REAL

Idk if I should put a cw but... mention of murder and spoilers for s1

Okay, okay, hear me out

Bear, who felt like God had taken his firstborn daughter as punishment for the murder of an innocent child during a mission, saved a 13 y.o. girl, though he wanted to bring Rip home more than anyone else on the team.

And Caulder, who literally once rejected Rip as his commander because of a broken trust, shot Nasry and stopped him from killing Rip. 

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

pov: movie night with the riley’s 🫶

awww love this sm omggg

Change of plan

Price being a dad and Simon being autistic, with a side of Ghoap, enjoy!

Captain Price was absent from training. Actually, every Captain and higher was absent from everything. They had one of those monthly meet ups where they learned about useless things no one wants to know. Maybe it was the administration team sharing their suffering with them?  

Anyways, everyone was dozing off. Some were like teenagers trying not to get caught playing games on their phones, others were taking a nap and some rares were actually listening.  

Captain Price was about to doze off, not fully listening, but not asleep just yet.  

‘’... And as we said last meeting the MREs will be changed for the new formula. The crates will arrive next week so we ask that you help clear out any old MREs, as they will be considered unregulated. ‘’ 

Price’s head shot up when he heard that statement, looking almost terrified.  

‘’Something to say, Price?’’  

The man shook his head, his voice would be too strained to be convincing. Already, he was reliving an old nightmare.  

When the meeting ended, he immediately went to the kitchen to steal every old formula MREs he could find, putting them in a special stash that every staff of the kitchen knew not to touch. He did the same for every other place that gave away MREs.  

The stash looked glorious, if he was honest. But he couldn’t quite be proud of himself, the dread of the coming storm weighing on him.  

And it weighed on him for the next week, when they brought the new crates. Then every day after that. His pile was getting smaller every day, and no one was prepared for what was coming.  

… 

Two weeks later. The stash is empty. It’s about to begin.  

The first meal was given to Ghost, and Price sweated as he observed his (son)soldier. Ghost frowned at the meal that was given to him at the cafeteria. Yeah, usually soldiers are given a plate and warm food if they’re not out in the field. But Ghost was a man of routine, and for some reasons he preferred eating MREs every day rather than break that routine.  

He kept frowning as he sat down next to Soap. He looked at the package, noticing every difference. Opened it, groaned at the unusual side dishes given. Usually, he’d get dry crackers with a nutty paste to put on it, as well as a dry cookie and the main meal. This time, he got a fucking pop tart with a granola bar.  

He threw the offending items aside and focused on the main dish. A ratatouille... Something he’d never been served in an MRE before.  

And Price witnessed Ghost get up without eating, throwing everything in the trash.  

He didn’t show up at the next meal. And the next, Price had to ask Soap to find him and get him to eat at least something.  

The hunger must’ve gotten hard to deal with, because the next day he showed up at lunch and got his usual. He sat down, frowning, and opened the MRE. At least now he knew it would be different. He still grimaced at the pop tart, but at least got the main dish warm and tried to taste it. It was a gratin, hard to miss.  

Wrong.  

Ghost only took a couple of bites before he threw the whole thing out.  

The granola bar was the next victim.  

And Jesus was Ghost annoying when his routine was broken up, even worse when he was hungry. He’d snap at everyone, fight on sight and got more violent the more he felt weakened by the lack of nutrients.  

‘’Price, what’s going on with Ghost? He’s barely eating and he almost broke someone’s arm during sparring!’’  

‘’I know... It’s the new MREs, we just have to endure it until he gets used to it.’’ Price sighed, but Soap’s look of confusion didn’t change. He couldn’t blame him. The first time it happened Price was certain that it was a PTSD attack. Ghost had sent a handful of soldiers to the hospital for simply brushing against him.  

‘’He’s like this because of the MREs? What’s different about them?’’  

‘’I don’t know, ask him he’d probably tell you all about it.’’ Price sounded tired, and he was. He knew Ghost couldn’t help it, but it was still a tiring dance.  

But weirdly, Soap did just that.  

The next meal, he sat next to Ghost and waited for a sign of discontent. It came fast, and Soap asked what was the matter. At first, he received short answers, but it seemed like a dam broke when he asked ‘’What’s so different about them?’’.  

