Just... stay safe. Come home."

He clutches you to him, a ragged breath gusting past your ear. "Gonna miss you, too, doll."

You pull back and give him that crooked smile that makes his chest constrict. You watch him hitch up the duffel on his shoulder, adjust the mask on his face, then he nods to you and steps out the door. He gets about halfway down the walk before you call after him. He pauses, looks back.

"All my X's and O's, Grumpy."

He grunts, even though he feels like he's choking, his voice strained as he replies by rote, "Damn right, they're all mine."

You snort a laugh and shake your head.

He takes another moment to look at you, taking in the little smile on your face, leaning in his doorway, your arms crossed over your chest. You're dressed in one of his old hoodies and leggings, a pair of those ugly fuzzy socks on your feet, Christmas themed, of course. He burns the image into his brain before he turns and trudges through the gate, climbing into his truck and driving away without another backwards glance.

-

Simon spends two weeks on assignment but returns to base in plenty of time to go home for Christmas.

But he doesn't.

Simon surprises Price when he asks to be put on the duty roster over the holidays, the captain knowing that this would have been your first Christmas together as a couple, but he wisely refrains from commenting or asking questions. John knows why Simon doesn't celebrate Christmas; he had just been hoping that this year would be different for his lieutenant.

Simon doesn't call or text, too guilt-ridden to face you, but he reads each text you send, watches every video you share, his heart clenching every time you say his name and tell him you miss him. Because, Christ, he misses you, too. So bloody much.

It's two days before Christmas when Price stops by Simon's office and invites him out for a drink. The captain is leaving for Liverpool in the morning, yet he felt the need to give Simon this one last chance to change his mind about going home, hoping he can bring him 'round by getting him to talk about you. He knows Simon misses you, catches him looking at your photos on his phone, re-watching those videos you've sent, over and over again. The lad wants to go home to you, he's just too bloody stubborn to admit it.

They're strolling down the sidewalk to the King's Crown Pub in Hereford when something catches Simon's eye in a shop window, and Price suddenly finds himself walking alone. Stopping, he turns to see his lieutenant staring through the window, one gloved hand pressed to the glass. Curious, he retraces his steps to see what's captured the other man's attention. His brows climb up his forehead when he sees it's a collection of charm bracelets made of white-gold links, delicate little charms and colored beads dangling on display atop a dark green cloth of crushed velvet.

"Pretty," he comments, noting Simon's avid gaze.

"Look at tha' one charm," Simon murmurs, finger pointing. "It's a li'l stack o' books. See it?"

Price peers through the window, nodding, playing along. "They all got a theme, don't they? Like that one must be for a nurse, an' that one with the books is for a teacher. See the ruler and pencil? Even got a little apple," he says, pointing out the charm and chuckling.

It's a little white-gold apple set with the tiniest red gemstones. Simon's heart gives a flutter in his chest and his breath fogs the window as though it's just been punched out of his lungs. He remembers that you once told him that in literature, apples often symbolized knowledge.

But also love.

"Huh," Price grunts. "Says on the sign ya can choose the charms ya want. That's nice, innit? Makes it more personal."

That does it for Simon. He can see the shop is closed, but they're open tomorrow. If he gets there when they open, he can buy a bracelet and be on the road before lunch. It's a four-hour drive, but if all goes well, he should be home before you leave for the Christmas Eve party at the Dog. Hell, he might even go in for a few minutes, say hello to Ollie.

"Hey, Cap. I know it's late notice, but ya think I might—"

John grips Simon's shoulder, a pleased smile crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. "Say no more, lad. I'll take your name off the duty roster when we get back. Consider yourself on leave, effective tomorrow morning."

-

Simon returns to the jewelry shop as soon as it opens the next day, braving the horde of last-minute shoppers to purchase the bracelet. He spends nearly an hour going over all the different charms available, picking the ones that remind him most of you, but making sure to buy two apple charms, as well as a little skull charm that he couldn't resist.

The shop owner puts the bracelet in a slender, velvet box and wraps it in pretty foil paper, adding ribbons and a bow, before handing it over to him with a warm smile. Simon nods his thanks and tucks it safely inside his coat, heart beating faster as he makes his way back to his truck. He's nervous, he realizes, but that only makes his steps more determined. He's running a little late, but if he makes good time once he hits the M4, he should still get home before you leave for the party.

Once he's on the A417, he peers over at the diminutive gift in the passenger seat, and that nervous fluttering he's been feeling in his chest returns. He hopes you like the bracelet, hopes it makes you smile. He thinks you will like it, thinks you'll probably love it, in fact. He can't wait to put it on your wrist.

