crabdrabbles

Latest Posts by crabdrabbles

In case people don't know , unfortunately , the head mod made this post to the @sunshine-soap-zine accounts on twitter and Instagram with an update. I'm so sorry to anyone who purchased this zine. These are screenshotted from their twitter:

I want to say explicitly I WAS NOT INVOLVED IN THE PRODUCTION OF THIS ZINE. I was only an art contributor, and I'm posting this just because it hasn't been posted about yet here on Tumblr, and buyers and contributors alike deserve to know.

These posts were made by the head mod Micky for this zine. I do not support a witch hunt or sending them hate, but none of the other mods knew about this, they had no idea this was going on or played any role in this.

Such heartbreaking news. I'm so sorry to anyone who purchased from this zine. I feel so bad for all the people who worked so hard and passionately on this fandom project. Them and buyers alike were taken advantage of by this head mod, and lied to.

And yes, this mod also lied about donating the money to charity. No money has been donated to charity on behalf of this charity zine.

I contributed a piece of page art, and the cover to this zine, which I'll now be sharing on my own time in the coming days. 💔

a small preview of my piece for the SFW @sunshine-soap-zine ! it's been such an honour and a pleasure being part of this wonderful project and I can't wait until we get to share it all with you! find zine links here <3

Here's Chapter 5 for @pricegazweek week! Chapters: 5/7 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: Presumed Dead, Blood and Injury

I know I'm a few days behind, but I should hopefully finish the remaining two chapters by Wednesday <3

“I expected... more from not just one– but two SAS soldiers.”

“Undo these ropes and I’ll show you exactly what we’re capable of.” Price spat, very much a spitting image of a large, and furious, animal. Gaz, who was kneeling beside him, remained quiet– but his eyes burned with a rage that matched that of his captain’s. 

Poor intel was part of the job, gaps missing in the portfolio, sending soldiers in blind– shit like that happened. It was Price’s entire job to adapt to any situation thrown at him– to change plans at the drop of a hat. To keep his men safe. There was only so much he could do when intel was not only flawed, but falsified completely. And Price had led himself and Gaz right into danger with little to no backup. 

‘Just routine.’ he had said to Ghost after his Lieutenant had asked if he needed him and Soap on standby. ‘We should manage just fine.’

‘Something doesn’t feel right about this, Price.’ Ghost had said as he poured over the copious amount of files and reports– months worth of investigations and surveillance. 

‘Intel’s from one of Laswell’s agents. I trust her judgement.’ SImon had looked like he wanted to say something more but Price had brushed it off. If it was important, then the mancunian would have spoken his mind without a second thought. He should have pushed him– pressed him to speak his mind because then maybe he and Gaz wouldn’t be stuck in this situation– at the mercy of some greed driven arms dealer. Even as they were climbing into Nik’s heli, Simon had that look on his face– the one that said something wasn’t quite right. Why didn’t Price ask? He had never had a problem listening to his men before, appreciating any input anybody had– he wouldn’t have shut Simon down. He would have brought all four of them on the mission if the Lieutenant was that worried. 

Although, that may have meant all of the team would have been captured instead of just half. Hindsight was a petty bitch and, if Price got out of this alive, he would have to have a stern word with her. And maybe Laswell, too, to watch her agents a little more closely. He flexed his hands, tensing to feel the knot wrapping around his wrists. If given enough time, some leeway, and a little bit of luck, he might be able to shimmy his way out of them. He just needed to keep Sergey talking. It must have been the bastard’s first capture, because the idiot had left most of their gear on in his haste to get them tied up and kneeling. Amateur.

“What do you want from us?” Gaz asked and Price’s eyes flicked over to his lover, worry flashing for only a moment before he schooled his expression back into a mask of fury. 

“Information.” The arms dealer, Sergey, said. Sergey was a sickly looking man– wiry yet fat in all the wrong places that made his body bulge in strange parts. He wore an ill fitting suit that was clearly too small for his size but also somehow managed to look too big at the same time. In all honesty, he looked exactly what one would expect when thinking of what an arm’s dealer would look like– right down to the untrustworthy moustache. Not to mention he looked like he was almost constantly constipated and, from the way he was holding the pistol in his shaking hand, he had never wielded a weapon before. Ironic– a man who had never sampled his open products that he was illegally shipping off to the highest bidder. Not one to get his hands dirty– but more than happy to dip them in blood. 

“What sort of information?” Price spoke up before Gaz could open his mouth back up. Attention on me, Price’s face screamed. Don’t look at him. Look at me. The more attention on him, the less likely that Gaz was going to be put in harm's way. Price could deal well enough with being tortured and interrogated– could handle it better than the sergeant. 

“Just a little bit of information, that’s all I want, and I’ll be happy to let you both go. And, depending on what you give, you may walk away with heavier pockets.”

Of course a man like Sergey would offer a bribe in exchange for information and freedom. Price expected that from someone who had never been told ‘no’ his entire life. If Price had taken every bribe thrown his way in the past 20 odd years, he would have been able to afford a private island with a complimentary private jet. Maybe one of those fancy yachts, too, so he could go out fishing in the ocean. With the amount of money he could have got, he’d be buying private islands for each individual fish he caught. 

“Cold of you to assume we’ll give you anything.” He continued slowly, clenching his hands into fists and straining subtly to fight the rope. His wrists would be red raw by the end of the night but if it got them out alive he’d take a bullet too for good measure. Just a little more…

“I imagine that you will. I can be quite… persuasive.” Gaz snorted to Price’s left and he sent a scathing look his sergeant's way. Antagonising the man holding the gun was the last thing that they wanted right now.

“And if we don’t?”

“I kill you both.” An emphasis on his words with a point of his pistol to Price. He was shaking, the metal rattling from his trembling. Jesus wept– had he ever even held a gun before? 

There– he could feel the ropes loosen ever so slightly, just enough for him to start sliding his thumb through. It would be uncomfortable and quite painful, but it was enough. 

“Then you get nothing.” Panted through clenched teeth, masking his pain for anger.  “Go on, then, shoot me.”

“No. I still need you, Captain. Your friend, however…”

Before anyone could do so much as blink, the gun moved to point at Gaz in all its shaking glory. Two clear shots rang out– followed by a body hitting the ground. Price’s heart kicked into gear– blood rushing in his ears, heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to jump out of his very chest in order to get to– 

Gaz.

Price stared at the motionless sergeant, eyes wide and every instinct in his body screaming at him to move– to check on him. A small puddle of blood was already forming underneath Gaz’s body. No. No, no, no, no–

“Gaz!”

Read the rest on AO3!

Couldn't get the usual link to work, but here's Chapter 4 for @pricegazweek ! Chapters: 4/7 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing

Personally, this one is my favourite chapter! As usual, preview below!

The mission was quite possibly one of the easiest that Gaz had been assigned to in quite some time (in writing, anyhow), Kate giving the order to take in a HVT alive and relatively uninjured, tie him up and leave him in a designated place for other agents to retrieve them. Easy enough– until the HVT had a tipoff just before Gaz and Price could nab him. Hours of Price staking out on a roof in the rain while Gaz was left watching the target in a nearby bar, completely and utterly ruined in seconds. Price gave Gaz the order to go after him, alongside the reassurance that he would catch up when he got down to the ground floor. 

As Gaz ran, eventually he found himself at the nearby canals fighting rain, the wind and whatever overgrown shrubbery creeped onto the slippery path and cursing the dreadful weather for making such a simple mission all the more harder. The distance between him and the target was getting bigger– the soldier being unfamiliar with the narrow paths and low hanging stone bridges and all but running head first into them. 

“Shit– where are you, Captain?” He huffed into his radio, squinting at the blur ahead of him. Where the hell was Price?! “He’s gonna get away!”

“No he’s fucking not.” Was Price’s crackled cryptic reply– then Gaz heard the sound of hard footsteps, branches snapping and Price appeared like a bat out of hell from the bushes next to the target, tackling them– 

And sending them both plunging into the dark canal waters.

Gaz barked out a curse, coming to a skidding halt where he saw Price disappear. How deep was the canal? Shit, shit, he was sure it had said somewhere in the brief but he couldn’t remember because he didn’t think it was all that important at the time– he didn’t think they’d be going for a bloody swim in it! Not to mention that Price went under with all of his gear– if the water was indeed as deep as Gaz feared, the Captain would be getting weighed down by not only that, but the target. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit, bollocks–” 

Just as he was unzipping his jacket, a head broke the surface. Price gasped, shaking his head and coughing roughly. He took a deep breath and then dipped back down into the water, disappearing for only a few seconds before resurfacing with the HVT– holding them by the back of their shirt like a scruffed pup. Gaz watched, relieved, as the older man paddled towards him and wordlessly offered out the, understandably dazed, target. He knelt down, hauling them onto the path with a growl of warning in case they had any ideas. Confident he’d put the fear of god into them, he reached out to Price– who took hold of his arm to use as leverage to heave himself from the water.