And boy, no one ever heard Ghost speak so much. Soap hadn’t understood all that was said, but he understood that there was too much protein additives into it, changing the taste, as well as American brands forcing themselves in there. There was also something about ‘’changing the classic recipes’’...  

But while Ghost was ranting about it, he actually finished eating his meal without noticing. He was also way less grumpy during the next hours. When the next meal came, he didn’t eat it all, and went back to his gloomy self.  

So, Soap asked the next day. And the day after. Eventually Ghost got used to the new meals and everything went back to normal.  

Except that if anyone dared to mention the weird taste of the MREs, Ghost appears out of nowhere to explain exactly why that is.  

--- 

Bonus:  

‘’... It should take you two weeks, solo, minimum communication. If you do it well it can take one week only. Are you in? ‘’  

Price was looking intensely at Ghost for any sign of emotion in his eyes. They were in his office, lights off.  

‘’I said, are you in?’’ technically, he knew he was in. But he always had to make sure his soldiers understood the mission and accepted to take part. 

‘’I don’t know, Captain. Will the green tea be refilled when I come back?’’  

The green tea?...  

‘’Oh for fuck’s sake Simon!’’ Price had accidentally bought black tea instead of green when he had to refill the box. Actually, it wasn’t on accident, there was just no more of the usual green tea so he took black tea from the same brand.  

‘’You’re a bloody nightmare! Yes it will be refilled properly!’’  

Ghost straightened up a bit, nodding.  

‘’Then I accept the mission.’’ Smug bastard. 

-----

This is 100% inspired by my reaction to new meals

Also I said I wouldn't write anymore but with school I don't have much time to draw, so writing it is

And what if I give Soap a younger sister that joins the SAS a year or two after Soap does because their home life wasn't great? And what if she worked hard like him, busted her ass like him, to be put in his unit so they could be together because he was the only comfort she had? And what if she got to his unit the day he died, not even having a chance to see him after a year because their leaves never lined up? And what if the last memory of her brother she has his his body being carried with blood dried to his head as Ghost brings him to where he needs to put the body? And when Price has to call her to see the body that's the first time 141 got to meet Soap's sister? The sister he bragged about all the time? The sister who was almost a mini him, with a similar interest in demolition and explosives? And what if Price pushes her up a rank so she's a Sgt?

Price using Soap's sister as his replacement, holding her to a standard that's basically impossible for someone who has been a sergant less than a month. Making her self esteem lower and lower until Laswell has to step in and make Price see that Soap's sister isn't him. That Soap may live on in his sister in a sense, but that doesn't mean she is him.

I just love Soap's sister being very similar to him and being emotionally destroyed by 141. Idk why I live for it

Caulder in hunter green

Me on tumblr.

/(◕‿◕)/

adorable

hiiii! i just read your passenger princess fic, and i got an idea.

what about a reader who isn’t used to princess treatment?

opening a car door? john, why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.

gaz, why is there a dress in the bedroom? you bought it for me because we’re going on a date? why though? I’ve got plenty of dresses.

johnny, whats with the new flowers? they’re for me? why though?

simon, you don’t have to tell me ‘i’m beautiful’. it takes away from time you could be doing something important.

just ‘I know you can do it, but let me’ vibes

Princess Treatment

pairing: John Price x Reader; Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader; Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader; Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader; Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader.

synopsis: You’re strong. Capable. Fiercely independent. And yet… your boyfriend seems determined to treat you like royalty—each in their own uniquely over-the-top way. Maybe “princess treatment” isn’t about weakness—it’s about being chosen, cherished, and loved without condition.

warning: Pure fluff, soft domestic moments, mild language, emotional vulnerability, excessive acts of service, unapologetic simping.

word count: 2018

John Price:

The click of the car unlocking was almost instant the moment you stepped outside. The cold nipped at your nose, the evening breeze catching the hem of your coat as you moved toward the passenger side.

Before your hand could even brush the door handle, John was there. Rounding the hood of the car in a few easy strides, one hand already reaching out, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat like he had all the time in the world.

“John,” you said, brows lifting, “why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.”

His hand paused mid-motion for a second, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he just smirked—warm, amused, a touch of mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You can,” he agreed, pulling the door open for you with a little flourish. “But you don’t have to. Let me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the softness of it. Like it wasn’t a gesture he was performing for show, but something as natural to him as breathing.

Still, your feet hesitated, and John tilted his head, giving you a look like, Are we going to do this dance every time?