He's about an hour into the almost four-hour drive to Banfield when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, glances down to see your name, but doesn't answer, though he wants to. He had decided he was going to surprise you and answering would give him away. So, instead, he waits until he gets the voicemail alert, then hits the play button, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Si! Was thinking about you, so decided to check in. I've been baking all day, getting ready for the Christmas Eve party at the Dog. Fi and Ollie said to tell you hi. Margie and the Gillys send their best, too. Oh! Guess what? Ned and some of his mates are going to be playing at the party. Ollie said they're really good... Anyway, I guess that's it for now. I miss you, Si. Take care of yourself and come home safe, yeah? All my X's and O's, Grumpy. Bye."

Simon's hand is trembling when he pulls the phone away from his ear. "Damn right, they're all mine," he mutters softly. An overwhelming feeling wells up inside him, a feeling so intense it prickles and stings at the backs of his eyes. He huffs a shaky breath and presses play again.

"Hey, Si! Was thinking about you, so decided to check in..."

-

An accident on the M4 delays his arrival, so by the time Simon turns onto his street, it's well past dark and he's well past irritated, or at least he is until he sees his rowhouse come into view. He parks at the curb and sits there, peering through the foggy windscreen, his dark eyes reflecting the lights decorating the front of his home.

Warm yellow string lights twinkle in the cold night air, wound through the bushes and outlining the door and windows. There's a large wreath hanging on the door that's lit up as well, its jaunty red bow slightly fluttering in the wind. It's as pretty as a Christmas card.

Simon sighs out a long breath and it feels like a weight is being lifted off his shoulders as he continues to stare at his house. That's my home, he thinks, our home, and is caught off guard by the revelation, because of the way it makes him feel.

Through the sitting room window, he can just make out the blinking of more Christmas lights, though it appears that the rest of the house is dark. He huffs and shakes his head. He's always griping at you for leaving appliances plugged in or the lights on, but this time, he's glad you did. Grabbing your gift from the passenger seat, he tucks it back into his coat and exits the truck, duffel slung over his shoulder.

That warmth he's grown accustomed to feeling when he returns home now, once more engulfs him again as he makes his way up the walk to the front door. Though he knows you're not at home, that you've already left for the party, he can still feel your presence in the glow of the lights, welcoming him home.

His comes to a halt when he steps through the door. The first thing that hits him is the sweet scent of baked cookies, with hints of orange, pine and warm spices to round out the smell. When he closes the door behind him, sleighbells jingle on the door handle, making him snort out a soft laugh, before he turns to take in the rest of the house.

You've not gone crazy with the decorating, though he told you to do whatever you liked. There are potted poinsettias in the entry, a bit of greenery gracing the door and window frames, pinecones and candles with sprigs of holly arranged on the entrance table. You kept it low-key. For him.

Yet it's the Christmas tree that makes him wince in regret. He had avoided looking at it before leaving, and how sorry he is that he did.

The tree glows in the darkness, drawing him further into the room. You had kept it simple with the decorations for the tree as well. There are strings of stale popcorn and dried cranberries draped over the branches. Carved wooden ornaments and glass baubles, worn from years of loving use, are suspended on thin loops of ribbon. A delicate, filigreed gold star tops the twinkling boughs. He sighs, bumping a wooden nutcracker figure with his index finger.

And then he spots his ornament.

It's a half-skull made of clay, formed to mimic his mask, but with a Santa hat on it, 'Simon' etched into the cranium in your neat script. It's obviously hand-made, though done so with care and skill, and he wonders how long it took you to make it. He can picture you sitting at the island in the kitchen, tongue caught between your teeth as you molded and shaped the air-dry clay with your deft little fingers.

When he strokes his thumb over the skull, he can feel that there's something also carved into the back of the ornament. Turning it over, he sees you've carved 'Grumpy' into the clay, then beneath it, 'All my X's and O's', and he laughs.

"Damn right, they're all mine, doll," he says, laughing to himself.

And if his laugh sounds a little choked, a little watery, there's no one's there to hear it but him.

-

The Dog is bustling, the villagers all come down to the local for Ollie's Christmas Eve party. Dear old Ned and his lads are set up in the back corner, playing a lively rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', his long-suffering wife seated nearby, clapping along.