“Bloody hell.” Price hissed, “Water’s fucking cold.”

“You were the one who decided to tackle them into the water like you were in the rugby league.”

“Got them to stop, didn’t it?” 

He watched as Price knelt down, scruffing the target again and walking in the direction of the drop off point. Gaz followed behind, ensuring they didn’t try and escape again. Once the target was making good friends with the walls of a shipping container, where he would stay until Kaste’s agents came to pick him up in the morning, the pair made their own way to the assigned safehouse for the night.

Read the rest on AO3!

Chapters: 3/7 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: Bottom John Price (Call of Duty), Top Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Chapter 3! Obligatory smut chapter despite the fact I cannot write smut :’) naturally, NSFW warning!

If someone asked Kyle Garrick 10 years ago what his favourite colour was, chances were he would say red. The park in his nearby park always housed the most beautiful flowers that volunteers tended to religiously. Chrysanthemums, camellia, bleeding hearts, roses, tulips, poppies– always changing depending on the season but always returning with that beautiful and rich deep red that he so adored. If someone asked Kyle 5 years ago what his favourite colour was, the answer would probably have been the same– albeit the flowers he had enjoyed half a decade prior had been trampled and destroyed some years ago, ransacked and ruined to the point the flowerbeds were paved over with tarmac. Yes, his favourite colour was still red. Or, more specifically, the shade of red that comes with the sunrise, bleeding across the sky before exploding into golden hues and banishing any lingering darkness. 

Although should someone ask him the same question around 18 months ago, his face would soften and an affectionate smile would dance in the corners of his lips, the edges twitching upwards. Blue, he would say, and refuse to elaborate. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” John asked, peering out from under his arm that he had thrown over his face. Kyle had to stop for a moment, straightening and sitting back on his haunches to get a proper view of the man underneath him, reverently running his hands down his chest, biting back a moan at the feeling of his thick hair that littered almost every inch of his body. 

John was absolutely fucking stunning like this. Laid out across their bed, skin flushed pink and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His hair was a mess from how much Kyle had been grabbing at it and pulling it, forcing the older man to bare his neck for him for easier access. The flesh around John’s neck and jaw was littered with bites and bruises where Kyle had eagerly attacked the expanse of previously unmarked flesh. But despite the delectable feast laid out before him, he couldn’t stop trailing his gaze back up to meet his lover’s. It was no secret that Kyle loved John's eyes, notably the colour, but also how expressive they could be. 

Chapters: 2/7 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty), John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Nikolai (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare) Additional Tags: Misunderstandings, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Major Character Injury, Blood and Injury, Hurt John Price (Call of Duty)

Chapter 2 for @pricegazweek​, time to work on 3! Preview below <3

“And what’s this, sergeant?” Price didn’t look up when a small stack of papers were slapped onto his desk like a wet rag and that only really ignited the anger that Gaz had been feeling for the past few weeks. 

“My transfer request.” He gritted out through clenched teeth, posture guarded once he folded his arms across his chest. That seemed to snap Price out of whatever work he was doing. The captain lowered his pen, finally giving Gaz his full attention. 

“Transfer?” Price laughed disbelievingly, “What do you mean ‘transfer’?”

“Exactly as I said, captain.”

He and Price had been struggling to see eye to eye lately. Whilst, yes, they had grown close since Price had taken (or rather, stole) him back in London, Gaz had always felt that he was constantly being held at an arm’s reach.  

“And what brought this on?” An arched eyebrow. 

“Call it an issue with leadership.”

Price’s face twitched and Gaz knew that he was wanting to say something in retaliation but didn’t want to make the situation even more worse than it already was. He tapped his fingers against the wooden desk, jaw clenched tight. Frankly, it was more than just an issue of leadership. Price was simply not the person that Gaz thought he was. Stupid as he was, Gaz had gone and fallen for the man. No, that wasn’t the problem. He would have been able to deal with that sort of rejection (he was an adult, after all)-- no, it was Price’s behaviour. 

From a young age, Gaz knew that he wasn’t straight. He never flaunted his sexuality, he never wanted to be defined solely because of who he was attracted to, but he was never ashamed of it. If he thought someone was attractive, 9 times out of 10, he would tell them as such. Whether or not something happened from there was almost always a matter of the other party’s decision. Admitting that sort of thing to Price, though, was something else entirely. The man was his Captain, no less, and Gaz had never heard anything about a wife, partner, husband or otherwise at home. He didn’t have a ring– hell, he barely talked much about what he did outside of work. Family was always a topic he avoided like the plague– which wasn’t all that odd considering all of the 141 did the same. Gaz found out pretty quickly that at least half of their already small enough team had had poor experiences growing up and talked very little about, which was fine by him. 

Not knowing where Price was on the relationship side of things, though, made Gaz curious. Price was only a few years older than he was, but he had that older and rugged charm to him despite only being 38. It would be even more shocking if he was single. He sported a divorced dad sort of vibe too, which Gaz didn’t mind. He loved kids. 

For the sake of trying his luck, Gaz started flirting with Price. If he was in a relationship and stated as such, Gaz was more than happy to back off– the same would be said if it turned out that Price was straight (though Kate’s laughter echoing in his ears after he had asked still echoed in his ears). He went in hoping for the best, preparing for the worst. The worst being mild rejection. 

The worst not being Price’s near disgusted face when he finally clocked Gaz’s advancements. Price being straight was one thing– what Gaz couldn’t even begin to accept was the captain being a raging fucking homophobe. At first he had convinced himself that it was a one off, that maybe Price was having a bad day. So he tried again and was met with the same reaction– disgust and an almost constipated look. With evidence like that, Gaz couldn’t help but believe it. Captain John Price was a homophobe– but had a best friend who was openly a lesbian and married to a woman. It didn’t make an ounce of sense– especially when Price and Kate had talked about how the man had attended said wedding! It made the hurt ache more when Price started distancing himself from the sergeant– remaining professional, but holding him at an ever longer reach than before. That had been four weeks ago, and Gaz had had enough. 

“Does Kate know?” Price said, briefly looking down at the paperwork and then looking back up to meet Gaz’s eyes. 

“I’ll be giving these to her after you sign them.”

“Bold of you to assume I will.”

“Doesn’t have to be yours, sir, I’m asking more out of courtesy.”

Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty), Kate Laswell Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, slight imposter syndrome, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

My first chapter for @pricegazweek is up! So excited to be taking part in this <3 Preview below!

John Price had smoked for as long as he could remember. He remembered as a boy, sneaking into his father’s study and swiping a couple of his cigars from the sizable stash– just enough so the man wouldn’t notice a few wayward smokes. It’s not as though he was home enough to notice anything, anyhow, and John’s mother almost never went into the study if she could help it– lest she get a black eye for her trouble. He took as many cigars as he dared, and a couple of matches that were spread across the table, shoving his prizes deep into his pockets and sneaking back out of the room. He had barrelled down the stairs quickly after, shouting to his mother that he was going out. She may have replied but John didn’t hear it. Or maybe she didn’t reply at all from her place day drinking at the dining table. He didn’t care either way and neither did she. John doubted she’d notice if he didn’t come back. He’d made his way to the park and into the nearby woodlands. Dense brush and overgrown foliage was enough to deter most– a perfect escape for him. A smattering of flowers were nestled between the blades of grass– wild poppies, dandelions and buttercups. A large oak tree stood in the middle of the greenery– decades old and untouched by any saw. He rounded to the back of it, finding the planks that he had nailed into the side a few summers ago to help him climb the thick bark. 

He scaled the tree, ensuring he was careful as he climbed. The summer before, he made the mistake of going up to his hiding spot in the middle of the rain and had slipped just before he reached the top. The crunching sound when he landed still echoed in his ears, but not as much as his parents screaming at him when they took him to the hospital. 

Once he reached the top, he grabbed onto the rope that he had tied around one of the thicker branches, using it as leverage to haul himself the last step. John collapsed into the bark where the branches all met, leaving a surprisingly comfortable seating for him. He had grown since last year, and he was worried that he wouldn’t fit in his little private space much longer the more he grew. He didn’t want to find a new hiding place– not when this one acted almost like a friend.

He reached into his pocket, digging around until he found one of the cigars and a single matchstick. He gave it a cautious sniff, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The first drag of the cigar was the worst– he coughed as he inhaled, resulting in him hacking for several seconds until he could breathe again. The second was no better than the first– by the fifth he had more or less gotten the hang of inhaling without choking. He camped out in the tree even several hours after he had finished the cigar out of fear the smell would cling to his clothes. 

