#depending on price | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 8 months

Note

This might sound so cringe and cliche, but I wanna be of help in some way-

how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

Cringe and cliche are quite on brand for me, tbh.

It starts as a concussion, a stiffness in his neck. A pinch in his shoulder.

Then it changes shape, shifting, evolving, into something more. A tenuous dance held together by silken threads. He tugs on the ends sometimes, just to watch little pieces of you begin to unravel. Raw skin, untouched and new bared to his curious eyes.

You’ve thrown him off-kilter, left him feeling strange. All asunder.

He shouldn’t be too surprised by the way you unmoor him so easily. Your eyes swallow the atmosphere around him, eating through gravity. Weightless, he’s left to drift in the aether until you snatch him from the air, leaving him wing-clipped, and kept cupped in the soft swells of your palm.

It’s greed, he thinks. That awful little thing that makes him keep coming back for more.

The helicopter crash did a number of things on him—mild concussion, a fractured rib, sprained wrist; it seemed to have flipped his insides all askew for a moment when he plunged to the earth before somehow righting themselves when he'd landed—but in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, it could have been a lot worst.

A fact Gaz seemed to have picked up on quicker than he had when they'd met in the medical bay together, holding their broken bodies with trembling hands.

(Or maybe threaded together by a statuette of Nefertem laced in the fibres of their hearts.)

"What's this now," Gaz asked when he limped in, knee smarting without the surge of adrenaline keeping him upright. Mirth rolling through his teeth, ge offered Price a fractured grin that very likely might have been a grimace. "Two for two? Might be a sign, cap…"

"A sign for what?"

Gaz shrugged, pressing tender fingers against the gash on his forehead. "Stay the fuck out of helicopters. Take the bloody bus instead."

There's a retort in the back of his throat, but it's swallowed when you walk in, hands gripping a medical bag between blanching knuckles. He's closest to the door, and you turn to him with an air of pensive uncertainty that nudges the spot inside of him that preens under authority. That likes law, order, and the simplicity of life. A natural-born leader. He plays the part, of commander and captain, and dips his head toward Gaz, a silent motion meant to convey him first.

The always in that is ironclad, he thinks. Brassbound. Even if he was bleeding out on the pavement. His men, his boys, first.

Except, he catches Gaz doing the same thing toward him. A stalemate, then.

You're new, he notes; ears still wet, face still green. He braces himself to step in, to lay down the authority you need before you flounder, unsure what to do, but instead of being met with uncertainty, he finds himself breathing in your ire.

"Well, heroes," you snip, brow pinching together in displeasure. "One of you has to go first, don't you? So while I put my stuff on the table, I expect you to have figured it out amongst yourself, yeah?"

And it's—

It's something.

A strand of static in the air. Direct current to his heart. It thuds in a strange murmuration, off rhythm, off balance. But it makes sense. You'd thrown him so wildly off kilter.

He clears his throat of the soot that congeals the back, and nods once. Sharp and jerky.

"Right, yeah…"

Price turns to Gaz, brows pinched in the middle. A messy bow.

It isn't like him to be so askew, but you turned everything upside down before he could familiarise himself with the world in its right state. He's adrift for a moment. Floundering, he notes, tasting something sweet behind his teeth.

Gaz meets his eyes somewhere in the fog, the furrow in his brow asking the questions he won't voice aloud—you alright, cap?—but he isn't sure what he's meant to say. Everything feels like it was knocked loose inside of him, left to roll off shelves and clatter to the floor. Disorganised chaos. Awash. Lost in tangled webs. He isn't used to this. To feeling so useless, so askew.

He later finds it just the concussion warping the edges of his mind, turning his thoughts into a slurry. That the mild part was an oversight, one that was immediately corrected by you—firm fingers holding his chin still, nails scratching against his beard as you peered into his eyes with a clinical air of detachment that shouldn't have made his heart beat as loud as it was.

You smell of summer rain. The musk of water on a hot pavement. He breathes it in until it's clogging the back of his throat, so thick he can almost taste it. So heavy, so heady, his head swims. Ozone. Charred wood. War tucked in a bottle.

The soft fingers against his pulse was a shock, made potent by the little curl of your brow when you counted the beats per minute and found they were much too fast. He isn't embarrassed. Doesn't think he has it in him anymore to feel that way, but there's a sense of frustration in the back of his mind as you move around him, commandeering him with an ease that leaves him feeling a little breathless.

"You're concussed," you say at last, lips pitching downward as you read his charts, the scrawl left behind by the nurse who'd seen him earlier. The one who promptly sent him to you. "And it isn't mild."

With that, and a list of things he ought to do (non-negotiable), you send him on his way. Gaz, too. Fixed up with gauze and made shiny and new.

Soap asks why he's so quiet later when they meet for a debriefing later on (one that he knows is definitely on the list of things you told him not to do), and has to stop the rip current from spilling past his lips.

"He's concussed," Gaz supplied, narrowed eyes clipping the side of his face when it lands; a physical blow. "Doc said he needed rest. But good luck telling him that."

"Don't need rest," he grumbles. There's a blossom of pain in his temple. A little sapling that flourishes under the waning sunlight. "'M fine."

