sugarcherris

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Captain John “Dad of 141” Price being the most embarrassing unapologetic old man alive

(ft. Gn! Reader & the Team Suffering)

Not by age—though. he’s got Old Man Strength in his forearms and swears by “the good ol’ days.”

Daddy? No.

A real, horrifying, crocs-wearing, “pull my finger” Dad.

The dad jokes:

It starts with the jokes. The most godawful dad jokes known to mankind. Delivered with absolute confidence. Delivered with timing so poor, it loops back around and becomes an art form. He’s laughing before the punchline even drops.

He’ll saunter into the briefing room, hands on his hips like he owns the place (he does), and hit you with:

“Y’know what this operation’s missing?”

Long pause.

“A little… direction.”

Gestures to the compass rose on the map like he’s just invented humor.

Then he SLAPS the table. Loud. Like he needs percussion to drive it home. And then he laughs. This deep, hearty, old-man belly laugh that echoes through the whole damn room like he just watched peak British comedy.

Soap winces like he’s been personally attacked maybe let’s out a pitiful laugh. Ghost doesn’t even look up from his file. You? You’re making direct eye contact with Gaz, both of you wide-eyed like is this our life now?

Price just wipes a fake tear from his eye and mutters,

“Bloody brilliant, I’m tellin’ ya.”

He does that thing where he leans in like it’s gonna be profound, then drops a joke so terrible his knees creak in disappointment.

And sometimes…he accuses people.

He points at Soap.

“You smirked.”

“Nae! I—it was a twitch!”

But this man literally tells the same five jokes on rotation. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s told them. He will burst into a full-body laugh like it’s brand new. Slaps his thigh. Grabs your shoulder. Repeats the punchline twice like it’s a cultural reset.

“—no-body to go with!”

And he slaps your arm “Eh? EH?”

You’re holding in a scream.

Gaz mutters, “Cap I swear to god…”

Price? Unbothered just wipes his nose and sighs, “God, I’m good.”

His laugh scares birds:

His laugh isn’t human. It’s a bark—like an old truck trying to start in the winter.

When he’s genuinely amused, he does this full-body lean-back, slaps his thigh, and lets out a gravel-throated “HAAAA!” Then starts dry coughing.

One time during debrief, he laughed so hard at something Soap said (Soap was absolutely NOT joking), a pigeon outside the window startled and flew into the glass.

He brags about things no one asks for:

“Built my own shed last summer.”

“Caught a trout with my hands once.”

“Can change a tire in under 5 minutes, blindfolded.”

“Know how to make jam.”

Nobody asks. Nobody wants to know.

He just randomly drops these nuggets like a suburban dad flexing at a BBQ.

The Sneezing Ritual:

No matter where you are—armory, shooting range, mid-fucking-mission—if Price feels a sneeze coming, he pauses everything.

Finger in the air. Eyes squinting. All activity must cease. Doesn’t matter what’s happening.

“Hold on. Bastards comin- .”

And then you all just… stand there.

Gaz has a mag halfway loaded. Soap’s got a wrench in his hand. You’re about to detonate a charge. Ghost was tightening his straps. You all wait like kids watching a toaster.

“Ah-you lot don’t move—fuck, almost got it—wait—wait—” (nobody was)

This goes on for up to 45 seconds. The moment the sneeze finally explodes, it’s the kind that rattles walls and sounds like a bear getting exorcised.

“AAH-HHRRUSHHFF—UHHHHH- fuckin’ hell—hoo! Felt that in my knees. Christ alive.”

Then he needs a minute to recover. Everyone else just stares. He sniffs dramatically, a satisfied sigh, and a cheery:

“Cheers. Carry on.”

He’s the king of ‘Back in my day…’ stories:

You’ll be casually eating lunch when he leans back in his chair like he’s on a porch swing and goes,

“Back in my day, we didn’t have all these fancy drone strikes. We used maps. And courage.”

Soap: “You mean you didn’t have satellites?”

Ghost: “Did you use a bow and arrows too?

Gaz: “He probably rode a horse to the battlefield.”

You, deadpan: “Was fire invented yet, Captain?”

He just grins, points at you with his fork, and goes,

“You know what? That sass reminds me of a corporal I once—”

And now you’re in for another 45-minute tale about “Dave from Basra” who once punched a goat.

He Tries to Bond by Being… Ancient:

He once tried to teach you how to “fix” a squeaky hinge using olive oil and an old sock.

You just stared at him like he was a medieval peasant.

“Captain… we have lubricant. From an actual store. Why must you live like this?”