He started stealing more cigars whenever he had the chance. Sometimes, Price wondered if his father had known all along, but quickly crushed the thought. He would have been beaten black and blue if the man had ever found out his only son had been pilfering his much loved supply of Cuban cigars. When he was younger, Price would question whether or not his father loved him less than his cigars. Once he was older, Price knew that that was a fact. 

His father never found out any had gone missing in the first place. At least, not until John left for the army and brought half of the stash with him. He wished he was there to see the old bastard’s face, walking into his office and seeing his desk drawers left open and several cigars littering the floor, carelessly stomped on by John on his way out of the door. 

Smoking became an outlet for him– a crutch that he started relying on. It was unhealthy, he knew it was, even more so the longer he served. Missions gone wrong– lost teammates, lost friends, too many close calls– missions where he should have died. Where he shouldn’t have been the one to walk away– not when there were better people, better soldiers who had so much more than him left to live for. When Price was 25, smoking became less of a bad habit and more of something that he hoped would kill him without him actively trying. Despite his desire to end his life, he had much rather do it serving his country than be discharged for mental health problems. If he was getting discharged from the army– it would be in a coffin painted in his country’s colours. It was only by chance his lungs remained intact for him to reach Captain, taking over the mantle from MacMillan after he retired. 

Despite the mindset, he wouldn’t have called himself suicidal. No, there were others in worse mental states than he was– ones that went to therapy once, or even twice, a week. It’s not as though he was judging them for it– hell, he urged a lot of the soldiers he knew to seek professional help when they were struggling. It was just that John didn’t dare take his own advice lest he admit too much and end up sectioned. What would he even tell them, anyway? That he hoped that smoking would eventually kill him? That he’d get cancer? That he’d let the disease kill him slowly– make him feel every ounce of pain that he believed he deserved? Besides, he wasn’t attempting anything, meaning he couldn’t be suicidal– right? Of course not. Depressed, maybe, but not suicidal because he wasn’t actively attempting so that counted for something, right?

Not to mention that Kate must have at least suspected how he felt on the inside– she had known him long enough. Then again, if she had any inclination whatsoever, would she have gone out of her way to form the 141? Probably not. But she couldn’t deny that Price wasn’t entirely the same man that he  was when Taskforce 141 was formed– in fact, he liked to think that he was a better man. The sheer idea of not having the team he had now was one he didn’t want to think too long nor hard about. 

read the rest on AO3!

We are proud to finally be able to share our Information & Mission Statement Document!

Inside you will find details about our goals, charities, schedule, contributors, and merch previews/pricing.

Thank you for your support thus far! Stay Amazing! 👊👊💥

Google Docs

Sunshine Info & Mission

PriceGaz Week 2024

Hello everyone!

I'm happy to announce PriceGaz Week 2024 and the official prompt list with it!

The week-long event is from May 27th to June 2nd, and it's a chance to create fanworks for this wonderful ship.

The theme week functions like this:

Pick a daily prompt from our two prompt lists, themes and poetry excerpts - you may do just one or both, combine them, whatever your heart desires! You can also combine prompts from different days

Post it on the day, or post it a week after - just remember to tag it with #PriceGazWeek or #PriceGazWeek2024

Your creative works can be anything - writing, art, music, recipes, playlists, gifsets, videos, moodboards, whatever the prompts inspire you to make!

Both SFW and NSFW entries are allowed, but remember to tag your NSFW works properly

If you post on AO3, there will be a collection which will be published on May 25th - instructions for this will come later!

Happy creating, everyone! Very excited to see what you all will come up with 💰❤️🧢

Hiii Crab so happy to see you write outside of our rants/idea chats and my fellow delulu cod enjoyer! Would love to request Platonic!141 + Reader (sorry if this is long and somewhat confusing lol). You can do headcanons, drabble or whatever you comfy for. An idea that popped in my head kinda semi personal: Civ or 141! Reader though has parents and family is the reader is quite something else. Reader despite having somewhat normal upbringing still feel empty; they shouldn't be feeling this numb and empty deep inside of them. The reader craves the love that they give but couldn't or lack of receiving it back, though they don’t expect it or selfishly want it. Just someone who understands them even in their deepest darkest secret or flaw then boom cue the task force 141 unexpected yet welcoming to their life and maybe the one that the Reader can lean and let them be vulnerable on (finally).  

Take your time on doing this Looking for to your other writing genuinely -Cee, your fellow Soap delulu

GN!Reader & 141 (Mostly Price)

Warnings: Slight angst Ships: None. A/N: This absolutely ran away from me and I do not at all regret it, hope you enjoy, Cee!!! Words: 3549

Almost your entire life had been a cycle of self doubt that also started to churn and twist into self-hatred. You blamed yourself for the feelings. Afterall, you had a relatively normal upbringing. Two parents who were both present in your life, both of whom worked so that you all had food on the table and a roof over your head. A luxury that very few had.

The least you could do for them is follow the path that they wanted to put you on, no matter how much you didn’t want to do it. Because you loved them. 

So you excelled in your education, studying hard to try and impress your parents– to make them love you just as much as you loved them for everything that they did for you for your entire life. They wanted you to do all three sciences despite the additional workload it would add to your already stretched thin time? Then you would do them, take any extra classes after school in order to keep up with the work and not lag behind any of your peers. 

There was no such thing as a social life, either, not when you had homework and projects due. Friends were few and far between. Generally, most people left when they realised how hyper focused you were on your grades instead of social interaction. 

Did a classmate get a higher grade than you on a test? Well obviously you didn’t study hard enough, you just needed to dedicate more time to school even though school was all you had.

Did you get the highest marks in the class? Good, that was what was expected of you. Why didn’t you get full marks? You were better than that. You would do better because you loved your family. They showed it in their own way, of course, by encouraging you to study harder and get better grades. That was their love language, and yours was doing as they asked without a second thought. Because, at the end of the day, you were lucky to have an upbringing like you had. You would ignore the hollow void clawing at your chest because you had no right to feel that way– not when you had a roof over your head and parents that loved you(?).

It was when you came top of the class with full marks in a recent test, you came home with a beaming smile on your face and proudly showed the test to your parents. They took the papers from your hands, flipping through your work with critical eyes, before handing the papers back to you. 

‘Well done, we’re so proud of you.’ That was all you wanted them to say to you. That was all you needed to hear. To know that they loved you. 

‘Your penmanship is terrible.’ Was what you got instead. When you tried to point at the big 100% in green pen, you were waved away. ‘How are you expected to get a job when you write like a child? I’m surprised the teacher could even read your answers’. 

After several years of balancing a work and educational life and paving a way for a line of work that you didn’t want for parents you should have been grateful to have, you decided that enough was enough. 

No matter how hard you worked, no matter how high your marks were, they would never be proud of you. They would never return the love that you had for them until you nearly killed yourself trying. 

Spending your entire childhood, teenagehood and all of your current adulthood trying to please your parents predictably would damage one’s psyche. You had no friends, family who had never been devoted to you as you were to them, and high grades serving as the foundations to a prison-like future.

You dropped out of University. The only option forward that you saw was joining the army in the vain hope that the empty feeling inside of you would dissipate when you actually did something that you believed was more worthwhile than any University course. 

So you threw yourself into the military, working harder than all of the other recruits and training at every chance you could.

Your skills and determination became widely recognised amongst your peers. It took several years, but you eventually caught the eye of none other than Captain John Price. 

Impressed by your willpower that not many soldiers possessed, he offered you a place on the 141. 

Naturally, you agreed. You believed that being part of such a well renowned and respected team would finally beat back the lingering self doubt and emptiness that had curled itself around your heart.

It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse.

You were invited to join the 141, sure, but they had already established their own relationships between each other, had already bonded into a close knit group, and you were simply an outsider. Yes, you had been hand picked by Price himself, but that didn’t mean you were part of the team. They had their own inside jokes that they told to one another, leaving you feeling left out on most days.

And you felt… lacking around them. Ghost was stronger, Gaz was faster, Soap was smarter (he was a demolitions expert for crying out loud!), and Price was almost all of those rolled into one. They all complimented each other as a team. Meanwhile you felt like a spare tyre, a master of nothing and barely a jack of any trade. 

Despite how you felt about it all, they all called you ‘kid’. Regardless of age gaps between yourself and the rest of them, the nickname stuck mostly because you were the newbie. It came as a surprise that it wasn’t spat with vitriol as your peers before had, but it was in fact said with… an affection you couldn’t quite place.

You couldn’t ignore the hole in your chest that had been chipped at over the years, forming a gaping maw that no reassurances could really mend. 

Doubt lingered in the back of your mind, chipping away at your sanity as you prepared for the worst. How long would it take before they realised you weren’t good enough? 