They don't believe him, but the debriefing is too short to push him to lay down, and he spends the next hour pretending he's not seeing shadows in his periphery. That the words on the pages don't bleed together.

(That the scent of Petrichor doesn't glue to the back of his throat.)

When the hurt in his head dims, he finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Meek and unassuming. A wolf in sheep's clothing. It lingers long after the meeting has ended and he's ushered to the barracks for rest. Home tomorrow, Gaz promises on the tail end of yawn. Gonna sleep for a whole year, I think.

Aye, gonna head home in the morning, Soap murmurs, but his eyes don't stray from the corner where Ghost leans, chin dipped low to his chest.

(Price wouldn't put it past him to be asleep already.)

They tell him to get some sleep, dressing the worry in their voice as a friendly admonishment, and he takes it as it is.

But rest doesn't come.

He's curious about you. The little hellion that managed to snatch him clean from the air, and cup him in the palm of your too-small hands.

(He wants to feel it again.)

It begins as idle curiosity.

Price is a large man full of bulk and grit. The snarls in his throat command authority, respect. He isn't used to feeling so wing clipped, sidelined, and he blames that on why he seeks you out.

A pinch in his shoulder. His chest feels swollen around the broken rib. His knee hurts. There's an ache in his throat. A throb in his kidneys.

Each time is met with the same stern expression, firm hands. You commandeer him around the room, dragging out the ailments with ease that always seems to leave him off-kilter and breathless.

He realises what it is the fourth time he comes to your office, exacerbating some mild pain.

You take up space. All of it. Any crevasse, or corner is immediately filled by you. You have this presence about you that is so at odds with the meek façade you carried on your countenance like an ill-fitting mask when he'd first laid eyes on you.

You're an enigma, a paradox. A riddle begging to be solved. He wants to take you into his hands and pull you apart until your insides are bared to him, true and real, and known.

He's met people like you in his lifetime. Leaders in roles that don't fit them. He thinks you belong in worn pages of history, tucked behind a desk as you commandeer the world around you with firm hands and a gnarled smile instead of standing before him, musing softly at whatever ailments he throws your way.

Despite his plethora of issues, you tackle them all with an air of severity and seriousness that he finds kinship in, touching softly at the twined mass that writhes before him. The cuts in your gaze are made from the same shorn razor as his, and he wants to see what's behind that ill-fitting mask.

He wants to see you slip.

But you don't.

Tongue between teeth, clenched so hard that blood blooms and swells in the tip, you keep everything locked tight to your chest, and usher him out with pantomime remedies to heal his farcical hurts.

Price isn't sure why he keeps going—curiosity, maybe. An attraction that cracks like lightning striking through his chest. A gale of turbulence that leaves him seaswept and standing on shaking knees. He doesn’t know what to do with the kinetic energy that buzzes in his veins, begging to be free, and so he tests. Pulls and tugs at the seams that keep you spooled tightly together just to see that fissure that once split across your face, leaking fury and fire into the air until it ripped through his nerves, an electrical fire, and set him alight from the inside out.

(He finds he likes the way it hurts.)

As much as he tugs, he finds he likes it when you pull back.

"Should be careful," you coo, and the syrupy sweetness of your voice sparks against some dormant part of his mind. "You seem to have a lot of bad luck when it comes to ailments."

He shrugs. "Just unlucky."

"Or you're being cursed."

"Oh, yeah?" He hums. "Could be."

You offer a flimsy smile, but it’s enough to soothe the ruffle through his plumage.

"What's your name?" He asks, fingers plucking at the gossamer that sits between you, unsettled by the quiver in his chest.

The smile you flash at him is all teeth. "Sekhmet."

Laswell doesn't ask why when he requests your records, but he senses the confusion in her voice when she calls.

"All of them?"

He grunts in response.

"I vetted them personally, John… but," there's a shuffle in the background. Boxes sliding on linoleum. She's overseeing the tearing up of Shepherd's office, and this minute request suddenly turns his stomach sour. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It's just—"

He isn't quite sure what to say. He was weakened and flummoxed by the world around him. You turned the tipping axis on its head, leaving him feeling asunder.

"Heard they were quite rough with you," she teases, an olive branch. An excuse. "Bossing around the boss. Is this what it's about?"

He scoffs, then, and only feels an inkling of pain. "No, Laswell. And I wasn't bossed around."

"Manhandled?"

It gives him pause. That feeling from before swells in his chest. Soft hands against his talons, clipping his wings.

"No," he mutters, but the airiness of his voice gives him away.

Laswell, in a feat of mercy, just hums. "They're good, John. Good for this team."

Good for you, she doesn't say. John thinks she doesn't have to. He hears it, anyway.

There are cracks inside of him, ones made from the chipped clay that once concealed an unslaked black hole.

You fill space, he thinks.

He isn’t surprised to find you fill the gaps inside of him, too.

He goes again, but this time it’s real. A bullet grazed his shin, deep enough to warrant stitches, and finds you waiting for him with that clipboard pinched between your hands.

The look on your face gives him pause. It’s pulled taut, coiled like a defensive viper, but where he expects the same clinical efficiency and detached airs, he instead is met with a palpable sense of uncertainty—too much, he thinks, like the first time you walked into the room, unsure and wobbling on unsteady feet.