Ollie is behind the bar, resplendent in his Santa coat and hat, serving up pints of cider and winter ale, while Fiona and Margie supervise the tables laden with food. Pushing through the kitchen door, you side-step your boss with another tray of freshly baked sausage rolls, the smell of them drawing a drunken conga line into your wake.

"'Scuse me. Pardon," you repeat again and again as you wade through the crowd, tray held aloft.

Fiona takes the tray from you when you finally make your way over, placing it on the table before motioning you to join her off to the side. Placing an arm around your shoulders, she whispers, "Take a break, Dee. Ya've been runnin' yerself ragged since ya got here."

She's right. Staying busy keeps your mind occupied, distracts you from the lonely ache that's been plaguing you all day. You thought you had accepted Simon's absence, had resigned yourself to being alone for Christmas, but the feeling has only grown worse as the night's progressed. Still, you can't deny you're feeling a little frazzled, so you nod and pat her hand.

"Was planning on taking break, anyway. Just wanted to get those sausage rolls out first. This lot's eating them faster than I can make them."

Fi snorts a laugh. "Aye, so no need tryin' t'keep up with 'em. Go on, love. Get yerself a drink an' rest. Enjoy the party. Me an' Margie got it covered here."

You offer her a parting smile and head towards the bar, waving Ollie over as you squeeze in between two drunk blokes arguing about the proper ingredients for wassail.

"What can I get ya, sweetheart?" Ollie asks, leaning on the bar in front of you.

You were going to ask for cider, but what comes out of your mouth is, "Two fingers of Dewer's, please."

His eyes go soft and a little sad. "Sure, lass. Comin' right up."

You sigh, feeling like a lovesick eejit, pining after Simon when you know he'll be home in a few days. This is something that you need to get used to since this will no doubt be how you spend the rest of your Christmas holidays for the foreseeable future. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing, really, less than nothing, so you need to just let it go. You'll be fine.

Ollie slides your drink over to you, watching as you take a sip and grimace. He'd laugh if it weren't so bloody heartbreaking. He can see you miss Simon like mad, and the old captain feels his palm itch with the need to box his greenie's damn ears. Sure, he understands why Simon doesn't celebrate Christmas, but you don't, and that's the rub of it. He should at least explain, help you understand.

"Ya doin' alright, love?"

You nod and plaster on a smile. "Yeah, just knackered after all that baking. I'll clean up in the back after my break."

Ollie waves you off. "Leave it. Ya've done enough. Go have a seat an' rest yer feet."

The room erupts in shouts and applause, distracting you both, as Ned and his band finish their song. Ale and cider go sloshing as several in the crowd lift their pints aloft in salute. There's a lull in the din as the band discusses what to play next, then Ned calls for Fiona to join them.

A genuine smile lights up your face when you see your bessie join Ned, the two of them whispering a moment before she nods then takes a calming breath. Not many know it, but Fiona sings like an angel, so this will be a rare treat for everyone.

The room grows quiet as Ned exchanges his fiddle for a guitar, then begins to pluck out the chords to 'I'll be home for Christmas'. The rest of the band sit back to give the pair center stage, letting the sound of the guitar resonate through the room as Ned begins to sing. When Fiona joins in, the room goes completely still.

"Christmas Eve will find me/ Where the love light gleams..."

And suddenly the tears are welling up, your chin wobbling, and you have to duck out of the room and down the hall into Ollie's office, before anyone sees you crying. You drop down into the chair in front of Ollie's desk, feeling so lonesome for Simon, you think your heart might break.

You're still sniffling, swiping at your face with the sleeve of your sweater when you hear the door open behind you, Ned and Fiona's harmonized voices filling the room.

"S-Sorry. Just needed a moment," you stammer out, peeking over your shoulder expecting to see Ollie or Margie standing in the doorway. Your breath hitches in your chest when you see Simon standing there, instead.

"Si?"

"Miss me, doll?"

A sob tears out of your throat as you launch yourself at him, his big arms wrapping around you and catching you up in a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet. "Bloody hell, I've missed ya, love. Had to come back," he tells you, his voice muffled by your neck.

Your hands are grasping his head, kissing him over the mask before he growls and strips it off his face, tossing it aside as he steps forward and kicks the door shut behind him. He doesn't hesitate before carrying forward, setting you on the edge of Ollie's desk as he kisses you with all the yearning and longing he's been feeling since he walked out his door three weeks ago.

You're clinging to him, desperate to feel his hands on you, his lips on you, just needing to feel him. His thumbs wipe away the tears still streaming down your cheeks as he cradles your head in his hands. "Don't cry, doll. Please don't cry," he mumbles against your lips, his own voice sounding haggard.