You were so deep in your doubts that you didn’t realise that you had been distancing yourself even more than before until you overheard a conversation in Price’s office a few months down the line.

“-- they don’t belong on the team.” Gaz said as you passed Price’s office and your heart dropped. It was only the tailend of what he had been saying but you had gotten the gist. You wanted to stay, to listen to the conversation more and listen to what your team had to say about you, but you didn’t. What you were going to hear were likely things you had already told yourself right from the start. You keep walking on, ignoring the sting of tears burning in the corners of your eyes. The blood rushing in your ears prevented you from heating the rest of the conversation. 

“-- not only are they acting like they don’t belong on the team, but they’re acting like they’re not good enough.” Gaz continued, sighing in frustration.

“Maybe they need more time.” Ghost rumbled in reply, “Let them come out of their shell a little bit. Best not rush these things.” He was talking from experience, after all.

“Aye… maybe I can invite them out for drinks or sommat? I wouldn’t want them getting transferred before we got to know them a little more.” Soap had been the one that had tried the hardest to get close to you but had also tried to give you space so as to not suffocate you with his personality. 

“They won’t be getting transferred.” Price said with conviction, tapping his desk, “I chose them to be part of this team and this is where they’re going to stay. Let me have a word with them first.”

“Aye, sir.”

— — — — — —

You found yourself in the smoker’s shelter outside the main building. It was late enough that most of the soldiers had gone to bed or off to do their own things elsewhere so you doubted that you would be bothered for a little while. Just enough time for you to get your thoughts together. Your tears had dried in your eyes a few minutes ago, making them sting in the cold air. You didn’t need to look in your reflection to know that you probably looked like a wreck– entirely unbecoming of a soldier of your apparent status. 

You didn’t want to get transferred. Despite your distance with the 141, you didn’t hate them. Far from, actually, you held a great deal of respect for each and every one of them. It was just that you felt like you didn’t have your place amongst them. Not good enough to be associated with them. 

“Bit late to be out here in the cold, chuck.” A voice startled you out of your thoughts– one that you would recognise anywhere from the low rasp of a smoker's lungs. 

“Captain.” You croaked, wincing at the patheticness in your voice. There was a scuff of boots as Price came closer, leaning into your line of vision with a furrowed brow which only furrowed more as he took in your dishevelled appearance.

“Something on your mind?” He asked kindly, perching on the arm of the bench to give you some personal space. He left his question open, allowing you any chance to steer the conversation how you wanted to. There was no judgement for catching you at your lowest, no disgust at your red rimmed eyes— just polite understanding and a non verbal offer of pleasant company. 

“Why did you pick me, Captain?”

The question made him tilt his head, a frown beginning to tug on his features. You were worried you had insulted him.

“What brought this on, huh? Someone say something to you? Need me to have a word with them?” He straightened his back, scowling. Whilst you felt like you didn’t have a place in the 141, you could never deny the shield of protectiveness that Price held over his team. You remember in the back of your mind the day that some General who thought he was hot shit had the audacity to undermine Soap as nothing more than a ‘yappy dog’ when offered the Scot’s demolitions expertise. Price had appeared almost out of thin air and almost ripped the General a new one and things would have escalated into a fist fight had Laswell not intervened. It wasn’t as though Price didn’t think his own soldiers were capable of defending themselves, but he couldn’t care less about punishments aimed his own way over that of his Sergeants and Lieutenant. It was just a surprise that the protective streak extended over you, too, despite your distance to your teammates.

“I’ll sound stupid.” You mumbled, looking down at the ground as if expecting him to chastise you like a child. He didn’t.

“I’ve had my fair share of stupid over the years. Try me.”

“... and ungrateful.”

“I once had a guy punch me in the face two seconds after I took a bullet that would have killed him.” Price countered with a cut off chuckle once he remembered what was probably a mission long finished and cleared his throat. “C’mon, tell Captain what’s on your mind.”

And he sounded so sincere when he said it. Sounded like he genuinely wanted to hear what was going on in your head– that he was willing to waste what was already his important and limited time on someone like you. 

“Sir—”

“John.” Price corrected gently, crows feet more noticeable at the corners of his eyes scrunched up when he smiled, “We’re off duty, you don’t need to be so formal.”

“... John.” You echoed, finding that you really didn’t like saying that. It felt like calling your teacher by their first name in primary school or a classmate’s parent other than their last name. 

“Now, c’mon, tell me what’s on your mind. Might not be a therapist, but I’m better than bottling it up.” You wondered in the back of your mind how often Price did this. Sat with his soldiers and talked with them, offered them a listening ear to hear their vents and fears. You couldn’t help but feel honoured to be one of the few he willingly offered said time to. Your silence stretched on as you thought of the words to say, how to phrase what you wanted to say without sounding unappreciative of the opportunity that Price had offered you when he requested you join his team. 

“I don’t feel like I belong here.” You blurted once the silence had stretched on for long enough to border on uncomfortable. John’s face fell and you quickly realised how bad that sounded and rushed to correct yourself.

“No, no, wait, let me explain–” the Captain closed his mouth to allow you to continue speaking, but you could tell that it was hard for him. “I just… you could have anyone better than me, you know? I’m not a demolition expert. I’m… I’m not the best Sniper. I’m the slowest on the team, pretty sure I’m the weakest–”

“Nope.” Price interrupted, finally breaking the bubble of your personal space as he took a proper seat next to you on the bench but still respecting the distance enough to keep a few inches between you. “Nope, not lettin’ you say another word.”

“But–” 

“Nope.”

“Cap–”

“No.”

“But you could have anyone better—“

“But they wouldn’t be you.” He deflected easily. Far too easily. He leant back on the bench, crossing one leg over the other as he folded his arms over his chest. His fingers twitched and you could tell he was itching for a cigar but didn’t light one out of respect. 

“Alright, sure, I can ask Laswell to give me one of the best soldiers in the SAS and have them brought here tomorrow. They could be the best of the best, top of their class, better than you and maybe even better than me. But that’s a bit of a stretch.” He winked and earned a weak chuckle from you. “But they won’t be you. I don’t pick just on skill alone, kid, I pick based on how I feel people would fit into the team. I chose you because I knew that you’d be perfect.”

“As for not being a demolitions expert, let  me let you in on a little secret. I’ve no fucking clue about demolitions, either. And you don’t have to be on the team to be the ‘best Sniper’. You’re better than most, and that’s what’s important. As for being the weakest– did you or did you not bodily lift Gaz in a fireman’s carry during training the other week while he was trying to act as an injured civilian? Quite dramatically, might I add. Swooned and everything.”

You remembered that practice mission. Quite fondly, actually. Gaz was a civilian and , after being struck by a foam bullet from Soap, had dramatically screamed in agony and crumpled to the floor. When you had lifted him up and over your shoulders, the bastard continued to wail something along the lines of telling his non-existent spouse that he loved them and that his money be given to his equally non-existent children. Soap got in another shot to the man’s head, knocking off his cap in the process. Distracted as you were trying to haul your teammate out of the danger zone, you couldn’t help but laugh thinking about it now. 

“Last time I checked, Gaz is somewhat heavier than a sack of flour. Don’t tell him I said that, I’ll hurt his feelings.” Price was right, you supposed. You were more than capable of carrying Gaz over your shoulders, maybe even Soap or Price himself if the time called for it. Ghost you weren’t so sure about, though. The man was a walking mountain. 

“What I’m trying to say is that you have to give yourself more credit. You’re more than good enough to be on my team. I chose you for a reason.”

You… did not expect that sort of reassurance from Price. You had hoped for something along those lines, yes, but perhaps with a thrown in criticism or three. You waited for a ‘but’ that never came. The man snorted beside you and when you gave him a quizzical look, he waved off your concern.

“Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the next thing out of your mouth would be that your parents never hugged you as a kid.”

Your silence made him slowly turn his head towards you. It would have almost been comical if the situation wasn’t. His face crumbled and a wounded sound emerged from his throat.

“Sometimes they did!” You rushed to defend the people that raised you. “And they gave me food and shelter, clothes when I needed them–”

“Fucking hell. No, that’s what they’re supposed to do because they’re your parents. What about telling you that they were proud of you? That they loved you? I saw your records. Top of your class in not just your training but in your education, too. Triple sciences, mathematics, all of it. They had to be proud of you for that? My parents would have killed for me to get even a passing grade in my GCSEs.” You looked down at the ground and it was Price’s turn to have his eyes fixed on you. 

“They were proud of you, weren’t they?” He asked again, leaning forwards so he could catch your eye, his own filled with concern. “Kid?”

“I don’t talk to them much anymore.” 