He grinned, said “Where’s the fun in that?”, and slapped the hinge.

It squeaked louder.

“Tech guy” Price:

Price thinks he’s good with tech.

He’s not.

He still calls FaceTime “the video ringing thing.”

He answers with the camera pointing at his ear and yells “Hello?! Speak up!”

Still says “Wi-Fi” like “Wiffy.”

His phone? Everything’s in bold.

Text size? HUGE. You can read his messages from orbit.

Texts with one index finger. Voice notes 5 minutes long, ends with “Anyway, yeah—cheers.”

He also refuses to silence his phone.

Every notification is a loud “BLOOP” followed by Price squinting down and muttering, “Hmph. Soap again. Bellend.”

This one time he proudly insists on “helping” Gaz fix comms even though he’s literally just handing him the wrong tools and offering war flashbacks as advice.

Family BBQ Price:

HE LOVES GRILLING. ACTUALLY LOVES IT. Sometimes—just sometimes—when they’re not deployed and the moment someone mentions downtime or long leave, Price insists on a little “team bonding.”

Which means:

-Terrible burnt hot dogs.

-Canned beer

-70s music blasting from an old speaker he won’t replace.

-“Call me Grill Sergeant” jokes every 20 minutes.

This man carries tongs in his deployment duffle.

He has opinions on charcoal.

He will lecture you about marinades.

He wears an apron that says “WEAPONS OF MASS COOKING” and points finger guns at anyone who approaches the grill.

Other dad specific moments:

-You can’t sit next to him during meals anymore. He’s a talk-chewer when he’s ranting about the “death of real music” and how “today’s tactical gear is just fancy cosplay.”

-Always orders the most boring food possible and complains it���s “too spicy.” (It was black pepper and salt.)

-Genuinely thinks his jokes are hilarious. If nobody laughs but him he’ll chuckle at himself and say “Ah, forget it. Guess you had to be born in the ‘90s.”And then slap the table like he just broke global comedy records.

-Constantly leaves a teabag in his mug way too long and mumbles about it adding character.

-Has a weird superstition about his “lucky pen”, guards it like a dragon hoard.

-You accidentally took a picture of Price in the background. It was crooked, blurry, and haunting. He made it his WhatsApp profile for six months.

Regardless you all love him

Everyone all joke about buying him Crocs for Christmas.

He already has a pair.

Wears them at home.

Camo print.

With toe socks.

[sugarcherris]

hai i really like your writing! i was just wondering if you could do a short drabble on soap with a plus sized reader? i can hardly find any fics with him :,3

Hi there! Thank you so much for the kind words. This was my first time writing for a plus-size reader, apologies if I didn’t do well. I did my best through research and reading, but I’m always open to learning and improving. I hope you enjoy reading this though (´▽｀)

Farmer MacTavish’s Prized fruits

Johnny soap mactavish x fem! Plus sized reader, pure fluff.

Somewhere between cleaning his rifle and daydreaming about runaway goats, Johnny MacTavish got that look in his eye again—that dumb, dreamy one that made Ghost sigh and walk away without a word.

It was the same face every time: crooked grin, eyes twinkling like a cartoon star, like someone had just whispered “free whiskey” into the wind. And you knew. The second you rounded the corner, he was already on his feet, arms flung open like he’d just spotted his prized fluffy sheep after a week lost in the glen.

He had two hands—and he wasn’t wastin’ either of them.

Not when your cheeks—round, plush, and tragically squishable like freshly risen bread—were within reach. Warm like morning rolls left on a windowsill. And, unfortunately for your dignity, irresistibly soft.

The rest of you matched. Soft in all the right places, with curves so generous he swore you were sculpted by a god who just really loved holding things.

He could be mid-briefing, half-dressed, scratching his butt, chewing a protein bar, or deep into reassembling a rifle and he'd still reach over and gently pinch, prod, or smoosh your cheeks together like he was at a Saturday market inspecting peaches for ripeness.

“Aye, there ye are, ma lass!” he beamed, practically bouncing toward you like a golden retriever in combat boots.

“Hold still, love. Need tae check firmness. See if yer fresh.”

You didn’t even get a proper “hello” out before—schwump—both his hands were on your cheeks. Warm, calloused palms, rough from gun oil and poor life choices, cradled your face like it was divine fruit. He gave a testing squish.

Then again.

Squish-squish.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, rocking your head side to side thoughtfully. “Look at this one. Plump. Juicy. Full of secrets. perfectly ripe, just like I like ‘em. Soft but springy. Ya been watered properly, hen?”

