narcissosbythepool

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impromptu diner date 🍔

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Price and his god awful snoring 😴

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#myprice

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easy cap

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cod dump

simon in my imagination

price

ghost armor study

soap in kilt

trying to figure out gaz's characteristics

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What kind of sleeping position does each of the 141 members have? Are they more "Victorian Damsel in Distress" or "A Victorian Child Dying of Scarlet Fever"?

They are all about that tactical bed sharing

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bringing them back

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I always adored how huge you draw soap… he’s a big boy! keep it going please (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

❤️❤️❤️ he's got that illusory build (huge when not next to his bf)

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look alive.

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost

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Valiants PLEASEEE I must know your thoughts behind those back scars you just gave Price

@bayeis my love, I would much prefer YOUR thoughts on the matter... me I just vaguely remembered hearing somewhere (maybe in the 09 game) that Price has been tortured and shot before, and figured it'd show...

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mer!pricegaz comm which im proud of :]

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would y'all fuck with pirate!Gaz? jk heres one even if you want or dont want >:)

heavily, i mean heaaavily(cue the golden flakes) inspired by this fic called Half a Creature From the Sea by @redhairedmuses (i dont know if you accept fanart for your fics but if you dont please say so and ill delete it immediately!!) if you havent seen it already and love both military propaganda(cod) and anti military propaganda(pirates) what the hell are you doing with your life??? Go Read It.

Alternative versions of the fanart ☆

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This has been in my drafts since January so... Also Idk if this is meteorologically accurate but deal with it.

short comfort, cozy Price x Gaz fic. (Note: Kyle is not hypothermic so this is okay and safe. John would be careful and so would I.)

The storm is fuckin’ brutal.

John would’ve bet that all of Europe hadn’t seen snow like this in a century. It’s coming down in thick, heavy sheets, rattling the windows, burying the city in white.

He’s cozied up by the fire, all the lights in his flat off, wrapped in a thick blanket with a mug of hot tea slowly going lukewarm in his hands. And he’s bloody grateful—really fuckin’ grateful—that he and the lads managed to get a few weeks’ leave. Too damn cold to be on base for this shite.

Not that he’s not thinking about them. He knows Simon and Johnny went back to the latter’s place, probably half-pissed and throwing snowballs. Kyle had headed to his own apartment.

John makes a mental note to check in on him, soon as the worst of the storm lets up. Just in case.

The fire crackles. The tea’s half gone. He’s halfway to sleep, lulled by warmth and silence, when a sharp knock at the door nearly makes him spill the rest of his drink.

He’s up fast, blanket discarded, one eye flicking to the cabinet where he keeps his pistol. He doesn’t go for it. Just cracks the door open, squinting against the icy gust that slips in.

Kyle Garrick stands on the other side, bundled up but visibly shaking, snow in his lashes and breath puffing out in clouds. “Evenin’, Captain,” he manages through chattering teeth.

“Christ, Garrick.” John opens the door fully and hauls him inside by the arm. “The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

“Lost power,” Kyle says simply. “Figured I’d see if yours was still on. Sorry.”

“Don’t be a bloody idiot,” John mutters, kicking the door shut and turning the lock. “You’re freezin’, kid.”

He’s already pulling at the buttons on Kyle’s coat, helping him shrug out of soaked layers, ushering him through to the bathroom with a steady hand at his back. Warm towels. A bath drawn hot and steaming.

“I’ll get you clothes,” John says. “Just sit in there ‘til your bones stop rattlin’.”

And Kyle does. John leaves him to it, lets him have the warmth and privacy.

John checks in after fifteen minutes. No answer. He figures Kyle might’ve dozed off in the heat, so he knocks once, twice, before pushing the door open with a quiet, “You decent?”

The steam billows out. The air is thick with it, curling around John’s arms and chest. He sees Kyle through it, slouched low in the tub, knees just breaking the surface, head resting against the back lip of the porcelain.

One eye cracks open. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

John huffs a soft sound. “Didn’t think you meant to show up frozen either. We’re past apologizin’.”