Price inhaled sharply and he leaned back again, looking around and clenching his jaw as if fighting back his anger. His fingers twitched again. You admired his self control as he was still yet to grab a cigar that you knew he kept on his person. Usually in his breast pocket while his lighter was in his right pocket.

“Listen to me.” The Captain said, a more stern edge to his voice now that he had gathered his thoughts together. “Whatever your family said to you— how they treated you? Forget it. They showed you obligation. Not love. They didn’t want what was ‘best’ for you, they wanted bragging rights. What you’ve achieved– here, in bootcamp, in university and in school, is something to take pride in– no, no, look at me.”

Your gaze had trailed to the side so you avoided looking at your Captain in the eyes. He noticed and clicked his fingers to gain your attention back on him.

“Don’t look away from me because I want you to listen to what I’m gonna say and I want you to look at my face as I say it.” Your eyes met his blue ones, “You should be proud of everything that you’ve achieved in your life. I’m sorry that your family never told you that and I’m sorry that I haven’t said that enough to you since you joined 141.”

You opened your mouth to say something– to argue or disagree but he shook his head.

“No. It’s my turn to speak now. I’m proud of you. I am so proud of you. Everything you’ve done and everything that you’re yet to do, I will always be proud of you. You’re an exemplary soldier and I knew the moment I saw you that you would be a perfect addition to the 141 and you have proved me right time and time again. You belong on this team just as much as the rest of the boys. Do you understand?”

So many words– proud, proud, proud. That’s all you had wanted to hear for so many years from someone whose opinion mattered to you. You wanted to be seen and Price, this godsend of a man, had seen you and more.

“Kid, do you understand me?”

You nodded once and then realised that Price wouldn’t have been able to tell through your shaking. Tears blurred in the corners of your eyes and you nodded again, not trusting your voice in case it shattered. 

“What do you need from me?” Price’s voice was oh so soft, like he was talking to a frightened fawn. He could see how much his words had affected you and it clearly broke his own heart.

“A hug.” Your bottom lip wobbled and his face softened as he opened his arms, twitching his fingers to urge you closer.

“I can do that.” 

You leaned into him and he quickly wrapped his arms around you, drawing you in close. You could smell the lingering scent of his last cigar. The smell of his office and cleaning oil. You felt his chin on the top of your head and felt how his chest rumbled as he spoke.

“You’re part of the 141 whether you like it or not, alright? Me and the boys want you here for as long as you want to be.”

At that moment, for the first time in your life. You felt wanted. You felt appreciated and you felt seen.

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AleRudy Getting Together Headcanons

Warnings: None Ships: Alejandro/Rudy A/N: Aro-spec Rudy? Aro-spec Rudy. Words: 1875

They've known each other for 20 years, and have been together for 15 of them, married for 10. The reason they didn’t get together sooner was because Alejandro was dating Valeria at the time but their relationship soured. 

Rudy fell first, and he fell hard enough to bruise, but Alejandro fell harder. 

Out of the both of them, Alejandro is the most emotional and Rodolfo… less so. He’s a little more emotionally detached. 

It goes to say that Rudy absolutely positively adores Alejandro and loves him with his entire heart, but he’s just… not the best at vocalising it. Verbal and physical affection was never really a big thing when he was growing up, so he got used to doing other things to show he cared like acts of service or gift giving. 

Rudy also grew up in a large family. Being the eldest sibling/cousin, there were a lot of times that he had to step in to stop arguments. He learnt how to keep a level head to try and avoid any worsening conflict. This ends up becoming a problem a little more into their relationship.

‘I love you’ is also something that Rudy struggles to say. Yes, he loves Alejandro, but to him they’re just words. Saying them himself holds no power or meaning. Not as much as the little things to show your love that you care about them– subtle things, like restocking Alejandro’s hair gel when he notices it running out. Making him his morning coffee just before his alarm goes off so he’s able to drink it while it’s still hot and before he even has to roll out of bed.  

Expanding on Rudy being a little emotionally detached, as one can imagine, this caused a lot of arguments when they first started dating. It wasn’t an issue for when they were just friends because Rudy was already such a loyal friend to Alejandro there was no question with his feelings towards his then best friend.

Being in a relationship was a new territory for the both of them. Alejandro because Rudy was the first person he actually felt a deep connection to whilst any previous relationships were closer to flings than anything more. For Rudy, Alejandro was one of the first few romantic relationships he had ever had– if not the first.

So as time went on, Alejandro began to notice what he believed was Rudy’s… lack of attachment.

Again, Alejandro is a passionate and emotional man. He loves his friends, his soldiers and his family fiercely, but he sometimes expects others to show the same intensity.

So when Rudy didn’t seem all that enthusiastic in the first few months of their relationship, Alejandro began to believe the worst. 

They had arguments here and there, as most couples do, but Alejandro reached breaking point around 3 months into dating. And thus their first proper argument as a couple happened. And it was bad. 

Alejandro was furious beyond words, using his anger to hide the hurt he felt at what he incorrectly assumed was Rudy rejecting him for months. He would constantly say those special three words and only receive a smile in response or an awkward grimace and a swift change in subject.

He accused Rudy of not caring about him, given how little emotion he would show when they were together. He even brought up that Rudy only seemed the most romantic/emotional during sex. How he cradled Alejandro and whispered sweet nothings in the man’s ear as he took him apart and built him back up, made him whimper and keen in the dead of night. 

This, of course, crushed Rudy.

The argument would then get worse when Rudy, without meaning it, would seem to undermine Alejandro and tone down any concerns he had when in reality he was just trying to calm him down the only way he knew how. Sometimes, Rudy would curse himself for having such a level head and occasional aloof demeanour as it never failed to make him seem all the more distant and closed off to those closest to him.

It’s during that argument that something finally gives in. As always, Alejandro is yelling, gesturing angrily and so violently that it almost makes Rodolfo flinch. Almost. 

“If you don’t love me, just say it! I am sick of playing these games–”

Rudy’s attempts at calming his lover down only just seemed to add fuel to the fire. In the end, he sat resolutely in silence as he waited for Alejandro’s rage to simmer down. That was until something he didn’t expect slipped from his Colonel’s mouth.

“This is like Valeria all fucking over again!”

Rodolfo could handle being yelled at. He could handle hiding every flinch that wanted to escape whenever Alejandro got violent and began to throw the nearest objects to him into the wall (but never at Rodolfo– Lord knows Alejandro would never forgive himself if he laid a hand on the man he loved). He could handle the harsh glares and the cold shoulders that followed a few days after every argument. He could deal with those. He would persevere because he loved Alejandro. He just never said it. 

But to be compared to that bitch was what hurt the most. Valeria– who had buried her perfectly manicured talons into Alejandro’s heart all those years ago and then ripped it to pieces when she yanked her claws out just to watch him bleed. Rodolfo knew that Alejandro didn’t mean what he was saying. He was too lost in his own rage to really think about what he was saying. Alejandro continued raving– mostly to himself now that Rudy had bowed his head to stare at the floor, shame and guilt eating away at his insides. 

The argument came to a barrelling stop at the first sniffle that cut through the room. It was quiet but deafening to Alejandro’s ears and enough to make him stop his rambling and look at his boyfriend with panic in his eyes. He had wanted Rudy to hurt, yes, selfishly wanted him to feel the hurt he had made Alejandro feel these past few months— but he didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be the cause of the fat blobs of tears dripping onto the floor as the other man stared at it. His anger was still present, but it took a backseat as he rushed to try and comfort Rudy, his heart breaking when the other man held out a hand to stop him, shaking his head and denying Alejandro the right to soothe the hurt that he had caused.

“Rudy, mi amor, I am so sorry–” 

“No.” Rudy whispered through his tears, stubbornly keeping his gaze on the floor just so Alewjandro could not see how deep his words had cut him. “You are right, I am just like–”

The speed and strength that suddenly seized him in the form of Alejandro’s hands clutching his upper arms startled him. He looked up with wide and wet eyes to see Alejandro almost exactly the same. His love looked so heartbroken. 

“No, Rodolfo– Rudy, it was callous of me to compare you to that woman. Perdóname mi corazón, I may have been angry but that is no excuse to say that to you.”

“But–” Rudy’s mouth snaps shut when Alejandro shakes him, his earlier fury returning for only a split second before melting away into the most hurt he had ever seen on his Colonel.

“Escúchame– listen. Listen to me, Rudy. No matter what happens between us, you will never, ever be like she was. You are the most thoughtful, selfless, brave, beautiful man I have ever known..” Rudy opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when Ale shook him again. “I mean it, Rudy. I mean it.”

Alejandro, for all his training and status, panicked when his reassurances only seem to make the other cry harder. His fingers only tightened around Rudy’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing his lips against the other man’s hairline. 