His heart thunders under your prying gaze. “Need some stitches,” he says, if only to fill in the terse silence that settles over the room, hushed and aggrieved.

“Right,” you echo, eyes dropping to the blood that runs in streaking rivulets down his leg.

And you say nothing else after, working quietly as you knit skin back together and sponge the drying blood from the wry thatch of curls that blanket his shin.

Price takes in the paleness of your lip, pinched tight against your clenched teeth. The deep ravine that cuts a line between your brows, heavy with shadows and flooded in some strange amalgamation of anger—potent enough that he can catch the embers in the air on his tongue—and this uncharacteristic sense of disquiet that makes your shoulders tense, your hands slacken. The firm, sure touch is gone—replaced, instead, with clouded unease—and you no longer commandeer him around the room, catch him from the air and manoeuvre him to your fanciful whims. You nudge, now. Soft utterances; requests.

You don’t move space to fit yourself between the brackets. You linger in the periphery.

He isn’t accustomed to this, and the hesitancy in your brow needles behind his ribs, pinching and pushing until he’s left feeling that same, strange sense of weightlessness as before. But where you led him around by the tip of his ears, he finds himself unmoored.

(He likes the loss of control, but only when it’s tethered to your hand.)

His wound is patched up, skin knitted together with silken black lines that cut a neat crisscross through his tumid skin. There is no reason to linger, despite the weight on his tongue urging him to speak.

But you strike first, catching him at the door.

"Is there a problem?" You ask, words stripped bare, and masticated between clenched teeth. Reluctance is a heavy weight on your brow when he turns to you, as if you don't want to ask, but are compelled to. Forced to.

It's the first time he's felt any sense of control around you. He stretches his wings.

"Problem?" He echoes, and tucks his hands beneath his arms. Steadying his stance. Preparing for the fight.

You mimic his pose, but grab the knobs of your elbows between tense fingers instead. There's fire in your eyes. The room fills with smoke.

"You asked for my papers."

The meagre file tucked away in his cabinet spoke of your accomplishments in the same detached, clinical distance as one of the many façades you adopt. It listed your education, your former employment, and your accolades in Times New Roman, all standard affairs. Impressive, of course, but he found it all to be quite lacklustre.

It didn't mention the firmness of your fingers when you take his pulse or commandeer him to your liking. It said nothing about the paralysing weight in your gaze, vipers tucked in the corners of your eyes when he meets your stolid authority with his own fiery wrath.

(Or the softness of your cheeks when you try to hide a smile. The admonishing pinches made in jest when he says something that distracts you from your task.)

"I did."

"Okay," you breathe heavily through your nose. "Why?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

"You just—" another breath. He has the peculiar urge to syphon the next directly from your lungs, to taste your air on his tongue. "You come here, week after week, with some—illness, and just—"

"Just what?"

"If you have a problem," you say at length, eyes flashing. "You could have come to me? One on one. I would have—"

"A problem?" He singles the word out, tossing it back at your teeth. “I don’t have a problem.”

You laugh, but it's scathing. "Are you undermining me? Is this—hazing?"

“Hazing? No,” he shakes his head, chasing the tail end of your derision. “Consider this vetting.”

And there it is—that fissure. Heat pops from the lavascape, spilling down the split of your lips.

“Right.” You snip, shaking your head. “Well, I hope I met your expectations, Price.”

He huffs, then. The noise is a broken facsimile of a laugh forced through crooked teeth. “Of course you do.” The pinch in your brow wobbles. “Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, love.”

He rents the air with his admission, splits the seams of this tenuous dance you make each week he shows up, speaking of some phantom pain ripped the pages of the textbooks that sit, worn and well-loved, on the shelves behind your desk.

You say nothing when he leaves.

(Or when he rests a piece of himself on the doorframe—a glossy feather from his primary remiges just for you.)

He doesn’t go for the next three weeks, but it isn’t cowardice that drags him away from this oddly shaped choreography. He’s caught in a storm halfway across the world with sand in his hair, and the curve of your confusion nudged between the fibrils of his chest.

In the softness of night, he wonders what you've done with his clipped feather.

Price meets you at the beginning, but this time, he stands in the medical bay with firm knees, and a clear head. Searching, seeking.

The thread vibrates, and he finds you with your back to him, doling out gentle, firm, commands to the medical staff congregated around you. Clinging to your breathy orders with the same listless uncertainty that makes his chest swell with the urge to lead whenever it's rested on his shoulders.

He isn't sure if you can feel the reverberations through the thread, the leftover sutures from when you weaved a needle over the cut on his forearm, and accidentally sewed a piece of yourself into his skin, or if it's just the heavy weight of his gaze burning brands into your back that draws your attention.

(It certainly garners enough from the staff around you, their flighty eyes flickering from the mountain of a man seething at your back, to you—feigning obliviousness as he strips you bare beneath his glacial gaze, cutting a path to your membrane where he knows he'll find the piece of himself that you snipped off months ago.)

When you finally turn, you give a peculiar look over your shoulder, eyes clouded over, gaze inward. He watches you for a moment, taking in the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose. Foreign, of course; but familiar under the cloak of darkness and the hail of gunfire.