He sets the folded towel on the stool by the tub and kneels down. His hand rests gentle on the edge of the tub, thumb brushing along a chip in the enamel.

“Water’s still warm?”

Kyle nods, lids heavy again. “Hot. Felt good.”

“Good.” John’s quiet a moment, then adds, “Ready to get out? I’ve got warm clothes for you.”

Kyle nods again, slower this time. John helps him sit up, watching for any sign of dizziness before grabbing the towel and lifting it, arms open in quiet offer.

“C’mere,” he says.

And Kyle doesn’t even hesitate. Just stands, water dripping from him in streams, and steps into the towel and into John’s arms.

John wraps him up gently. Starts at the shoulders and works downward, rubbing warmth back into limbs, careful and methodical, like Kyle might crack if handled too rough. He kneels again to dry Kyle’s legs, smoothing the towel down his calves and feet. Then he helps him step into the sweats, pulling them up one side at a time. The shirt goes over Kyle’s head, and John helps guide his arms through.

He doesn’t say much during it. It’s all in the way his fingers tuck the hem of the shirt just right, in the way he stands close without crowding. In the way Kyle breathes easier with every second.

Then, suddenly, Kyle’s forehead presses against his collarbone. His whole weight leans in. Exhausted, maybe. Or just needing.

John doesn’t flinch. Just holds him there.

“Alright, lad,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And he does. Arms around Kyle’s back, one hand settling at the base of his spine, John lifts him. One arm hooked under Kyle’s knees, the other strong and steady around his back.

Kyle exhales and tucks his face into John’s neck and lets himself be carried.

The living room’s still warm from the fire. The blanket’s waiting, thrown over the couch. John lowers them both down onto it, still holding Kyle close.

He shifts only enough to get them both comfortable. Kyle ends up half sprawled over him, legs tangled, body relaxed at last.

“Didn’t think I’d be holdin’ you like this tonight,” John says softly, voice low against Kyle’s hair.

Kyle hums. “Me neither.”

And then quieter: “Glad I’m here, though.”

John brushes his lips to Kyle’s temple. “Me too.”

... the next morning, Kyle does get a lecture on walking through a fucking snow storm.

thanks for reading

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Kyle, staring out into the open road, price beside him at the wheel.

He watches how the headlights only illuminate a narrow hall of vision amongst the void, there's no streetlights out here. The A/C is blasting, price is humming along to static-laced music, and all kyle can think about it how horrible it is to be in love.

In love with his captain, who he doesnt even like that much.

The seat belt digs into kyles neck. Hes in love with price, and hes thinking of everything he would give to make that love work. That somehow, he could make some trade to change the circumstances. Maybe he could meet price in a small café, waiting for orders. Maybe at a park, when their dogs eagerly run up to eachother. Maybe in some far away world, where kyle never learned the shape a fist can morph a jawbone into. Where price never learned the anger only war can birth in you.

His face stings from the cold air blasting out of the vents, but kyle doesnt move to fix it. The car jerks over a pothole. Price is tapping his fingers on the wheel, and Kyle wonders what price would give to make this work.

Nothing. He knows. He knows because price knows from the open expression kyle always wears. Price pulls at the leash of kyles love to get a perfect obedient soldier. A warm hand on the neck, a muttered praise against skin. Thats all price gives, but its enough to get what he needs.

Kyle is in love with price, and he hates every moment of it.

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through the deadliest storm

summary:

“Did you even fight for me, sir?” Price set his jaw, a flash of blue fury in his eyes. “Nah, not you, not John Price,” Gaz smirked without any humour. “Already on his way to replace the broken part, isn’t he? The show must go on.” Price finally held his eyes – just for a beat – before looking away. His voice remained controlled. “It was a clean op. Intel wasn’t great, but that’s what we work with. Your injury was—” he caught himself but steamrolled on “—bad luck.” Gaz barked a laugh, full of pain in it. He could’ve punched him, if he wasn’t stuck to the bloody bed.

or: Gaz is medically discharged. He and Price don't handle it very well.

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Previous pricesoap + current soapghost for El! Thank you 🚬🧼💀