“I love you.” Rudy whispered through his tears. Alejandro hated the way his heart skipped a beat  “I love you. So much. So much that breathing is unimportant when I am around you because you always take my breath away. The sun rising is nothing in comparison to your smile. You are the man I would live and die for– the man I would start wars for if you only asked.”

Alejandro had been taken aback by his lover’s words. To hear him speak about him with such awe, such reverence that it would make God himself jealous. Rudy was a lowly disciple, willing to worship the very ground that Alejandro stood on like a man pleading for salvation. How… How had Alejandro missed the adoration Rudy had for him? And now he had gone and made the man cry like he had been rejected from the gates of Heaven. 

“I'm sorry.” Rodolfo continued, “I am sorry that I have not said it enough. I am sorry that I do not love you the way you want me to– the way that you deserve to be loved.”

“Oh, mi amor…” Alejandro had whispered back, all remaining semblance of anger draining from his body once understanding clicked into place. “Perdóname…”

The Colonel reached out, taking Rudy’s hand into his own, and placing kisses so soft onto the other man’s knuckles that it felt like he was merely brushing his lips over flesh. 

“My love, my life, my heart… If I have your love, no matter what kind, then that is more than enough for me.”

To say the argument made their relationship stronger would be an understatement. They communicated more, voiced any worries or their needs, cleared the air before anything could fester.  They flourished together and only grew more madly in love with each other as time passed.

Not to mention that Alejandro became more acutely aware of the tiny things that Rudy did for him to show his love– and began to do the same. Topping up the spice rack that Rudy heartily used at mealtimes before they could fully run out, cleaning his favourite pistol before he had to do it because Ale knows just how much his lover hated doing it at the end of a long mission. 

Months later, Alejandro can’t rightfully remember who had told him about the idea in the first place, but he was quick to bring it up to Rodolfo the second he had the chance. He explained how a couple shows that they love each other by tapping three times anywhere on their partner’s body. Rodolfo, touched, says that it sounds like a wonderful thing to do. 

It’s when Alejandro and Rodolfo are lying in bed together, limbs tangled together as they exchange sleepy kisses that Alejandro feels it. Three taps. Three taps. Three Taps. Three taps with a break between each sequence. I love you. I love you. I love you. It’s beautiful and almost overwhelming enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

From there, Alejandro never again doubted Rudy’s love for him, especially when he felt three taps on his wrist as Rodolfo slid a gold band over his ring finger half a decade later. I love you, the taps whispered.

“I love you.” Alejandro said, beaming with adoration.

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your shadow company has made me nearly cry 😭 I love the though of SC being like a big family sm

not to be dramatic or anything but getting this ask almost made me cry, too 😭tysm for your kind words! and don't worry, I have many more headcanons written up abt SC and show no signs of stopping <3

Graves + Shadows Headcanons Part 3 [Part 1] [Part 2] Words: 766

Praise for DAYS. Did Shadow 5-8 get a good shot on the target? Punch in the shoulder at the end of the mission and a bright grin “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, 5-8!”, 

“Atta’girl, 6-12, I couldn’t’ve done that better myself.”

“Keep it up, 10-4!” Reaches over and brings them into a side hug and ruffles their hair like a proud dad. 

Coming back to Graves having a lot of respect for his soldiers, remember that scene in SWCW where it's like

"We're clones, sir, we're meant to be expendable..." "Not to me."

Yeah that's Graves.

He has kept every set of dog tags that belonged to Shadows that died during missions. They’re kept locked away in a box, safely tucked away.

A lot of Shadows were previously mercenaries, even criminals, but they are good at what they do which is why they get hired in the first place. Not to mention that Graves sees hiring them as a way to give them a second chance at life. 

Shepherd has learnt that the way to make Graves do what he wants is by threatening his Shadows. He could very easily dissolve the entire company in a day and expose Graves for technically harbouring wanted criminals.  

Yes, Shepherd called him a ‘dog with a bone’, but he’s more like a Dragon with a hoard. His hoard being his soldiers.

Some rando who was visiting the base once snapped at a Shadow, calling them a ‘stupid fucking mercenary’. That was his mistake when Graves had to be restrained by 3 of his own men. 

“What the fuck did you just say to them? You’d best walk outta my base before I make you leave in a goddamn body bag!”

As shown above, he goes absolutely feral if someone ever insults any of his soldiers.

“Be quiet, sergeant, your betters are talking.” Said some hoity Commander who hasn’t stepped foot in a battlefield in over a decade. Suddenly, it feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out like a vacuum. All eyes go to Graves as he glares long and hard at the man. 

“Apologise. Now.” “What–” “I said: apologise, ‘fore I show you my own version of ‘southern hospitality’.”

Compulsory language lessons. Every Shadow has to know at least 2 languages, English and another language of their choosing. Missions sometimes rely heavily on communication, so fluency in different languages is important.

Graves knows several languages himself, but his pronunciation is downright awful. Sometimes he makes his accent worse because it’s funny watching the horror in people’s eyes when he speaks. 

One of his Shadows has a tendency of crawling around in the vents in the base and because he’s not really harming anyone, Graves lets him do as he pleases. Because of the habit, however, and the fact he’s somehow able to go around almost silently through the metal vents, he’s earned an affectionate nickname amongst the Shadows; Roach. 

Graves doesn’t get along with family. Don’t get him wrong, he has some semblance of respect for his Momma cause she taught him good manners and other things like how to cut hair and how to cook a hearty meal for 12 people, but she was a narcissistic bitch when it came down to it and he took a lot of pleasure cutting her out of his life the second he was able to. 

He never met his father, and doesn’t much care for him, either. 

Paid leave/Holidays? Check. Paternity/Maternity leave? Check. Bed ed and board? Check. Medical and dental plan? You know it. Any possible benefit that can come with a job, being a Shadow has. 

No matter what they’re doing, if Graves does a run up to them, they will always catch their Commander. 

Is the first or last port of call when a fight/argument breaks out. It depends on how out of hand it's gotten in the space of about 15 minutes. Usually people don’t want to interrupt whatever the Commander’s doing and invoke his wrath.

“They started it!” “Well I’m endin’ it!”

Has the type of authority that if he were to suddenly yell at a recruit “Drop it. Now!” Everyone in earshot would absolutely drop whatever they were holding even if the comment wasn’t directed at them. 

There’s a Shadow that’s the largest of the entire company– but he is the biggest scaredy cat and coward anyone has ever met, which makes people wonder why he’s even in Shadow Company. The reality is that, despite being a coward, he’s damn intimidating. Perfect for him to shadow hover behind Graves during mission briefs and so forth.

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Graves + Shadows Headcanons Part 2 [Part 1] [Part 3] Words: 794

Once, when Graves got ill, he ended up fainting in the middle of a meeting because he had been pushing himself too hard. He woke up several hours later, completely unaware of the sheer pandemonium that broke loose just after he lost consciousness. The on base medics had to kick several shadows out on multiple occasions and also nearly quit when they saw almost half the base waiting outside the room for an update on their commander. While he was forced into bedrest, at least one Shadow was stationed in his room at one given time to keep an eye out on him and make sure he had everything that he needed. Even after he got better, there was still a Shadow or two lingering outside his office-- just in case.

Graves has a habit of working himself way too hard to be healthy. As a result, the Shadows have self decided shifts where they check up on their Commander– make sure he’s eaten something or drank some water every few hours. He is just,, so bad at looking after himself sometimes. It's a good thing his Shadows are there to help.

Used to insist that the Shadows just call him Phil when they're off duty but they all said it felt wrong, so they generally stick to 'Commander' or 'Graves' but that's as far as they'd go to calling him by name.

Graves is not shy to show his soldiers physical affection, especially if he thinks that they’re touch starved. It’s mostly little things, shoulder or arm or back pats, a quick ruffle of the hair, he makes sure not to overstep any boundaries. If they ask for a little more, like a full hug, he would absolutely give it to them.

Shadow Initiation is that you have to fight against Graves. Only a few Shadows have ever successfully taken him down, but it’s very much a rite of passage if you get your ass handed to you by the Commander.

Despite all his softness, Graves can be an absolutely wicked trainer. He will push his Shadows to their limits during training, but is always mindful to not push them further than what they’re capable of.

Has attended weddings for his Shadows and has been best man(/bride's man??) for a few of them.

He absolutely has several photo albums filled to the brim with pictures of current and old shadows and likes to show it off to the new recruits/baby shadows like a proud dad.

When a Shadow dies on a mission, they are given the best send off money can buy and their families are provided for e.g. if they had kids, college tuition is fully funded etc. Financial support is provided for several years, and secretly sometimes funded from Graves' own pocket.