With a sigh, you slid into the seat, settling in as he closed the door behind you with careful gentleness. The quiet click of it felt… final. Intentional.

By the time he circled back around and dropped into the driver’s seat beside you, you were still frowning slightly, staring straight ahead.

He noticed, of course. John always noticed.

“You gonna argue every time I treat you well?” he asked lowly, voice dipping into that rough warmth that always seemed to unspool your defenses. His hand reached across the console, fingers sliding over your thigh and giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.

“…Maybe,” you muttered, too honest for your own good.

John chuckled, low and fond. “I’ll just have to keep convincing you, then.”

You turned to look at him. That scruffy face, the weathered lines that had deepened with age and war and laughter, the eyes that had always been more patient than you thought they’d be.

“Is this a campaign now?”

“It’s always been one,” he said. “You just didn’t notice.”

The drive started in silence, but it was the kind that felt like something blooming between you rather than anything heavy. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy, soothing arcs.

And when he parked and jogged around the front of the car again to open your door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt, you didn’t argue this time.

You just let him.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You almost missed it when you walked into the bedroom—distracted by the lingering emails in your head, the mental list of things you still needed to get done, the ache in your shoulders from a day that just wouldn’t quit. But there it was.

Laid neatly across the duvet.

A dress.

Deep red. Silky soft, with a gentle shimmer that caught the fading evening light from the window. Elegant, understated, yet somehow—it made your chest flutter. The tag was still attached, dangling loosely at the neck, but the price had been carefully removed.

Your brows furrowed.

“Kyle?” you called out, voice echoing down the hallway. “Why is there a dress in the bedroom?”

A familiar pair of footsteps padded closer, slow and smug in their rhythm.

He appeared at the doorframe, shoulder leaned lazily against the wood, arms crossed, that mischievous grin tugging at his lips like he’d just played the winning hand.

“Bought it for you,” he said simply. “We’ve got a dinner reservation. Something fancy. You deserve a night out.”

You blinked at him, then looked back at the dress. Then back at him.

“But why?” you asked. “I’ve got plenty of dresses—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted gently, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. “But this one’s from me.”

His hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with all the reverence in the world.

“And I like the idea of seeing you in it.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to protest that you didn’t need a dress to feel beautiful or cared for—but the words didn’t come. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his hand lingered just a second longer than needed, warm and grounding against your skin.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, soft and slow, and you felt it ripple through your bones—the kind of affection that didn’t ask anything from you. Just wanted to give.

“Let me spoil you a bit, love,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You do everything for everyone else.”

Your fingers found his shirt, curling gently at the hem. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He chuckled, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of him. “Only if they’re happy tears. Otherwise, I’ll return the dress and take you out in your pajamas instead.”

You laughed against his chest, and when he kissed your temple again, you let yourself sink into him.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Dinner sounds nice.”

And in the mirror, later that evening, when you finally slipped into that deep red dress, you saw it—the soft smile on your face. The kind you hadn’t worn in a while.

Kyle noticed it too, when you walked out.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes drinking you in like it was the first time.

And for once, you didn’t deflect. You just smiled and let him take your hand.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The bathroom was quiet, except for the muted hum of the fan and the soft rhythmic motion of your toothbrush. It was a routine, grounding in its predictability—just one more box to tick off before bed. The lights were low, casting gentle shadows on the tile floor, and your shoulders were heavy with the quiet kind of tired that came after a long day.

You didn’t even notice him at first—Simon moved like a ghost, even out of uniform—but then you felt his presence behind you, the warm brush of air when he passed close.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and steady like a secret.

You paused mid-brush, blinking at your reflection.

A moment passed.

You leaned over the sink, spit into it, rinsed. Stared at yourself in the mirror and frowned.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” you said, not unkindly—just quiet, blunt, the way truths sometimes fall when you’re too tired to dress them up. “It takes away from time you could be doing something important.”

Behind you, Simon stilled.

The weight of silence fell over the room like a thick blanket.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

You watched him in the mirror as he came up behind you—broad frame solid and warm, his expression unreadable but not cold. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just looked at your reflection like he was trying to figure out how to hold something fragile.

“You are important,” he said softly. “This is important.”

Your fingers tightened around the toothbrush. The words hung there, heavy and simple.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to say anything. Maybe he just knew how easy it was for your mind to convince you that affection was indulgence, that love had to be earned by usefulness. You stared at your reflection, trying to see what he saw. Wondering if you ever would.