You sniff, a watery little laugh escaping. "Can't help it. I'm just so happy you're home."

You feel his lips smiling against yours. "Me, too, love," he whispers, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips before pulling away. "I... I got ya a present," he mutters, reaching inside his coat and removing the box. He hands it over, his dark gaze almost shy as he whispers, "Happy Christmas, doll."

Your eyes are wide and unblinking as you take the gift with trembling fingers, eyes darting over it before snapping up to meet his. "Si, you didn't have to—"

"Christ," he huffs, a soft smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "Shut yer gob an' jus' open it, ya bloody brat," he murmurs, lowering his head to bump his brow against yours.

Your smile is giddy as you peer into his eyes and nod, tearing into the paper, catching your bottom lip between your teeth before opening the slender box. You gasp when you do.

"Oh, Si..." you breathe out, fingertips lightly tracing over the individual charms. "It's beautiful. It's... perfect!"

You're positively beaming when you throw your arms around his neck again, hugging him with all your might. He rumbles out a laugh, hugging you back just as tight. "'M glad ya like it, doll. Knew I had t'get it fer ya as soon as I saw it."

You sigh, pulling away to peer down at the bracelet again, overwhelmed. "The charms. They're all the things that I love," you say softly, beyond touched. There are tiny cooking utensils, a rolling pin and little cookpot. A little stack of books, a tea pot, a cute little bookworm. Tiny garden tools, flowers. The skull makes you giggle, brushing an affectionate finger over it as you smile. And the apples, two of them, one set in red gems, the other in green. "I love this so much, Si."

"Want me to help put it on yer wrist fer ya?"

You nod eagerly, handing the box back to him. "Please."

His fingers shake a bit as he takes the bracelet from the box and drapes it over your wrist, his big fingers fumbling a bit before he finally attaches the clasp. He takes your hand by your fingertips, arching your wrist to see how it looks on you, smiling. "Lookit tha'. Knew it would look good on ya."

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks ache, unable to take your eyes off of it. "I love it, Si," you whisper, your eyes drifting up to meet his. "I love it. And I love—"

A sharp rap sounds at the door, cutting you off, and Simon thinks he might kill whoever is on the other side. He growls, bumping his head against yours in frustration. You sniff a little laugh and peck his lips before calling out, "Just a sec." You stroke his stubbled jaw. "Best get your mask," you whisper to him.

He's adjusting it on his face when you go to open the door, not surprised to see Ollie standing out in the hallway. "Sorry, Ol. Didn't mean to commandeer your office."

Ollie glances over your shoulder with a shrewd eye. "'S fine. Jus' wanted t'check on the two o' ya." Translation: 'Just wanted to make sure the two of you aren't shagging in my office. Again.'

Simon scoffs, reading between the lines as well. "Don't worry, Ol. We're fine. Still fully clothed, as ya can see. Jus' wanted t'give Dee her present. in private."

"Uh-huh," he grunts, dubious. Yet when you hold your wrist out to show him your bracelet, a proud smile creeps over the older man's face as he admires Simon's gift. "It's lovely, Dee," he tells you, giving Simon an approving nod. "Ya did well, son. Good lad."

Simon's near bursting with pride when he walks you back out into the bar room, eyes smiling above his mask as friends and neighbors come up to welcome him home and wish him a happy Christmas. He doesn't think once about leaving.

As he sits in one of the booths, an arm around your shoulders, relishing the feel of your warmth against his side, he peers out over the pub, takes in all the faces that have become familiar to him, his neighbors and friends, and, yeah, his family. It warms him from the inside out, seeing everyone gathered together, eating and drinking and laughing, the whole scene set aglow by hundreds of twinkling lights.

He hears you sigh and glances down to see you admiring your bracelet again, your face glowing with an inner light that warms him through and heats his blood. It's the same light that sees him through the hard battles, that leads him out of the darkness when he's lost, that will always guide him home.

He pulls you tighter against him, burying his mask in your hair to breathe you in. He thinks about that song Fi and Ned were singing when he entered the pub, that one line replaying in his head.

'Christmas Eve will find me/ Where the love light gleams...'

And he finally understands what the term 'love light' really means, because you're glowing with it.

And so is he.