Took the deaths of Shadows Dipaolo, Vance and Erikson and the other Shadows on that mission pretty hard and blamed himself. So much so, that he began to doubt his ability to lead as their Commander. He couldn't even protect his soldiers, couldn't even send them reinforcements when they needed him the most. He had to listen to them die. And he won't forgive Shepherd for that.

When the Shadows realised how he felt about it, they were all quick to rush and reassure him that their loyalty to him never once wavered.

Absolutely no Shadow likes Shepherd. Not a single one. Shepherd does not visit the base that often because he genuinely thinks that the Shadows are out to get him. They are.

He spends his time on base during the holidays so those who don’t have anyone to go back to aren’t alone. On Christmas day, he makes a killer turkey roast and gets presents for everyone.

Yes, the base does get decorated during the holidays. So far, Halloween is the one that stirs up the most excitement. April Fools has been banned from being celebrated after the entirety of Graves' office got covered in sticky notes. Everything. Not even the pens were spared.

"NEVER BACK DOWN, NEVER WHAT?!” He says this every mission to get morale up, but he also says it when a Shadow is down to try and cheer them up. If they’re upset over something, he’ll nudge them with his shoulder like “Never back down never what?” and keeps saying it with a widening grin on his face until they’re chuckling with him. He stays with them until they feel better. The same has happened where a Shadow has done the same thing to him when he's seemed down or stressed.

He makes it well known to everyone that his office door is always open if anyone ever needs someone to talk to, whether that's to vent, voice any concerns or anything else.

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Graves + Shadows Headcanons [Part 2] [Part 3] Words: 585

Unsurprisingly, he's very protective of his Shadows. Yes, they're mercenaries and soldiers and very much capable of looking after themselves, but he will not tolerate it when clients treats his Shadows as expendable. They are his soldiers.

Graves has absolutely gone out of his way to get to know the Soldiers that work under him. He knows each and every one of them by name, a random fact about them and at least one of their interests.

Would and has killed for his Shadows at one point or another and would do it again. The same goes vice versa.

Movie night at least once a month in the rec room is compulsory.

Team bonding exercises/days out are also compulsory. They all need to get along one way or another if they're going to be relying on each out out in the field.

Has offered himself in exchange for the safe return of one of his soldiers who was captured during a mission.

Actually put an age restriction on becoming a Shadow. Being a mercenary isn’t easy and it’s very different to being a soldier in the army. All shadows are over 21 when hired, but even then most are over the age of 25.

Due to the nature of their roles, being injured enough to lose a limb isn’t as rare as Graves prefers. When this happens, he has always made sure the Shadow affected has access to the best medical care as well as prosthetics should they want it. If they decide to leave/retire from Shadow company after that, they are still given access to the best medical care money can buy funded out of Graves' own pocket.

Is surprisingly good at cutting hair! Some Shadows don't feel comfortable having a stranger cut their hair/see their faces underneath their masks if they wear one often. He learnt how to cut hair pretty well from his momma.

HUGE on his Soldiers going to therapy. Some missions are harder than others and especially stressful, it's important his Shadows have a place to vent.

Has several chefs with different specialities in the kitchen who are all able to create and cook nutritional and delicious meals that all cater to everyone’s eating preferences.

Many of the younger Shadows have called him dad at least once by accident. It’s a running gag at this point and Graves always laughs it off and then goes to his room to cry a lil bit.

Expanding on this, a lot of the Shadows view him as a parental/familial figure and Graves prides himself on that fact. He doesn’t see them as his own kids, considering some of them are older than he is, but he definitely considers all of them part of his family.

Further expanding on that, some of the older Shadows have called him 'son' on several occasions and he has caught himself almost calling them dad more than once.

One of his Shadows named their first born son after him. They brought little Phil to base when he was only a few weeks old and let Graves hold the kid and he 100% ugly cried and refused to give the baby back for a solid 2 hours.

Some of his Shadows have kids back at home. Graves has memorised all their names and birthdays and makes sure to send them a little something on their special days. The younger kids calls him Uncle Philly and he absolutely cried when he heard them go “Hi Uncle Philly!” across call once.

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141 + Nikolai Reactions to Soap Coming Back/Being Alive

Words: 2.8k Warnings: Mentions of depression, alcoholism/self destructive behaviour Ships: Ghost/Soap, (implied) Nik/Price A/N: i swear this was only supposed to be around 600 words but my brain wouldn't stop until i wrote all of this. up next: los vaqueros reaction.

- Price / words: 683

Soap’s death had been sudden. Unexpected. He was so young– the youngest, but he was one of the best. Only a Sergeant, but he could have gone as far as becoming something of a Captain in a few years time if he kept his head screwed on. All that promise and potential, taken away by one single bullet– no. Not the bullet– the man wielding the gun. Price doesn’t remember the last time he had slept more than 4 hours in the night since they spread Soap’s ashes. There was too much to do. There were other lives to save– other lives that were yet to be lost. Mourning for the man would have to come later. Later. Later. Later. There was only so many times that Price could push his needs to the back of his mind before it boiled over. So he took to cigars– cigarettes, if he was in desperate need. Alcohol became a common nightcap for him. Not enough to affect his performance as a Captain, but enough to garner worried looks from Ghost, Gaz, Nikolai and Kate. He couldn’t have them worrying about him– not now, not when they themselves were all reaching breaking points of their own. Ghost had withdrawn on himself to the point he was even worse off than when Price had first met him. He grunted and mumbled his words or avoided conversations entirely. He was still a beast on the battlefield and during missions, almost scarily so. His kills became more brutal, more messy. Dirty, Nikolai had called it once as he watched overhead as Ghost snuck up on a man and stabbed him 27 times. He had counted. 

And Gaz. Who had blamed himself. Price didn’t need to be a therapist to know that. What broke his heart the most was when he was escorting an exhausted Gaz back to his room when the sergeant muttered something under his breath. 

“Wazzat, Garrick?”

“... should’ve been me, sir.” Price didn’t have the words to respond to the statement. It shouldn’t have been Soap. Or Gaz. Or Ghost. It shouldn’t have been any of them. If anything, it should have been Price himself. If Soap hadn’t rushed in head first to save him, then Soap would still be here–

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Price would deny to his dying breath that he choked around his cigar when a familiar face entered his office. He had been run ragged and thin these past few weeks– chasing leads on Makarov and also juggling the emotions that hung in the air since Soap’s untimely demise. Or ‘apparent’ demise, considering said man had just walked into the room as if nothing had happened and Price hadn’t watched his head successfully catch a bullet while trying to save his life. 

“... surprise…?” Soap said awkwardly as he shut the door quietly behind him, scratching the side of his head as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Like still being alive. Price could have snorted at the absurdity of it. Instead, he rose to his feet and ignored the screeching of the chair behind him. He stared at Soap as he rounded his desk, striding towards the not-so-dead-Sergeant.

“Fuck my old boots, I’m going crazy.” he breathed. Jogging the last few steps, he envelops the scot in a hug. One arm wraps around Soap’s back, the other cradling the back of his head. The body beneath the palms of his hands is warm, thrumming with a steady and strong heartbeat. 

“John.” he whispered and arms wrapped around him in return, squeezing some of his jagged pieces back into place. The time to explain how or why would come later. For now, he was comforted by the fact that Soap was still living and breathing. He was still here. He had unknowingly given Price a second chance– one that the dear Captain would not squander.

“Preferred it when ye called me sunshine, sir.”

“Don’t push your fucking luck, Sergeant.” If Price’s grip on the other man tightened, neither said a word.

- Gaz / words: 565

Gaz has been running laps every single day since Soap died. He had been training, pushing himself as hard and as far as he could go. He wasn’t quick enough. He wasn’t quick enough to help when his team needed him most. He wasn’t quick enough to help Soap when he stared at Death in the face and watched as he pulled the trigger. He should have been faster– he convinced himself that he had to be faster. For Ghost. For Price. He wouldn’t fail them like he had failed Soap. He still thinks about the day they lost the scotsman. Remembers the blood pooling around his head like a sickening halo. He uses it as an incentive. As a reminder for what he lost that day– for what he still has left to lose.

Another lap came to an end in the form of him wheezing and almost stumbling to the finish line. He was bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to even out his breathing. He had pushed himself again today and he felt the telltale signs of nausea curl in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t beaten last week’s record yet. He makes a move for one more lap, but a voice stops him. Usually it was Price who stopped him before he pushed himself too far and ended up in medical. The Captain would appear seemingly out of nowhere, cigar in one hand and Gaz’s shoulder in the other.

‘That’s enough for today, Sergeant.’ He would say, and silence any words of complaint or refusal from Gaz before they were even spoken, ‘That’s an order, Kyle.’