The fire still burns in your unreachable depths, but the embers are smouldering. He feels the heat even from this distance, but when you return from whatever thoughts were racing through your head, he finds the look that fixes itself there to be strange. Pensive.

A quiet contemplation as you take in the length of his shoulders, the width of his chest.

His heart hammers against the cages of his sore ribs, leaping to the base of his throat where it pulses like a raw wound.

The whole of his body smarts like a massive contusion—muscles bending at odd angles, bones brittle—but he knows in an instant that he won't mention it to you. He'll tuck the hurt aside. Let it moulder. Let it rot.

This thing between you—crafted from the design of his heart—has been pulled and pinched, flexed and stretched too taut. It's ready to snap. To break.

He waits for that moment, bracing himself for the inevitability of the recoil clapping him against the chest, but it doesn't happen.

You give a small dip of your chin.

Then, you're gone.

You've been moulding him between form hands since the beginning, moving him around however you please.

So, it just feels natural when he follows.

This time it's his chest.

You go through the same dance, steps known. Ingrained in muscle memory. Your hands are firm, authoritative as you lead him on this little chase, pushing and pulling, tugging on the threads that keep him sewn up and whole.

But an incipient path is born. A new routine. The hand on his cheek, as you read his temperature, lingers, thumb brushing over the dividing line that separates skin from wry curls.

The touch is familiar. You’re no strange to feeling around the phantom aches and pains he presents to you, but this is an electric shock that rattles through his nerves. The trail your thumb leaves behind as it strokes idly at his skin prickles and burns. Goosebumps rise, creating cresting hills and peaks along his topography. You map it all with nimble fingers, firm and sure.

You take the thermometer out of his mouth after a moment, not even pretending to read the results (thirty-seven degrees, always), and it’s tossed back on the tray quickly before your hand returns to his skin, drawn there by that same innate pull he feels in his iron bones. The warmth of your palm threatens to suffuse his skin, mated together in ferromagnetism.

His chin rests, plinthed in your palms, and there’s a sudden swell, a rush, that gorges on his heart. The façades fall, clattering to the ground. The broken pieces lay in remains by his feet.

Price doesn’t spare them a glance.

Can’t, maybe, because in azimuth he finds that solidary feather he plucked for you resting between your teeth.

Wonderment. Awe. He feels the surge of something ripping through his body—a paroxysm—but he can’t look away from the shapes of your bare face; the imperfect asymmetry, the wrought iron lines, the convulsing atoms. It’s mesmerising.

And maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon—no let go—but he doesn’t spare it a single thought, even as the current burrows deeper into his chest, igniting his tissue until red-hot, blistering, charred. Even then, even with the scent of smouldering, necrotising flesh brimming cloyingly into his scenes, the absolute apathy he feels for himself at that moment is a testament to the unshakeable draw, that primal magnetism that glues him to you; met in perfect equilibrium in the middle.

It’s you who moves, who splints the poles until they fall apart when you let your hand drop.

But you’re not finished. The tips of your fingers move, a long peregrination down the twisting, sloping topography of his visage; snaking down his temple, the dip of his nose, the rough bushel of curls, the soft pout of his lips, the ulotrichous hair along his cheek and jaw, the long decline of his check, the ridged of his collarbones, the swell of his chest. It’s there where it lingers, fingers spreading like webs along the birdcage of his thundering heart.

Price watches you, rapturous and nearly choking himself on the avarice that spills from his heaving lungs.

You rest the flat of your palm there for a beat; lost in perambulation. Feasting on the thud of his heart.

He thinks you’ve had your fill. Quenched yourself.

But when you look up from the slight tremor of your hand, pulsing in time with his hurried beats, the look in your eyes is distinctly unslaked.

(—and he can’t stop the rumble from spilling out of his chest at the sight.)

Price isn’t sure how long you stay like that. Minutes, seconds, hours. Aeons might have passed since you let your mask slip. Since he plucked at threads keeping it upright. But he shakes back into cognisance when you pull away, cutting through space and time, and filling the gaps once more with the heavy weight of your presence.

“You’ll be fine,” you say over your shoulder, reaching for your clipboard. “A little rest is all you need, captain.”

There’s an insurmountable number of things he can say, but you press on his throat, and he swallows them down, nodding at your back instead.

The cloven strands fall around him, broken with distance. There’s an urge in his bones to sew back into his skin, to press them like drying flowers into the folds of his heart where they’ll say, nurtured on his blood and suffused into his being. He rests his laurels on it for a moment, feels the weight of his want, his desire, and compares it to the fraying wisps dragging along the linoleum.

But he doesn’t reach for them.

He is wing clipped and flightless. You hold the only feather that gives him lift between the monoliths of your teeth.

A fine place to keep it, he thinks and turns around, ready to leave on unsteady feet, but—

"Seven," you say, firm and sure. No nonsense. But when he turns, he catches the pallor of your knuckles gripped tight around the clipboard. You hold it to your chest like a shield. The vipers in your eyes quiet their hissing, tongues lashing out to scent the air. "There's this place in Manchester that makes the best Beef Suya."

You're not asking him.

(But you don't really have to, do you?)

His lips pull up. He catches the drifting threads in his bare palm. "Manchester, mm?"

"I hope you like a little bit of spice."

"I can handle the heat."