“Every mornin’,” you deadpanned, lips smushed together like a sad fish. “Filtered. Organic. Grew myself in a clay pot. Buy one, get one forehead slap.”

He grinned, delighted. “Ha! Knew it. These cheeks are blue ribbon quality. I’m tellin’ ye, I’d win medals at the Highland Games for cheeks like these. Best in show. Cheek du jour.”

You squinted at him. “Why are you talking to my face again?”

He blinked, like the answer was obvious. “Quality control. Yer a melon. I’m a humble Scottish farmer, searchin’ the land for only the finest fruit. Can’t sell subpar produce at market, now can I?” he said seriously-too seriously. Like he was giving a TED Talk on facial fruit.

You arched a brow. "How much am I going for, then?"

He stroked his chin dramatically, still squishing your cheeks into shapes no human expression should ever achieve.

Then tugged your cheeks gently left, right, gave them a bounce like he was testing gravity. He huffed through his nose.

“For these wee beauties?” he muttered, leaning in close like a bartering merchant. “Two sheep, a jug o’ cider, and me best goat. The one that screams at Gary every Sunday.”

You sighed, long-suffering but amused. “That’s extortionate. Sounds like I’m the one robbing you.”

He grinned wider. “And I’d hand it all over gladly.”

“That’s stupid. You’ll bankrupt yourself dry.”

“Yer stupid!”

“…And your goat has IBS.”

“Oi! Don’t talk about Margaret like that! She’s sensitive!”

Then, of course, he broke into what he thought was your voice—offensive, ridiculous, and weirdly high-pitched.

“‘Ooo, Mister sexy Johnny, I’m just a wee humble melon! Don’t sell me off, I’m full o’ hopes and dreams—’”

“I do not sound like that.”

“You do when yer cheeks’re like this.”

He shook your face lightly in his hands like a bowl of jelly for emphasis. You made a muffled “mmpf,” like a sentient stress ball. He leaned in and kissed your temple—warm and scratchy from stubble, like a cat tongue with better aim.

And God help you, sometimes… you joined in.

“’Scuse me, missy,” he’d start again, full dramatic flair.In the thickest farmer accent you’d ever heard (which wasn’t saying much, since he already sounded like a Glaswegian goat herder). “How much for these cheek-fruits?”

You barely blinked. “Twelve-fifty per squeeze and the rest of your dignity. No refunds. Market closes in five.”

“Twelve-fifty?!” he gasped. “What do I get for two euros then—just a sniff? A sample?”

“None. Inflation,” you mumbled through the squish.

.

.

.

“…Maybe a pity pat on the head. And a slap if you squeeze any harder.”

He kissed the top of your head like you were his prize pumpkin, he raised from childhood, “Worth every penny, ye are.”

And the thing was—he meant it.

His thumbs pressed gently into the softness of your cheeks—flesh like sweet dough, sun-warmed and kissed by the world. There was something in the way he held you: a reverence laced with playful awe, like you were some divine peach from an orchard tended by gods, plucked at the perfect hour of morning light. The fullness of your face, the gentle curve of your jaw, the cushion that came naturally with your frame—he loved it.

It wasn’t just your face, of course.

He loved all of you—every curve, every unapologetic inch. The strength in your arms, soft but powerful, like velvet wrapped around steel. Your waist, generous and steady—a soft curve made for holding, made for settling into. The kind of softness he could bury into when the world got too loud. And your hips—God, your thighs—the way they moved with that quiet confidence, swaying with a rhythm no one taught you. Like you moved to music only you could hear. Unapologetic. Proud.

And Johnny? He adored you like a starving man shown mercy.

“I’ve decided,” he declared, slipping into that farmer drawl, “ye’re the finest crop this side o’ the River Clyde. If I were a melon farmer—”

“You’d be bankrupt. You haven’t watered a plant in three weeks.”

“Oi! I’d water ye wi’ compliments daily, woman. Don’t test me.”

“This is my life now?”

“Aye,” he said solemnly. Hands still planted on your cheeks. “Yer my prize melon. The last one in the patch. Locals travel from miles away to lay eyes on ye.”

“Someday,” he muttered, cheek still in hand, “we’re buyin’ a wee farm. Just you, me, and a hundred different kinds o’ jam. I’ll wake up, squeeze yer cheeks every mornin’, check the forecast.”

“What do they say today?”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours.

“…Storm’s comin’. Cheeks’re warm.”

His hand slid to your hip, burying his face in the crook of your neck like you were made of sunshine and honeysuckle.