-

[amongthe141]

The Gifts that keep on giving...Part 1

Summary: Head cannons for if reader was stuck with some Task Force 141 and KorTac men (With some surprises) for Christmas, what would be the best surprise gift to give them?...UGLY SWEATER EDITION

Challenge of: @glitterypirateduck CODHOLIDAY2023 (Yes I'm early but I have a lot of stuff I'm trying to do for this Challenge and really, who doesn't start celebrating the day after Thanksgiving...am I right?!?!).

See below for the movie inspiration for these head cannons for challenge :P

Captain John Price

Would blush when handed the present. Him being Captain and in charge knew you were up to something when you pleaded for him to allow an extra crate onboard. So when handed the soft pressed present the blush is part surprise and embarrassment that he didn't have a gift for you. He would take his time unwrapping it to only get that shit eating smile when he looked at it, immediately putting it on and pulling out a cigar to match the reindeer. You completely forgot that it wasn't the completed look and ran to grab the Santa Hat replacement for your dear Captain.

Simon Ghost Riley

You would be too nervous to watch him open up the present, because let's face it his big wondering brown eyes would just stare at you and would make your anxiety literally kill you before he would even open it should you have waited. But it was your eyes that couldn't leave him as he walked out of his corner room where you placed the simple present with a simple "Ghost" written on it sporting the sweater like it was nothing. As he walked by headed to where Johnny was shouting at him that his sweater was better than Ghosts and the lot of them, you believe you heard a little ghost whisper "Cheeky" along with a thanks.

Johnny Soap MacTavish

As soon as he saw you round the corner the inner child in him escalated his voice and excitement to mock level 10, thank goodness you weren't in a spot where it was imperative to remain silent. Sometimes his accent made words hard to understand but he was a rambling mess currently. He had the wrappings off and the sweater on in a heartbeat and he would go running around showing off his sweater to everyone and scolding their "ok" sweater choices before returning to you as he lifted you up off your feet for a hug. He would of course then bring out the secret booze he had for everyone for Christmas.

Kylie Gaz Garrick

Would be completely shell shocked silent as you slid the wrapped gift you made sure was perfectly wrapped for him. He would look at you then the gift a couple times before you told him to hurry up before you opened it for him. He wouldn't ruin the wrapping paper and you would sigh in utter suspense until he had the wrapping paper off the sweater perfectly. He would grin up at you uttering how perfect this was and later as the ugly sweater party died down would sit next to you as you shared a tablet watching Home Alone together.

Alex Keller

His extremely loud boisterous laugh would strip away the sudden fear that overcame you as you watched him open the present you thought was the perfect sweater for him. It was a sudden ping inside yourself that perhaps the ugly sweater you picked out was the wrong choice...too insensitive...perhaps too soon...which wasn't the case to your instant relief. You had been there to help Alex through his rehab and not once did Alex ever show of slowing down. It would become Alex's go to sweater for Christmas for years to come and also became a staple request that any actual Gingerbread cookies with missing legs were reserved for him and him alone.

Alejandro Vargas

It was well known that you and Alejandro had a thing for tacos. During your stay with his task force you were introduced to authentic and unbelievably flavorable tacos, much so that months later you had to beg him to coach you over Zoom on how to cook it since Taco Bell fell flat. "You ruined fastfood tacos for life now Ale, you owe me". At first he was confused why ugly sweaters were a thing but soon just shook his head laughing at you as he stripped off his shirt and put it on.

Jesus Chuy Ordaz

Chuy would be sitting silently laughing at Ale and what you just did to him until you plopped his present on his lap. He about rolled his eyes at you but stopped. Not like he would actually talk out loud because the guy is a silent guy but you knew he couldn't deny that ugly sweater was perfect for him. (You know a silent guy like that has a loud ass small dog waiting for him at home that also has a big attitude and is completely spoiled by him...fight me on this cannon I dare you).

Konig

You couldn't explain it but Konig's eyes got even wider underneath the hood when he took his sweater out of his Christmas bag. You and the big guy had been bonding over monster movies over Halloween holiday and you just had to continue the trend. You had your own sweater for the occasion, but you also showed Konig that you had one too of the same exact sweater because it literally was your favorite ugly sweater too. The next day you ordered him the T-Shirt version as you couldn't help but notice, and how police and quiet he was not to upset you, that he was burning up too much in the sweater version.

Horangi

Honestly, why wouldn't Horangi have a Tiger ugly Christmas Sweater (You know who you are you little 141 Monster AU writers). You didn't approve of his horrible gambling problems, but you couldn't help yourself from giving him a card game of blackjack to see which sweater he would end up with. Oh, believe me they both would have tigers in them, but they weren't as atrocious as the ugly one he lost to having. Not to mention you sewed in actual bells to jingle as he walked around on the wreath part. He actually deep down loved it because honestly tigers are the cats meow.