You swallow thickly, and he thinks the action on anyone else might be easily mistaken for nerves, but the livewire that pulls taut between you thrums with a heavy sense of anticipation.

"I hope so, John," he startles at the mention of his name. It makes your lips curl back, and he shouldn't find it so mesmerising when can't tell if it's a smile or a sneer. "Otherwise I'd be quite disappointed."

His chin dips to his chest. It renders his voice to little more than smoke and ash, but you shudder from across the room at the growl.

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

It isn't breathless when you speak, but he licks his lips and tastes the pulsing excitement that sparks in the air. It curls in his lungs. Saltwater on burning coals.

"Don't be late."

It's a promise, he thinks; a warning, too. A threat. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

He turns away from you, shielding the growing smile from your searching gaze, but your voice stops him short at the door, fingers curled around the frame.

“And Price?”

“Yes, love?” He calls, featherlight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and free. Ready to soar, to fly.

"You know," you say, brows knotting together. Despite the severity of your expression, there's a note of playfulness between your teeth. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked."

After dinner, they fucked so nasty that Qadesh could be heard gagging across the aether.

#u ever just write a thing and then realise there's something fundamentally wrong with u on an atomic level? cause hey that's me #no one asked for Sekhmet x Ptah but my god did i tackle that task as if my life depended on it #John Price x Reader #Captain Price x Reader #Price x Reader #ughghghghg #i feel like that kid who just stares point blank at the barrel of a gun and says “shoot me”#i kinda just wanted an mc who was like #oh you big man lemme manhandle YOU #and i did it #maybe

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cherryatombomb · 1 year

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soapghost who just kind of fall into dating without even thinking about it. like slowly, bit by bit, they just start doing Couple Things without thinking about it. ghost is passing soap the thing hes looking for without him even having to ask for it. soap kisses his cheek in thanks. ghost goes :] bc he simply expected it.

soap slinking up behind ghost and hugging him whenever hes doing smth else. ghost is talking to someone else and soap just plants his face btwn his shoulders and ghost just holds his hands and continues the conversation like its normal

they have regular "hangout sessions" dedicated to just the two of them and they get rlly frustrated when someone joins them during one. theyre literally just dates. oblivious fools.

theyre sleeping together and one day ghost wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat like "holy shit we're DATING???" and soaps like "HOLY SHIT WE ARE"

#“so how long have you been dating?”#“six months or two weeks depending on how you look at it”#they tell the 141 theyre dating and theyre like??#you werent before this???#price calls them both idiots #gaz cant stop laughing at them #theyre my oblivious fools #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #call of duty

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cerise-on-top · 4 months

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I just read "141 with an S/O who likes muscular people"

BUT! what if they have an S/O who loves to bake or loves cooking.

What if unit 141 follows a diet to keep those muscles and shape? Would they have the heart to tell their lover "no" when they offer some of the food/sweets they just make?

I think all of them would love your food a little too much to simply go on a diet, but some of them are more willing to say no than others! Besides, all of them would sometimes go to the gym together on their days off, just to catch up with each other and burn some unused energy! They're still some rowdy boys, even if Price doesn't always have the time to go to the gym with them!

TF141 with an S/O who Likes to Cook for Them

Price: While he may eat quite a lot, he doesn’t really eat very many desserts, so it’s not often he’d say yes to one of your delicious marble cakes. However, he can appreciate you cooking for him as much as you do. It’s lovely. He comes home from deployment, tired and hungry beyond compare, and there you usually are, making him the most delicious food imaginable, from simple spaghetti to roast pork. Whatever it is you make, he’ll eat it with a smile on his face. Though, from the get go, he’ll tell you that he doesn’t eat too many sweets. He’ll indulge in the occasional cookie, maybe eat a single, thin slice of pie, but that’s it. He’ll tell you no in a nice, polite and gentle way. Besides, considering how much he eats normally, it isn’t really surprising that there’s no space left for your delectable pain au chocolats. He will try something every once in a while, but he’ll usually say no, so staying fit isn’t really a concern for him in the first place. You’d need to continuously insist for him to eat your apple strudel for him to budge, but even then it’s just a tiny piece. He doesn’t particularly have a sweet tooth.

Gaz: He absolutely has a sweet tooth. There are phases where he will consume more croissants than what is probably healthy, and then there are phases where he won’t eat anything sweet at all, won’t even look at it. It all depends on how sick and tired he’s gotten of something like your macarons. Trust me, he will still eat your food like it’s his last meal, but will turn down any and all sweets you make. Gaz does go to the gym fairly often, to keep in shape and maybe grow just a bit stronger as well, despite being rather strong already. You suspect that he sometimes stops eating your sweets because he may have gained weight, but he never confirms or denies this, he just tells you that he needs a break. But, as mentioned already, he can never get enough of your food, even if he’s just eating normal portions for someone his size. That’s why there’s always room for dessert in his stomach. But sometimes he’s content with just eating a banana or a tangerine. It doesn’t always have to be processed sugar, even if he adores your mochis as well. He can cook very well himself, but if you’re always eager to cook for him, then he will simply help you out.

