jnsmeyv

Latest Posts by jnsmeyv

new toy

ghost who always have a grey, heavy, uninterested air about him but one day he comes to work, and he's got something behind his ribs clawing to be let loose. his teeth are clenched, his eyes sharp. his orders bite harder, his patience runs thinner, and the recruits feel it but don't understand it.

and it's all because you couldn't lie back and get eaten out like every other morning. it was routine. ingrained. automatic. ghost slips under the covers, dips his head between your thighs, and laps at your sex until you leave the mess he loves best— the slick, saturated spot he'd sniff while still wet. (can't blame me, luvie. it's sweet.)

you'd gotten up, thrown your clothes on in a hurry, and had been out the door, keys in hand, before he could get a word in.

unacceptable.

(kyle later catches him and asks him if he skipped breakfast or something. not by choice is what ghost tells him.)

Gaz outside the military:

Johnny would sketch how he imagines your tits to look like in that little notebook of his.

God forbid you find it by accident one day and see the skimpy, sexy drawings of you in tiny little spaghetti strap tops that barely cover your tits spilling out of the top and sides of it. As well as detailed drawings of your bare tits smushed together…

john price likes to be dependable for his partner that has trouble with social interactions and people mistake them for dummies.

it's like the whole relationship is a role play for others. he'll have you all pretty and dolled up, a real trophy wife in the eyes of others. glued to his side and silent during most social gatherings he has to attend, nodding politely in small greetings and never letting anyone linger around for too long.

people wonder if you have a brain of your own. sometimes it seems like john even tells you what to say and they question just how much you depend on him on your day to day.

what they don't know is that, every day after you've made breakfast, he sits down on a chair across from you at the kitchen table and ask a billion questions about what he should do about that paperwork and how can he fix that one thing or how he could possible be a better friend for that one person as you eat.

you're his little walking dictionary who talks his ear off whenever you have the chance, so he takes advantage of it by bringing all types of topics for you to discuss.

and the best part? only john knows that part of you, at least in a deeper and meaningful level.

soap coming up to you at a bar, hitting on you, buying you a drink, leaning in to talk in your ear. and a guy comes up to you to loudly ask 'is this guy bothering you?' and soap throws his head back and laughs as you roll your eyes and say 'yes but he's my boyfriend so he's allowed to'

little soldier

Ghost is just mad he's losing at Mario Kart

⌖ simon quits smoking for you / headcanon & drabble

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

it took one injury. one, minorly life threatening injury. a knife to the gut, twisted as it was ripped out. fuck, he could taste the smell of blood.

he only remembered the evac, and then the prattling of the cart wheels of his stretcher as they pulled him in for treatment. as simon comes to, the rhythmic beeping of the IV is accompanied by the quiet sobs beside him, the fabric of the hospital gown damp on his shoulder. looking over, his eyebrows furrowing.

he almost drops to his knees there, begs you to forgive him for being so careless when he sees the grief-stricken look on your face. like you'd almost seen your entire future wither away, because you had.

and the way you listened so attentively to the medic as they taught you how to change his bandages--he could've cried.

when he was finally allowed home, you were so careful around him. didn't hug him too hard, didn't let him carry heavy things--you were terrified he'd reopen his wound, that something else would happen to hurt him.

so when you watch him with that same look, that terrified, i-don't-want-to-lose you look, your eyes pleading with him as he steps outside for a smoke, he almost throws the entire pack on the floor.

simon smoked, yeah. he never cared that it'd shorten his lifespan, that he might cause his own death with it... he didn't think he'd even live long enough to see that happen. surely it was more likely he'd be killed in the line of duty than a nicotine stick.

but those eyes made him want to stop. made him careful, made him consider.

simon had never had a future before you, just battle after battle and hopes that one day he'd be killed honourably. but the day you gave him those eyes, he signed himself up for a help program.

because fuck him, if he doesn't do everything he can live for you.

there’s my good girl

Some sketches about ghosts healing journey…..