Then, in a softer voice, “You ever think about quittin’ wi’ me, Bonnie?”

You tilted your head just enough—his cue to go on.

“Maybe, In another life… we’d be farmers. I’d grow tatties. You’d grow peaches. I’d come tae yer stall each mornin’, flirt shamelessly while buyin’ me dinner back. You’d act like ye don’t know me. Tell me I’ve sauce on me chin. Send me packin’ wi’ a basket and a blush.”

“I’d give you the bruised ones,” you muttered. “Because you’re annoying.”

He’d pretend to clutch his pearls. “Bruised?! Me heart, woman—shattered like a dropped watermelon.”

But then he returned against your soft skin. “Can see it now. Big bonnet. Sunflowers in your apron. Arms strong from milkin’ cows. That peachy wee arse jigglin’ in the garden rows—”

“You were doing so well until the end.”

“I’m a man of vision,” he whispered, smug.

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself, and reached to twist his ear. He yelped. Deserved.

He does this often — builds entire daydreams around you. He’s off in some ridiculous fantasy world now In this one, you’re wearing overalls (he insists yours would be covered in flour), and he’s got straw in his hair, slapping bread dough around and calling it “tillage.”

You snorted, letting him continue his dumb little fantasy.

And in another world, your left cheek is named “Honeybun” and the right “Lassie,” and he gave them dramatic story arcs.

“They’ve been through a drought, y’know,” he whispered against your ear one afternoon while you’re making him coffee. “But I watered ‘em with love and protein shakes. Look at ‘em now. Plump ‘n’ happy.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You love it.”

“No comment.”

You played along, always. Patient, sarcastic, gently amused in that soft, indulgent way that only makes him fall harder. You’d cheekily said things like “They don’t like to be touched without an appointment,” or “I’m sorry sir, Honeybun gone bad. Got bruised by some idiot in tactical gear.”

And He gasped in horror like it’s a real tragedy. “HONEYBUN, NO— WHO-WHO DARED?! I’ll heat the market regulation outta him!”

“Good luck,” you muttered. “He talks too much and smells like gunpowder and Lynx Africa.”

“Sounds ah sexy lad!” He whistled, cradling your face with the kind of reckless affection that made your heart warm despite your best attempts at sarcasm.

And once, after a shower, you walked out in a towel, snugged against your soft stomach and caught him on the couch, holding a peach.

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re the reason humanity doesn’t have flying cars.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

And sure enough, he walked over, squeezed the peach. Then your cheek. Then the peach again. Then your cheek.

Eventually he kissed your face with a wet MWAA and declared you the winner.

“Softer. Sweeter. No pit.”

“High praise,” you said dryly. “You should put that on my tombstone.”

He grinned and laid his head on your shoulder, big warm arm curling around your middle.

“Only if I get to be buried next to Honeybun.”

Bonus

Once, Ghost caught him mid-squeeze and muttered, “The hell are you doin’?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat. “Product quality control, sir.”

Now when Ghost passes by and sees him face-deep in your cheek, he just mutters, “Fruit thing again?”

“Hn.”

“Third time this week.”

“Fourth, if ye count the bread loaf metaphor!” Johnny called proudly. Chest puffed.

Ghost just walked off.

And Johnny? Still daydreaming about the farm. The goat named Margaret. And the legend of the finest cheeks this side of the River Clyde.

[sugarcherris]

Blowing a kiss to Johnny “Soap” MacTavish is like pulling the pin on a glitter grenade—you never know where the spark’s gonna land.

It’s always a gamble.

You think you’re being cute.

You think he’ll catch it with a wink, maybe tap his heart like a gentleman.

One moment he’s beaming, catching it mid-air with dramatic flair like it’s a bloody dove, eyes glinting like he’s just intercepted enemy comms. Smacking it dramatically onto his chest with a proud “Ach! Right in the ticker! you spoil me, bonnie.” he’ll murmur, staggering backward like you just shot him with a Cupid .50 cal.

The crowd swoons. Children cheer. Birds sing.

The next time?

Public place. Full squad around. Briefing room. You blow that kiss and he catches it with two hands… locks eyes with you… then—with full confidence and zero shame—plants it straight on his crotch. Smack. Hands on his hips. Grinning like a menace. “That’s where I felt it, lass. Don’t lie.”

Everyone turns.

Gaz groans. Ghost doesn’t even look up. Alejandro claps. And Price? He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “For the love of bloody God, Soap…”

Soap just winks at you across the room like he did you a favor.

It’s 50/50 chaos. You blow that kiss, you’re playing Russian Roulette with your dignity.