BONUS

Philip Graves

You thought to yourself, could there not be a more perfect sweater out there. And you were right, the man ate it up and wore it several times this Christmas and multitudes of Parties. You both loved and hated it but Christmas was about joy and giving. You did kindly have to decline his attempts at inviting you to go with him until you had to tell him off that you would have no choice but to return him if he asked again.

OOC BONUS

Frank Woods

@efingart I hope you enjoy this sweater as much as I do for Frank. Though of course nothing compares to his skin for Black Ops Cold War. If you know, you know...mistletoe!

SELFISH BONUS

Nikto

You knew he probably wouldn't get the reference but Nikto gladly wore your sweater along with the shiny black new knife that you had packaged with a red bow along with the sweater. You thought it was really cute how he walked around showing everyone the knife and how well it fit in your leg pocket for easy access and how the handle gripped nicely. It was more then the seldom one words he used or the growls and gruffs you usually got more of than most.

WRITERS BONUS

What I'd wear if I was the reader.

@glitterypirateduck I can't really place where my love for Ugly Sweaters came from BUT it's in one of my favorite KINDA Christmas holiday movies on the modern retelling of Pride and Prejudice.

[dragonbe-writing]

Let It Snow (x John Price)

Day 1 of @glitterypirateduck's December Challenge!

(it wouldn't be a college kid doing a challenge if the first day wasnt late LMFAO)

This is (obviously) inspired by the song, so it's all cute and sweet. John Price coming home for Christmas for some much needed cuddles. Gender neuteral reader/ no descriptive pronouns. Use of pet names (duh it's Price). Only about 500 words, but it's nice.

I'm using this challenege to push myself back into writing, but I am about to start finals so bear with me for this first week. Enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four months.

That’s how long John had been away. 

Four- miserable -months. 

Stuck in the desert, sand in every part of his being, sweating day in and day out. No rain, no relief. 

He’s fucking tired. He needs his love, and he needs them now. 

Yet he’s here, at the airport, looking at the list of delays and downright cancellations. There’s a snow storm brewing, causing some difficulty up in the air. He’s flown in worse, he figures, but he knows they're doing their job. 

His leg bounces sporadically. Another flight cancelled. Another group of people who won’t be home for Christmas. That won’t be him. It can’t be. 

He pulls his phone out, huffing as he entered his password. 

Still at the airport, love. Not looking great. 

God, he hates himself. If not for his stupid job, he’d be home with them. They’d be rambling about something that happened while he was gone, or maybe gossiping about a new tenant in their building. 

Another flight cancelled. This one, close to the area he was flying to. 

Shit. 

A vibration pulls him from his head, making him look down. 

That’s alright, baby. I just want you safe <3

He damn near growls. It’s not alright, and he knows it. But they're so sweet, they wouldn’t dare even give him the impression that they’re sad. But he knows. He can picture it in his head- his sweet thing curled up in their bed, alone, again, heartbroken that he’ll miss Christmas. 

Another flight cancelled. His flight. 

He can’t sit anymore. He stands angrily, bag slung over his shoulder as he marches for the exit. People move for him- who wouldn’t, he’s huge and pissed. He’s already on the phone by the time he’s outside the crowded, loud airport. 

“Nik? I need a favor.”

~~~

He doesn’t even take the elevator in their building. 

He practically ran up the four flights of stairs to get to their apartment. He’s knocking on the door before he knows it, already smiling to himself. He dropped his bag to the side. 

Seconds feel like hours, and he thinks for a second that something terrible happened. But then the door opens, and his love leaps into his arms. 

And he’s home. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he chuckles, burying his face in their neck and breathing in their scent. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. Missed you so much,” they whisper to him. He can hear the tremble of their voice, and he knows they’ve been crying. “I thought your flight was canceled?”

“Didn’t really think I’d leave you alone for Christmas, would ya?” he spoke, his voice deep and relaxed. They laugh, and it’s the best present he’ll get all year. He carries them inside, sitting on the couch. The news is on the TV, talking about the snow, about all the flights canceled. He reaches over and grabs the remote, turning it off. 

“They said we’re supposed to get quite a bit,” they say, looking up at him with those beautiful eyes he adores. 

“It can snow all it wants, now. Hope it gets you out of work all month,” he smiles, kissing them softly. “Hope nothin’ bothers us.” 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”