(Captain price would listen to his thoughts and calm him if he’s having bad dreams, and ghost would bond mich more with gaz imo)

(Also laswell would make him tea)

Oh my god

Do better idk

katabasis; to go down

Going off my headcanon that Ghost doesn't keep up with celebrities or musicians because he just doesn't care. Imagine if he was dating someone famous. Maybe not super famous because I imagine that would be difficult, but maybe famous in the right circles (thinking like Spiritbox or even Mother Mother type famous.)

Like he genuinely has no idea that you're famous. He's never heard of you or your band before. When you first meet and you say something about it, he stares at you before asking if he's supposed to know what that means, voice monotone.

When he talks about you to the others, he never uses your name. You're always just his bird, his love, maybe the missus (regardless of gender). He talks about how hectic both of your schedules are, and they just assume that maybe you work on a different base or you're in the medical field or something. It's always vague enough to keep them all wondering, and he refuses to elaborate.

Now imagine Soap's surprise when everything finally lines up and the team gets to meet Ghost's birdie, and none other than the leader singer of his favorite band saunters in.

(but also imagine if you were super famous. Like how the hell does this behemoth not know who you are? but you're also so relieved because at least you know he likes you for you.)

Good night Simon 💀💤🌛

Hi yall! I’m back🫶

Been resting 😴 and I feel much better now 🌸

Back in business mfckeerrrr👺👺👺👺👺👺👺

Love my scull pookie as always 💝

(He is drooling)

From my bestie in Thailand. The second sign went up hours later

Thinking about roommate Ghost!simon;

You knew what he did for a living it was hard not too when he would disappear into thin air then appear weeks or months later. You also knew that he wasn’t a physical touch kinda guy, he froze to a point you even felt his heart stop when you tried to hug him when he returned from a 3 month mission.

So you develop the “air hug” even if it was one sided. Whenever he returned home, whether you caught him returning or you walked in on him cooking in the kitchen one morning. You would simply raise your arms and open them in the air and say “welcome home si” always followed by a “I’m glad you’re home safe “ before dropping your arms after having a successful hum or a small chuckle from him.

But today …. Today was different.

You was lounging on the living room couch watching some tinpot reality show, too lazy to change the channel when the door opened, a tried and fragile Simon stood 5 feet away. You could tell this mission took it out of him, you never pry into details but you have learnt how to read his eyes.

You sigh softly as you stand up, blanket wrapped over your shoulders as you lift your arms open to do your air hug but … instead of the emptiness you was meet with Simon… his arms wrapped round your waist as he bent down to rest his head on your shoulder. Holding you… hugging you tight like you wasn’t real. Your froze before gently wrapping your arms and the blanket around him as you whisper a soft “welcome home love; I’m glad your home safe” which caused a soft sigh and a little squeeze as you stay embraced in eachother arms.

But what you don’t see is Simons soft smile as his eyes slightly water after finally breaking down his walls to come and hug you back… the person who he keeps fighting hard for… the only person he who makes him feel seen… the home inside his home.

‘why do you read “various x reader stories?”’

first, i’m a narcissist and will not read it if it’s not about me

second, I love the feeling of people liking me

third, I was ignored as a child

teddy bear expressions

dad's not sleeping

Captain price

some magic mike for you

OH MY GOOODDDDDD I NEED HIM TO PUT ME IN A HEADLOCK AND RAIL ME AND MAKE ME SUBMIT TO HIM PLEASEEEE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Soap💔💔💔

Simon x Cat x Neighbour!reader

Part two > (previous part)

Simon Riley was a lot like his cat, dropping by your flat whenever he wanted. Thanking you for looking after Cat in small little ways.

Bringing you home little trinkets from his work travels. “Got it from some market, can’t tell you where though. Would have to kill ya and I really don’t want that.” Little things that line every inch of your windowsill, crystals he’s found because he knows you like them.