[sugarcherris]

I’m still alive and well with a bunch of drafts and doing requests..currently feeling like my writings ain’t good enough to post that’s why they’re taking longer than usual 🙏

[sugarcherris]

Thank you all so much for 100 followers!! I’m currently working on some requests more of soap, ghost, and gaz 🫶 Thank you all for the support. Slow updates tho haha

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Ghost Watches You Sleep (But It’s… not in a cute way)

Gn reader x ghost, ghost is a creep…but what’s new? Suggestive themes. 18+ mdni. You threatened to lick Simon’s eyeballs. You’re just so done with him.

You’ve gotten used to a lot of things in this relationship.

The tactical gear dumped at the foot of the bed like a body.

The skull balaclava dangling from the coat rack like a cursed relic.

The knives tucked beneath your shared pillows like bedtime buddies.So many knives. Tucked in your underwear drawer, one time in the freezer for reasons you’ll never ask.

But what you haven’t—cannot—adjust to… is waking up to the deranged, soul-penetrating gaze of one Simon “Ghost” Riley.

He doesn’t sleep when you’re around.

Not because you snore.

Not because you sprawl.

(Though you’ve absolutely elbowed him in the chest and groin, and once, mid-dream, dug two fingers so deep into his nostrils he gagged.)

No—he doesn’t sleep because he’s watching you.

Studying you.

Memorizing every twitch of your eyelid like it’s scripture.

Like full-on, creepy Victorian ghost-in-the-corner style.

You’ll be deep asleep, drooling slightly into the pillow, limbs tangled in the blanket like a noodle in a colander, and this man is just hovering.

Perched—elbows on his knees, hands together, forehead slightly tilted down, dead silent, just drilling holes into your face. He’s doesn’t breathe. Possibly not even alive. He looks like a victorian ghost who learned about love from taxidermy.

He just squatting there.

Besides your bed.

Like a gargoyle.

Mask still on.

Half-dressed.

His eyes are unblinking under that damn skull balaclava. Eyes locked on your sleeping face like he’s decoding the coordinates of your dreams. Like if he stares long enough, he’ll enter your dreams.

Join you in them. Colonize them.

It’s the third time this week.

You stir awake from your dreams of jellybeans and explosions, but you feel something in your spine first—the primal sixth sense. The “there’s a large man-shaped entity breathing in sync with your REM cycle” kind of dread.

Your eyes cracking open to find… yep.

And there he is.

Staring.

Lovingly?

Motionless.

British.

You blink. He doesn’t.

You blink again. Still no reaction.

“…Hi,” you whisper, voice croaky. Trying to register if this was another dream, or a sleep paralysis demon.

He nods solemnly like he’s been expecting you to wake and holds steady eye contact.

“You muttered something about cheese. I was intrigued.”

You groan. Slide towards him.

In a dramatic act of love and exasperation. You cup his masked face and smoosh a loud kiss right where his stupid cold nose should be. Mwah.

“Go sleep, you’re scaring off the spirits.”

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t kidnapped in your sleep.”

You blink. “By who? Bed bugs?”

He shrugs. “Could be sleeper agents.”

“You are the sleeper agent and possibly the cause of my kidnapping.”

Then, like a fed-up grandparent tucking in an unruly toddler, you reach up. And manually push his heavy, stubborn eyelids closed with 2 of your fingers like you’re powering down a weird haunted animatronic possess by an eldritch demon from Manchester.

“There. Did you know normal people usually do this when it’s bedtime?”

…

POP. Open again. No hesitation.

You pause. Try again. Shut those brown eyes like elevator doors.

He lets you close them this time. You start to relax—

POP.

His eye widening as if to mock you.

“…I swear to God,” you mutter, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at his head. It hits him with a dull thud, and he doesn’t even flinch.

“Keep it up, Riley,” you threaten, voice dry, “and I’m gonna lick your eyeballs. Unmask you and tongue your corneas. One by one. Slow. Wet. ”

You expect horror. Maybe act offended.

Instead—

He beams.

“Fffuckin’ hell.”

His hand twitches toward his crotch.

This sick bastard lighting up. Like you just proposed. Like you just whispered the filthiest fantasy known to man. His shoulders tensing. You can feel the arousal radiating off him like a dirty microwave.

You’ve never seen someone perk up at the threat of eyeball licking.

“…How thorough we talkin’?” he purrs under his mask, voice rough, low, and so horribly interested it should be illegal.

“What—”

“Go on then,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Do it. Lick ‘em. Left one’s sensitive. Right one’s for dessert.”