Ghost: Eats a lot, eats sweets every once in a while, it’s as simple as that. He loves you, so he will even eat more sweets just for you, even if he won’t usually eat them as often. Your food is the best out there, and so your cupcakes have a special place in his heart as well. While he won’t dig in whenever you make a batch, you can see him steal one or two from the tray when he thinks you aren’t looking and, for humor reasons, blames it on Soap, regardless of whether he was even here or not. While he may not be a fast eater, he likes to savor every bite of what you made, he eats a mountain of food. When he realizes he has put on some weight, he will call up Soap and Gaz and train with them until the weight is gone. While he has a hard time saying no to you, he tries his best to not eat too much French toast when you make it. He needs to stay fit as a lieutenant, and thus he will softly refuse, or simply eat way smaller portions of sweets than he normally would. But you’d need to pry your home-made ravioli from his cold, dead hands since he loves those so much.

Soap: As mentioned in another ask, this man can eat literal trash and he won’t put on weight, he was blessed genetically in that regard. Likes sweets a lot, so he has no shame about stealing some of your braided easter bread while it’s still cooling down. He can usually be found chewing something, when it’s not your food, it’s some gum he bought. He likes the feeling of having something in his mouth he can bite down on. While he doesn’t eat as much food as, say, Price, he actually prefers to steal the food from your plate, he eats about as many sweets as Gaz does during the prime of his sweet phases. Not per day, he doesn’t love apple cake and the likes that much, but it’s quite a lot. Fortunately, he does train all of it off by going to the gym whenever he can. He does take Gaz along with him during those times, Ghost sometimes as well. While he does goof around with Gaz when he can, he does take his training fairly seriously more often than not. You can make him just about any food and he’ll enjoy it, but he does prefer savory foods, such as roasted chicken. Don’t make his food too spicy, though. He’s very white and can’t eat it otherwise.

#cod #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #these are a bit shorter today since I was really stressed out and for that I am incredibly sorry #had a long and rough day today but I tried my best!#they're not much shorter than what I usually write but still! again I am so sorry!#I'll try to do better tomorrow or next time depending on when I have the time to write again!#still! thank you for the request! I hope it's still enjoyable!

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kulai · 1 year

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im so obsessed w this song i spent the whole day drawing them.

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ceilidho · 30 days

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haha I can’t stop thinking about Simon’s character in the “country roads” verse 😵‍💫 may fuck around and turn this into a series for real

YESSSSSSSS PLEASE I WOULD READ IT 🙏🙏🙏

one of my friends even suggested I just turn this into an original series in its own right because I have a VIVID idea of the plot for both Soap’s fic and Simon’s fic, and I have a pretty solid half idea for Gaz that just needs some fleshing out (I kind of have two competing ideas so really I just need to work through them and see which is a better overall story) and usually I have SUCH a hard time coming up with complex plots. But these ones have come so easily that like…..idk……maybe it’s worth turning them into og novels

#I’m going to wait until price’s story is done and then we’ll see how I feel #I expect to be done by around may-June depending on how fast I write

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homoqueerjewhobbit · 1 month

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I genuinely love grocery shopping. It's like a trip to the food museum.

#I use around six. They all have slightly different stuff at different prices #And it depends where I am and when I decide to grocery shop #Oh shit no 7 if I count a bimonthly (every other) Costco run.#Sorry I love market research polls #Costco #Aldi #Whole foods #Food #Market research #groceries #post o' mine #Tumblr polls

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mafuyuakgae · 3 months

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hmm..thinking of doing holographic borders and holo mirror/frame unless people prefer plain vinyl

#pricing would depend on how many people would buy so i wanna know #its 5am no one is awake HAHA anyway #this is probably the only goro akechi / persona 5 merch ill drop #just cuz i tried many a black mask charm #but it didnt turn out good.......#my art #the designs r final but idk abt the sizing #i need to sleep. save me structured routine

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nouns-are-bad · 3 months

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“Human” price talking with ghost about some reports or something and ghost not being able to look at price clearly. Does price have really black eyes or multiple rows of teeth that all vanish in a flash? Probably not, ghost thinks, and chalks it up to lack of sleep.

“Human” soap who when training with ghost on the mats has to hold back tremendously, not knowing what humans can and can’t take in forms of pain. Ghost tells soap to hit harder and soap hits so hard back ghost thinks it’s gonna be a long lasting pain and bruise, but for soap he wasn’t even trying!

Ghost who spends time with “Human” Gaz and thinks that time always flys super fast when they hang out, and not to mention how ghost always gets a sense of paranoia and the feeling of being watched constantly around Gaz. But surely that’s just all in ghosts head?

Surely all of ghosts teammates are human and he’s just being paranoid, right? Meanwhile Gaz and soap have figured out that the only human in the task force is ghost and have placed bets on when the man will finally find them out.

#mw2 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #call of duty #‘human’ series #gaz purposefully makes it so that time either picks up #or slows down depending on the day Simon has had #and soap really does try not to harm their human too badly #while price is just trying to keep all of their statuses a secret

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captainjamster · 3 months

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Underrepresented!Reader Series

Pairing(s): Price x recovering drug user reader Warnings: Discussions of drug use/abuse, contemplation of driving under the influence Wordcount: 2.1k Summary: An impulse to relapse in your sobriety is halted when John catches you sneaking out. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: Terribly sorry to be selfish, but I have to admit, this one is entirely for me. I am genuinely nervous to post this one, I know the world isn't always friendly in its perception of individuals struggling with substance usage, but we're sending it.