He leaned down, finally, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Warm. Present. Gentle in the way you weren’t used to being handled.

“If I only ever did things that were necessary,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “I’d have missed the best part of my life.”

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“You.”

Your heart cracked a little in your chest—just enough to let the warmth through.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe him yet. Maybe it would take time, soft moments like this, repeated and repeated until the walls inside you gave in.

But you leaned back into him, just a little. Let him take the toothbrush from your hand and set it gently down.

Let yourself be held.

Because if Simon—quiet, careful Simon—could learn to make space for softness… maybe you could, too.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

You blinked as you walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your socks quiet against the old tile floor.

There they were.

A new bouquet.

Sunflowers—bright and unapologetic in their joy—mixed with tiny white blossoms you couldn’t name, all tucked into a mason jar sitting square in the middle of the kitchen table. A ribbon tied lazily around the rim. Water droplets still clinging to the stems.

You stared.

Then turned slowly, already knowing who to blame.

“Johnny…” you started, voice laced with the kind of sleepy bewilderment that only came from early mornings and too many small surprises. “What’s with the new flowers?”

He was leaning against the counter, orange juice in hand, hair still damp from the shower, and a lazy smile already tugging at his mouth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“They’re for you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You squinted at him. “But… why though?”

Johnny chuckled, a soft sound that started in his chest and reached all the way to his eyes. He crossed the room in a few easy steps, set the glass down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

Your back met the warmth of his chest, and you sighed as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, his breath brushing your cheek.

“‘Cause your face lights up every time you see them,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough with sleep, a little tender with love. “And that? That’s worth the trip to the florist every bloody day.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there with him wrapped around you like a warm blanket, staring at the ridiculous jar of flowers like it was the most confusing, most beautiful thing in the world.

Then, softly, you pressed your face into his chest.

“Stop being cute,” you mumbled, muffled by the cotton of his shirt and the beat of his heart.

“Never,” he whispered against your temple, grinning. “You’re stuck with me.”

And you didn’t need to say it—but God, you were so glad you were.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme and something buttery-soft that had your stomach growling before you’d even crossed the threshold.

You padded in barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, fully prepared to take over and help—only to find Gary already elbow-deep in culinary excellence. A dishtowel slung over his shoulder, a pan sizzling on the stove, and that familiar hum vibrating in his chest as he stirred something with purpose.

“Smells amazing,” you murmured, reaching for the pot on instinct. “I’ll stir—”

“Nope.”

He gently nudged your hand away with the back of the spoon, not even looking up.

“Gary,” you huffed. “I can cook. You don’t have to—”

He finally turned his head and grinned, that boyish, crooked smile that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him in the same breath. He tapped the spoon lightly against your hand, playful but firm.

“I know you can do it,” he said with a wink. “But let me. Just this once.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “Is this one of your weird love languages?”

He shrugged, already back to stirring, back to humming. “Yeah. Feeding you until you admit I’m amazing.”

You watched him for a beat—watched the way he moved around the kitchen with that easy confidence, sleeves pushed up, forearm flexing as he tossed something into a pan, barefoot and casual like he belonged there, like this was his second skin.

The music playing low from his speaker was jazzy, mellow. The light from the kitchen window painted everything gold. The whole room smelled like something slow-cooked and careful. Like comfort.

With a sigh, you pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, chin resting in your palm as you watched him. “I’m not gonna admit it.”

“You will,” he said cheerfully, plating the food like you were a food critic instead of his tired partner who hadn’t eaten a real meal all day. “Eventually. When you taste this.”

When he set the plate in front of you—steaming, beautiful, perfectly balanced—your stomach growled audibly.

Gary smirked. “Told you.”

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Damn it.”

“Told you,” he laughed, leaning down to kiss your temple, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Come on. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart swelling. “Just tonight?”

He raised a brow. “What, you planning on arguing with your private chef every night?”

You smiled into your fork, cheeks warm. “Maybe.”

He slid into the seat across from you, mirroring your grin. “Then I’ll just keep winning.”

And the kitchen stayed warm, full of the scent of love and butter, and the quiet sound of laughter between bites.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

AAAA

pov: you just looked up from flirting with sgt. mactavish for the past half hour in the rec room wyd