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss.

He leans in closer—breath hitching, a raw, frayed rasp sliding from behind the mask, voice barely human.

“Use tongue,” he breathes, soft . “Nice n’ slow.”

You throw another pillow at him so hard it knocks the lamp off the table.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Pupils blown wide.

Cock likely leaking beneath his jeans. Probably been hard since the moment you stirred awake.

He is pervertedly euphoric

This man has no boundaries. None. You threaten ocular assault and he’s ready to write his will and hand you the deed to his soul.

He calls it “foreplay.”

You call it “psychological warfare.”

Eventually you flop back onto the mattress, defeated. Curling up tight. Trying to sleep again, knowing full well he’s still staring.

Plotting.

Daydreaming.

Probably imagining if your eyeballs would taste like strawberries…

…or sin.

You shut your eyes tight just in case he decides to lick first.

[sugarcherris]

My requests are officially opened 🫡 request something for ur fav characters!

[sugarcherris]

Soap starts fights in public by loudly whispering fake drama

“Hen, dinnae look now, but that woman just tried tae seduce me wi’ her eyes.”

“Johnny, love of my life, my dearest…she’s ninety.”

“Aye and she’s got game.”

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Captain Price’s Pathetic Pillow

Captain price x fem! reader, suggestive theme, 18+, mentions of uterus and cum, and the whole team clowning price.

Everyone thinks Captain John Price is a hardened man of taste—cigars, whiskey, and tactical brilliance.

Cigars? Expensive.

Whiskey? Aged and neat.

Tactics? Lethal.

Beard? National treasure.

And yet… behind closed doors… lies a secret so devastating, so shameful, so soul-flattening…the single most disturbing artifact known to Task Force 141.

His pillow is the saddest object in the entire United Kingdom. Possible Europe. Maybe the entire NATO alliance.

And not just any pillow.

No.

It’s not just flat. It’s deflated. Like it gave up sometime in 80s and never recovered.

This pillow has seen wars, sweat, spit, cigar crumbs, cum, and the weight of an emotionally repressed British forehead night after night. It’s yellowed. It crunches a bit when you press it. There’s one suspicious bullet hole no one asks about.

The first sighting

Gaz stumbled on it once and physically recoiled like it bit him.

“Cap— what the hell is that?”

“My pillow.”

“…Is it… alive?”

“It’s broken in.”

“IT’S BROKEN DOWN.”

Soap tried to surprise him with a brand-new orthopedic memory foam one. Price took one look at it, gave it one half hearted squeeze it, and muttered

“Too soft. Doesn’t smell like mine.”

Then flopped face-first back onto his tattered parchment of despair.. the war-torn crêpe he calls a pillow with the weight of a thousand suppressed emotions and let out a groan so guttural it summoned ghosts from WWI.

Laswell once compared it to a flattened Yorkshire pudding left out in the rain.

Ghost swears it whispered something to him once. He won’t say what.

That pillow has no bounce. It’s a sock filled with despair.

But he won’t replace it.

Because in his heart, Price believes if his pillow can survive everything it’s been through…

So can he.

You

You tried.

God knows you tried.

But after three nights of waking up with your spine curved like a question mark and your neck sounding like a glow stick every time you turned your head, you snapped. (Somehow all his pillows were deflated flat and soggy. His remarkable pillow is the worse one, the founder, the disease spreader)

Price, meanwhile, is sleeping like some half-naked forest bear—shirtless, sprawled on his war relic of a pillow, beard glinting like wet oak in the moonlight.

“John,” you hiss. “I swear on your beard—if I have to sleep on any more of this limp, moist rectangle one more night, I will summon God Himself to smite this pillow.”

Price rolls over, glowing in the moonlight like a Michelangelo statue who drinks whiskey and shaves with a knife, He shifts lazily, one thick arm draping over your waist, eyes half-lidded with that glint as he murmurs, voice deep and rough like thunder rolling through and just goes.

“Careful, love. That attitude’ll have you face-down ‘n beggin’ before you even touch the sheets.”

Sir. No.

Your uterus shrieked.

Your spine whimpered.

And the pillow—the goddamn pillow grinned.

The Battle Begins

You steal the pillow.

You tossed the pillow in the bin.

It crunched on the way down

You pray over its resting place like a sacrificial offering.

He came home. Sniffed the air once like a bloodhound.

He finds it. In the goddamn trash.

Washes it. Rescues it.

Holds it like a cradled child. Looks you dead in the eye and says,

“This pillow’s older than half the squad. Show some bloody respect.”