Full fic is under the cut <3

The urges have been picking away at your sanity for the last week.

Each floorboard creaks a song of your deception, calling out their weary complaints tauntingly with each step you take, and you pray the noise isn’t loud enough to wake John. It was easy enough to untangle yourself from his limbs, kissing his temple and murmuring something about the toilet when he reached for your departing figure with a sleepy grumble. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom was more challenging, the door pushed open and tugged close again just for effect, straining your ears with the air caught in your chest as you waited for his breathing to even out into deep, rumbling snores.

The further away your bedroom gets, the more your resolve begins to crack as you ride the dip of the overwhelming desire, rationality fighting through the impulses that beg to occupy your conscious thoughts. It’s not too late to turn back, slip under the covers again and back into John’s arms. Feel the grunt vibrate through his chest when you let him know you just needed a glass of water from the kitchen, that’s all, and fall back asleep to face the same dilemma all over again in the morning.

You keep walking, focusing your attention on the careful placement of your feet as the floor turns from wood to tiles, trying to drown the cacophony of thoughts rattling through your head. Though the kitchen is far enough away from the bedroom that the noise should die before it travels, you can’t help the hesitancy you move with. Like maybe if you’re quiet enough, the guilt eating at your chest will be, too.

Looking out the window that peaks between the curtains, droplets of rain are illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlights. Your pyjamas are too thin and skimpy for the unforgiving chill of the winter air, and the dressing gown you snagged from the bedroom door would only keep you so warm if you walked. Frustration flares as you consider another obstacle in your path, resurfacing the tug of war between relapsing or sobriety you’re trying to avoid as an irritatingly logical voice in your head pleads you not to disappoint John, not to disappoint yourself like this. The car it is, then.

Grabbing the damn metal without sending tinkling chimes echoing through the house is agonising, and you wince with every clang of the keys. It takes some patience to guide them out the wired basket they live in without catching them on the aluminium wires, exhaling a relieved sigh when they’re safe in your hand. The keys eat at your palm as you grip them, shimmying your slippers on delicately as you brace yourself to coax the door open, doubts flying through your head as you get deeper in.

The more you consider it, driving seems too risky. Maybe if you roll the car in neutral, you can push it down the street, far away enough that the engine coming to life won’t rouse John from his sleep – but you can’t drive back fucked up, especially not if you overdo it. Pain throbs in your hand as you clutch tighter at the keys, feeling the dents they make in your palm without looking.

Fuck it. It would be way easier to drive home with everything, pull up across the street and push your car back into the driveway. You can’t do it in the car – god, John would be so upset if the sniffer dogs ever alerted to his car – but there is that public bathroom down the street. At this point, even your own damn backyard could work. That’s a problem for when you have the drugs in your hands.

Convincing yourself there’s nothing to fret over with the illusion of a solution, you push yourself off the wall, reaching out for the doorknob. You know it clicks when you open it, but maybe if you’re slow enough, then –

“Hey, baby.”

The keys jingle almost comedically as your grip loosens, freezing in place as your blood runs cold. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, fumbling as you try to work out the right response. “John…”

It takes a moment for your body to cooperate and turn on the spot. John’s eyes are puffy with sleep, one palm pressed into his socket as he squints at you with the other, running his hand up and down through the hair of his chest. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

There’s no accusation in his voice, despite that you know he’s smart enough to have worked it out. Your hand falls back to your side, clutching at the soft fabric of your gown.

“S’just…”

He shuffles over drowsily, yawning against the back of his hand as he stops just out of reach, leaving enough distance to keep you from feeling cornered. You can’t keep contact with his gaze, trailing down his bare chest, the waistline of his boxers, to his bare feet where it stays. John takes note of the hesitant silence, the way your body trembles in the shadows of the moonlight, and gently asks another question.

“What did you want to go out for, baby?”

He’s so sweet. Giving you the benefit of the doubt, a chance to explain without pushing assumptions and imagining the worst. It leaves a bitterness in your mouth, self-pity clawing at your chest as you crash with the disappointment of the moment, so torn between being grateful and being fucking pissed that you’re caught.

“You know.”

It burns to admit, struggling to swim through the shame and disgust rising in your body. Admitting it explicitly feels too much, but John still understands, humming acceptingly without any displeasure. When your eyes flicker back up to his face, his brows are furrowed in a loving concern, looking over you in that way John does when he’s trying to solve all of your problems in his head.

“Come sit on the sofa with me, love?” He prompts, extending a hand for the keys. You stare into his hand, raising your own arm to hover above his palm reflexively, but your fingers fight to loosen around the metal.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “it’s okay. I’m not going to stop you, this is your choice. At least let me drive you so I know you’re safe.”

The proposal breaks your heart. Sneaking around to do drugs behind John’s back is one thing, but dragging him into it is another – one that’s entirely off limits. Your head is shaking urgently before you can find words, pulling your hand away to stuff the keys back into their basket. “Absolutely not. No, never.”

He drops his arm, bringing it back to his side. “S’alright too, darlin’. Just an offer.”