“Whoa there, not the best idea to push yerself so hard. You’ll make yerself sick ya daft tit.” 

Either Price had adopted a Scottish accent in some deranged form of honouring their lost Sergeant, or Gaz had begun hallucinating from overexerting himself. It was likely the latter. He didn’t want to think of Price hiding a mohawk underneath his hat. A hand meets his shoulder and his own slaps over the top of it on instinct. Looking up, he squints as his eyes adjust to the sunlight– begin to focus on familiar features in front of him. Grinning familiar features. 

“Oh, you’re a bloody bastard.” He said, still regaining his breath from his laps. He knows that he hasn’t gone crazy– not yet, anyhow. He knows that the hand on his shoulder is real– that the man in front of him isn’t a figment of his imagination. His other hand claps Soap’s shoulder, gripping hard as he struggles to keep himself together. “You’re a bloody bastard, you know that?”

If Soap heard the crack in his voice, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

“I’ve been told. I only came back ‘cause you owed me twenty quid.”

“Last time I checked it was only fifteen.” Gaz raised an eyebrow, tears in his eyes but a smile on his face as they both fell into a similar routine as if Soap had never left. 

“Interest fee.” Soap quipped back, clapping Gaz on the back and bringing him into a tight hug. 

“Welcome back, Soap.” They fell into silence, the embrace lasting a little longer than usual.

“... I’m not giving you your twenty quid, by the way. If anything, you owe me twenty quid for the emotional damage.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid!”

- Ghost / words: 1215

Ghost had withdrawn in himself after Soap’s death– or, more specifically, after the funeral and spreading of his ashes. He hated it. Hated watching as the breeze carried Soap away, spreading him across the Scottish countryside. It… it had been too final, for him. An end. The end of Johnny. That’s what it had felt like. The end. And he couldn’t fucking take it. 

Price had given Johnny’s dog tags to Ghost a week or so after everything. It was likely an excuse to talk to the Mancunian– to try and coax him out of his room. It had worked, albeit slightly, as it was an effective reminder to Ghost of who he still had left. Cutting Price and Gaz off wasn’t the way to go– and most definitely what Soap wouldn’t have wanted for him. 

It had been around 2 months, 11 days, 13 hours, and 42 minutes since Soap had died. The days had somehow blurred together but dragged in such a way that Ghost was still aware of the time passing in the back of his mind in some tortuous slew. It was a rare day that he had not only left his room, but the base entirely. His therapy sessions had gone from monthly to weekly to even bi-weekly sometimes. Price had forced them on him after the funeral. Ghost only went to get the old man off of his back. The sessions were generally an hour long, maybe a little over if he accidentally overshared. Most of the time he only sat and listened to the psychiatrist talk about different ways to deal with thoughts of depression and other ways to deal with bereavement. It was all a load of shite. Don’t get him wrong, his psychiatrist was a wonderful person– very passionate about their job but Ghost had been so overwhelmed by his grief some days that going to his appointments was just a waste of time, resources and money. Today’s session ended like the rest, a curt and professional goodbye and the arrangement of another session at the same time the following week. Ghost wondered just how many more sessions he could attend before Price stopped forcing him to go. The last time he didn’t, Price had wrangled him into Nikolai’s helicopter and had the Russian personally escort him to and from his appointment. How Soap would have howled with laughter if he had ever bore witness to it.

Price and Gaz were talking. That was the first thing that Ghost noticed when he walked past the common room. Whilst that wasn’t uncommon in the slightest, what was suspicious was that there was a third voice amongst them– one that Ghost was yet to forget. Likely it was his mind playing tricks on him again, filling the void that Soap had left in an attempt to save himself from the pain but still managing to gouge more wounds into his heart. Despite the apprehension, he was already opening the door before his brain could even comprehend it. 

“Hey, Lt.” Soap said, turning around to face Ghost when he entered and smiling like he wasn’t supposed to be dead and his body spread across some cliff in some backend of scotland. From the way Price and Gaz were looking directly at the sergeant, it was clear that he was no figment of anyone’s imagination.

“Ghost? Ghost!” For the second time in the space of around 12.5 seconds, Ghost’s body was already walking before his brain caught up. He was walking back to his quarters, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. A few seconds later, desperate knocking filled the room. 

“Ghost, lemme explain!” How dare he? How dare Soap come back like this and treat it like none of the 141 had mourned his loss. 

“Simon… Si, please.” 

The mancunian leant against the closed door, struggling to even out his breathing. Silence fell, only broken by the occasional shaky exhale from Simon’s lips. It stretched on for several minutes, maybe even longer– 

“... Did’ja hear about the cheese factory that exploded in France?” What the fuck was Johnny talking abou– “Da-brie was everywhere.”

Simon almost snorted at the absurdity of the situation and the stupidity of the joke. Looks like the time Johnny had spent being dead gave him time to brush up on his jokes. 

“As I get older, I remember all the people I lost along the way. Maybe me budding career as a tour guide wasn’t the right choice.” Damn him. Damn Johnny for coming back like nothing happened and standing outside Simon’s door telling him goddamn puns. Simon still remained silent, not wanting to give Johnny the satisfaction of making him laugh. 

“Even people who are good for nothing have the capacity to bring a smile to your face, like when you push them down the stairs.” Alright, Ghost would admit that had wormed a soft snort of amusement. Johnny grew silent for a few seconds and it didn’t take too much brain power to imagine the shit eating grin forming on the sergeant’s face, undoubtedly hearing Simon’s mirth. 

“I was digging in our garden and found a chest full of gold coins. I wanted to run straight home to tell my wife about it. Then I remembered why I was digging in our garden…” Awful. Absolutely awful– Simon had taught him well.

“Do you know the phrase ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’? Wonderful saying, horrible way to find out that you were adopted. I can do this all day, Lt.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

Simon sighed to himself as he stood up and opened the door that currently separated the two soldiers. There was a loud curse and a thump as Johnny fell backwards and into the now open doorway. He must have been leaning on the door and didn’t expect the sudden opening. Serves him right. 

“Hi, Simon.” the scot breathed, staring up at Ghost like he had hung the moon. 

“Where did Joe go after getting lost on a minefield?” Simon found himself saying as he stared down at the man who was supposed to be dead. “Everywhere.”

Johnny’s face scrunched up in disdain and he groaned, throwing an arm over his face and still making no move to get up from his place on the floor. 

“Terrible.”

“And yours were any better?” Simon knelt by the fallen sergeant, head tilted to the side as he regarded him, drinking in the visible parts of his face. The shorter man moved to sit up, hands hesitating just before they touched Simon as if afraid of his reaction.

“They got you t’open the door, didn’t they?” Damnit. Simon held out his hand, palm facing up. Johnny took it as it was and placed his own over the top, intertwining their fingers. 

“Gonna take a lot more than jokes to fix this, Johnny.” 

“I know, Lt. Got a lot to make up for but lemme make a start. Permission to kiss you, sir?” The fact he asked where before he would simply act was enough to melt Simon’s heart– just a little bit. 

“Permission granted, Sergeant.” Forgiveness would be a low thing– but feeling Johnny’s warm and soft lips on his own was definitely a step in the right direction.

- Nikolai / words: 332

The first thing Nikolai does when he finds out Soap is alive is punch him. Not hard enough to break anything or bruise too severely, but hard enough that Soap will be reminded of it for a few days afterwards. 

“That is for making everyone think that you were dead.” It’s still fresh in his mind. Watching as Price fell apart at the seams after they spread Soap’s ‘ashes’, as the guilt ate him up from the inside out. As the ‘what if’s plagued his mind, ruined what little sleep he already didn’t get in the night– and stole his happiness, for a time. Nikolai can remember the week where Price smoked so many cigars that the Captain woke up with a tight chest, wheezing like a man starved of oxygen and clutching onto Nikolai’s shoulder as he gasped and spluttered– only to repeat the process the following day. 

‘I can stop when I need to.’ Price had said to Nikolai, brushing off any concern that the russian had voiced about the almost permanent smoke cloud that formed in Price’s office. 

Nikolai was not stupid– soldiers were lost all of the time in war. But not all soldiers left lasting impressions like Soap had to his Captain and teammates. He had touched the hearts of many with his shining personality and enthusiasm, Nikolai himself included. He had been fond of the Scotsman, even a partner in crime once during a prank that involved several bags of glitter and the helicopter fan blades. 

The scowl on his face morphs into something softer as he watched Soap try and massage the pain away with his hands. He brings Soap into a hug, pressing his forehead against Soap’s newly scarred temple.

“And this is for coming back to us. We all missed you, солнышко (Sunshine).” Despite the gentle words, his grip tightens until it is almost bruising. “Don’t do that again or I will kill you myself.” Soap doesn’t doubt that even for a second. 

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