He sleeps like a WWII veteran with his hands gently gripping the corners like a parachute cord.

You’re convinced it’s not a pillow.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Eventually everyone started taking action

Soap starts a betting pool. He names it Operation Flat Bastard.

Gaz calls it Flatline. He salutes it sarcastically every time he passes the room.

Ghost adds it to a list of “Top 5 Unholy Objects I’ve Seen.” (It ranks above a haunted mask from Karachi.)

Laswell mails you a care package with six memory foam pillows. No note.

Price tries one of them once—after you begged. The next morning, he stares into space, grumbling:

“Had a vivid dream about paying council taxes. Didn’t like it.”

New plan

You surrender to fate.

But you plan.

One day, when he’s gone again, you’ll hold a funeral.

Full military honors.

You’ll bury Flatline under a crooked rock in the backyard. Light a cigar. Tap the gravestone twice. Whisper, “Rest now, soldier.”

And when he comes home?

He’ll lie down on a new pillow—one you’ve secretly been punching nightly, stomping with boots, smearing it with your cum, and ironing flat to simulate three decades of war.

He’ll grunt once.

Press his face into it. Inhales it.

And murmur:

“…Finally. Feels just right.”

[sugarcherris]

Narancia who looks up to reader headcanons

Brotherly & Older sister bond

Aka: chaotic sibling energy, platonic, wholesome, domestic, fluff, a bit of angst, and Mista being Mista mentions his own dick

(Reader is a chainsmoker... don't smoke kids)

Narancia “borrows” (Reader)’s eyeliner

(Reader) has the perfect winged liner, sharp enough to cut someone. Narancia starts trying to copy it. He sucks at it at first and pokes himself in the eye. She doesn’t help him right away,just watches with that smug little grin.

When he finally nails it, (Reader) gives him a smug, approving head pat.

“There you go. Didn’t even stab yourself in the eye with my eyeliner this time.”

He flips her off but preens the rest of the day.

Team reactions:

Fugo: “You two are unhinged.”

Mista: “I’m stealing this look too. Pass the mirror.”

Abbacchio: Glares in disgust but looks just a second too long at the wing.

(Reader) calls him “ragazzino” (little boy) when shes feeling playful or condescending

It infuriates him.

“I’m not a kid, dammit!”

“Then stop kicking the back of the van seat or I will tie your knees with your bandana!”

He still lets her ruffle his hair right after that.

They have stupid secret handshakes

Not one. Multiple.

They change it every month and forget half of it mid-handshake and just turn it into a slap fight.

Somehow it always ends with (Reader) flicking Narancia in the forehead.

They make “mixtapes” for each other

Narancia starts writing her tracklists of songs he thinks she’d like—rock, metal, dramatic anime OPs he won’t admit he loves.

(Reader) writes hers on torn napkins in lipstick: metalcore breakdowns, and “old people music,” according to Narancia.

Bonus

Fugo: (Secretly steals one of (Reader)’s playlists. Pretends he didn’t.)

Narancia hides behind her when Bucciarati’s mad

Classic younger sibling move. Bucciarati raised his voice, and Narancia ducks behind (Reader)

(Reader) just raises an eyebrow, does not protect him, and says,

“Don’t drag me into this. He’s mad at you, not me.”

Narancia stares in betrayal

Bonus:

Later she sneaks him a sweet from her pocket when Bucciarati isn’t looking.

They graffiti stuff together

They tag alley walls with little stylized versions of each other’s names or dumb phrases like “(stand name) was here (so was Aerosmith)”.

(Reader)’s handwriting is elegant and sharp. Narancia’s is chaotic. Together it looks unhinged.

Team reactions

Bucciarati: “You tagged our safehouse?”

Narancia: “It’s ART.”

(Reader): “It’s coded. They won’t know what it means.”

Fugo: “You used your stand names! They’ll know exactly what it means!”

Abbacchio: “I hate you all.”

They try to cook together once. Just once.

The kitchen never recovers. Powdered sugar on the ceiling. A knife embedded in the floor. Fire extinguisher was used. Twice.

Bucciarati puts them on kitchen probation. (Reader) sneaks in anyway. Narancia just watches for lookout and giggles.

Narancia “guards” her cigarettes

She left her pack behind one time and he grabs it, dramatically guarding it like a chihuahua.

“If you want them, you have to answer three riddles.”

“Narancia, I will kick your ass.”

She gets them back by pulling his bandana down over his eyes and just taking them.

He once tried to steal a cigarette from her. Never again.