The space falls quiet as he watches you patiently, leaving time for you to speak up or make a move. When stillness keeps you rooted to the spot, hands tangled forcefully in the plush of the gown, he pipes up again. “Speakin’ of offers, would you come to the sofa with me? We can stay here, but it’s a bit comfier than the floor.”

The lightness in his tone is another gentle reassurance he’s not mad as you nod slowly, tugging at the inside of your lip to hold back the floor of tears. You sink lower into the mess of your emotions with each step, trying to keep composure as you follow him to the sofa. The plush furniture groans as John settles into it, purposely leaving his arm wide for you to curl into him. It takes a moment to curl up against him, feeling undeserving of the unconditional warmth he wraps you in as he tugs you closer.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, doll.” He whispers, running a hand through your hair.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He hums understandingly, allowing you to continue without interruption.

“S’been bad the last week. Can’t stop thinking about it, everything reminds me of it in the most irrelevant ways. It’s like it never leaves my mind. It makes me fucking miserable.” The air struggles to reach your lungs through your choked up throat, breath hitching as you fight to keep it under control.

“Thought that…” Swallowing around the lump of shame in your throat is painful. “I thought I could just go out for one deal, just one. Could come home before you wake up, shower, and I could be happy again and you wouldn’t be stuck dealing with me like this! Just for a week, a few days, even a fucking day. Just some fucking reprieve from this bullshit.”

The words tumble out as the floodgates break, pressing your face against John’s bare chest. Soothing hushes fall from his lips, rubbing his hand up and down your back as you crumble into him.

“It’s okay, my love.” His breath is warm against your scalp with every word. “I know it’s been tough for you lately, baby, I see you workin’ so hard.”

The assurance has you sobbing harder, shoulders shaking as you gulp down oxygen between wails, and he does nothing but hold you closer. “You’re doing such a good job staying sober. Must’ve been so hard to fight those urges all week. Sounds like there was a lot triggering you, huh?”

All you can do is nod weepily, bringing a sleeve up to wipe at your runny nose. Words feel far from your grasp as the emotional intensity of your week fully hits you, but John doesn’t stop with the hushed reassurances. “M’not mad, you haven’t disappointed me, love. So proud of you for still tryin’. Even if y’did go, you wouldn’t disappoint me. These things happen.”

Your chest aches as tears stain your face, slick against his damp skin that catches each drop. John doesn’t care about the snot or tears tangling his hair, letting you sob into his chest like a tissue. “You’ve been strong for the last few months, it’s okay if you fall this time. S’okay even if you fall tomorrow, and the day after that.”

Each breath is still ragged, shaking your figure with a fierceness that won’t let you keep your fingers together. John steps in, sliding his fingers between yours, rubbing circles over the back of your hand. “I know, sweet thing. Can you try’n breathe with me? Know y’can do it, take a breath with me, jus’ like that.”

He takes a deep, purposeful inhale that moves you with him, exhaling it slowly and repeating until your breath falls in peaceful synchronisation. For however long passes by, it’s just you and John rocking through the last of your distress, the warmth of his body and touch of his skin keeping you from floating too far back into the guilt and temptation ringing through your mind.

“Remember what your therapist said?” John speaks up, soft voice echoing through the quiet, dark living room. “Urges and relapsing are a part of your sobriety.”

“Being sober isn’t a destination, it’s a journey,” you mumble into him, closing your eyes as the mantra washes over you.

The room falls silent for long enough that you almost dose off, lost between the comforting touches of John and the weariness that begins to replace your fading adrenaline.

“With me, sunshine?” John prompts, running his nails along your scalp soothingly as he catches the dwindling of your consciousness. Despite the hoarse, watery “yes” you mumble into his chest hairs, you can still hear the smile in his voice as he responds. “What can I do for you, hm? Anythin’?”

You reject him with a refusing hum, shaking your head. “Nothin’, just stay here.”

“Couldn’t think of anythin’ I want to do more. I’ll carry you back if you fall asleep.”

The thought of putting John through any more trouble tonight has you frowning, pushing yourself away from him despite his reluctance to loosen his grip, giving you a curious look.

“Save you the trouble, let’s go now.”

His eyes crinkle with the turn of his lips, smiling at you affectionately as you rise. Your hands intertwine as he reaches out, only loosening when he tugs the dressing gown off your shoulders, hanging it over the door as you make your way to the bed. Despite your head start, his long legs move him quicker, pulling the blankets back for you.

You slip in between the sheets, feeling the bed dip as John crawls in his side. His arms are open expectantly before you have to say anything, smoothing the sheet out to create a comfy spot for you that you snuggle into without hesitation.

The muscles hidden under that soft layer of fat in his arms flex and release as he wraps his arms around you, finding a protective purchase on the soft rises of your body. A pang of gratefulness rattles your chest, and you squeeze your eyes shut, breathing in the smell of your lover. It doesn’t take long for you to fall back into the gentle lull John coaxed you into before, and once he’s sure you’re soundly asleep, he sinks into unconsciousness with you.

dividers by cafekitsune

#look. i think john would get it #as someone who 1) smokes cigars and may have a tobacco dependence 2) would see substance abuse as coping in his own soldiers #i think he would be a great partner/support system for maintaining sobriety #price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #jams writings #rep!reader writings #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic

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