(Reader) had left a half smoked cigarette on the ashtray, and Narancia, wanting to be cool, took a quick drag.

Immediate, violent coughing fit. Red watery eyes. Almost fell off the chair.

(Reader) didn’t even look up. Just chuckled

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The whole team laughed except for Bucciarati, who just sighed.

Bonus:

Narancia still tries to act like he smokes sometimes, resting an unlit cigarette between his fingers like she does with her lit one. He gets so mad when she calls him out on it.

Narancia falls asleep next to her during long car rides.

She lets it happen. Doesn’t shove him off.

He sleeps with his head leaning against the window at first, but eventually, when he gets really exhausted, his head tips onto her shoulder.

The first time, she smirks and mutters, “Comfortable?”

The fifth time, she just sighed and quietly adjusts her jacket so it drapes over him a little. Doesn’t say a word.

Team reactions:

Bucciarati: Says nothing but notice with a warm smile.

Mista:Giggling, thinking it’s cute but will draw on narancia face and (Reader) lets him.

Fugo: Mild disgust. “You’re drooling on her.”

Abbacchio: “Wake him up by pushing him out of the car. Do it. For me.”

(Reader) hates it when Narancia pulls reckless stunts.

Few times, he jumped into a fight headfirst before backup arrived.

He came out fine, but (Reader) was furious. She never yells at him except that time. After much built up frustrations because of his mistakes and words entering his ear out the other.

“Do you wanna die? Huh? That’s your goal?”

He snapped back at her “What the hell are you my mom?shut the hell up bitch!”

Silence. Tension. He stormed off, but later that night, she threw a bag of sweets at his head.

They never talked about it, but the next mission, she covered him a little closer.

if (Reader) has tattoos? Narancia wants to get a tattoo because she has them.

“What if I get something cool? Like a knife? Or a skull? Or or or A PLANE!”

(Reader), blowing out smoke “You’d cry.”

“No, I wouldn’t!”

He drags her to a parlor once. The moment the needle comes close, he flinches hard.

“I’m not ready yet,” he mutters. She crosses her arm looking amused and pays the guy off.

If (Reader) has piercings? Narancia tries to copy her piercings

• He gets a second ear piercing by stapling his ears (Staplers were stolen from Bucciarati office) just because he saw hers glinting in the sun one day. She just chuckled at his stupidity whilst treating the infection.

• "Thought it looked cool on you... So..."

•She just hums, but she's clearly smiling. She took him to the piercer parlor the next day.

Team reactions:

Mista: "Sickkkk, should | get a dick piercing?"

Fugo: "You're all stupid."

Bucciarati: Groaning mentally. Locking his office next time.

Abbacchio: "Jesus Christ."

Giorno: (Standing on the side ready to give him a new ear)

"If you died I'd go feral.”

•(Reader) stares at him with an unreadable expression" Good."

• It's said like a joke, but the silence after it hangs a little longer than it should.

“If I go first, you better not cry, ragazzino.”

Mafia life is dangerous. They joke about it sometimes.

Narancia, scoffing: “You’re not gonna die before me.You’re much stronger and smarter than me!If anything it’ll be me.”

(Reader), tilting her head: “Mmm. You sure?”

He hates that answer. He doesn’t know why, but it sticks with him longer than it should.

When she’s out late, Narancia worries.

He’s not obvious about it, but if she’s gone longer than expected, he starts getting antsy.

Checks his watch. Paces. Cold hands.

If she comes back with blood on her glove, he doesn’t ask questions, just mutters, “You good?”

She grins, “Why? Miss me?”

He huffs, “Pfft No, just making sure you didn’t get your dumb ass killed.”

They both know he was actually worried.

This is my first time writing a fanfic/headcanon! Phewwww hope you guys enjoyed this!! Maybe I’ll write narancia and (reader) first meeting and how they bond grew to be 🫡

[sugarcherris]

Fiore’s dirt cave

• Name: Fiore

• Age: 23

• Pronouns: she/her

• Fandoms:

• Call of Duty

• JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (Parts 1–7)

• One Piece

• Yakuza (0–7)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Will write:

• Smut / Suggestive

• Dark content (non-con, violence, yandere, etc.)

• Fluff & Angst

• Character x GN or female reader

Won’t write:

• Scat

• Aging up minors for NSFW

• Feet / Pregnancy / Vore / Inflation

• Incest or Pedo content

• Character x male reader (I’m just not good at it, sorry!)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

MDNI on 18+ content

I do not condone anything toxic or harmful in real life, everything here is fictional and for storytelling purposes!

Requests: Open

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･