Thankfully it wasn’t a mouse, Simon hunting one down after Cat delivered one to you. And as you watched him pause, head angled to listen for the squeaks or little scurries. You couldn’t help but think he was a cat too. For a big guy, he was light on his feet and everything he did quiet.

“Dinner?” You asked, trying not to look at the mouse dangling between Simon’s finger and thumb by its tail. “Not a huge fan of rodent.”

He invites you into his flat for the first time, promising that it’s rodent free. “Woah your place is real big,” you say, opening your arms in the space as if you expected to touch wall to wall. Simon’s thinking of all the activities he could do with you, but decides dinners a good start.

Dinner turns into grabbing a morning coffee after a run and even going on evening runs, which angers him because before him you never would have done so alone. Sitting on the bench in the park to stretch or take a rest as you sip your water bottle, stickers decorating the outside.

When the pipe under your sink was dripping water for months, he fixed it and you didn’t find out till you went to check if the bucket was full of water again. No, no bucket under the sink. There was a small tool box in its place, stuff you had no idea what to do with.

Cat was drinking from the bucket under the sink, that’s how Simon discovered it. He’s even got a picture of it on his phone as well as a load of pictures you’d sent him with Cat. Sometimes he looks through them in his room back at the base. A few videos of your soft voice calling Cat.

So you sent him a picture of said toolbox and messaged him. “Did the fairies visit me?” He didn’t respond till the next day, “big bloody fairy.” promising to show you what they were for and sending you a video of basic plumbing if you wanted to learn yourself whilst you waited for his return.

Cue Simon teaching you how to fix the plumbing in your flat. The two of you squeezed into the little box of a bathroom as he listened to you explain about the low pressure of the shower and the tap on the sink you wanted to swap with something pretty.

The eroded shower hose snapping and spraying the both of you with water. Simon’s hoody drenched, sticking to every curve and dip of his muscles. Your back leant against the wall as his arm reached above you to turn the water off.

“I really wanna kiss ya,” he said, head inching closer to yours, gaze flitting to your lips. “Kiss me.”

You use his place for sex and make sure Cat is in your flat, “don’t want the kid to see,” is what Simon says.

Whenever Simon sees you’ve run out of anything, he’ll pick it up when he’s doing his weekly food shop. The coffee sachets refilled when you go to the kettle and when you ask, Simon shrugs “the fairies,” he says, sipping his cup of tea with the morning paper.

Even when you are officially dating you were still going between the two flats. Joking that cat had the studio and you could stay with Simon.

John’s parents are extremely protective of you and I mean that they will fight John himself if he ever dares to hurt their precious angel of a daughter-in-law.

Once during Christmas dinner, John’s entire extended family was invited to it. Being his younger, prettier new wife meant that a lot of jealousy was going to be projected onto you.

From men wanting a more younger woman compared to their wives to boost their egos and from the women who felt threatened by you.

And you best believe that one of the women made a snide remark that would get her an eventual earful.

“It must be nice to be a pretty little thing. Being able to pick up men like our John here. Tell me darling how many men have ran through you before you met-“

A pair of hands slammed against the dinner table shaking it slightly and it was not by John but his loving, non-confrontational mother.

Your sweet mother-in-law went off, Emily Gilmore style. Pointing out all of the other woman’s flaws and unfavourable qualities. She went as far as blaming that woman’s looks and disgusting attitude for being the reason why her husband cheats on a regular basis.

The whole house was stunned, yourself included. The silence was only broken by John gruff snort. You looked at him with a raised eyebrow for him to only hold your hand underneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Your mother-in-law sat down with a huff and carried on with dinner as if she hadn’t ripped someone a new one.

Best believe no one had said anything rude to you ever again.

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 20/??

John Price and his Sleepy Wife

AO3

You had always been a sleepy person. Dozing off on John’s lap in the car, nuzzling quietly into his side during films, and just enjoying sleeping on him in general.

But just imagine John telling some story about his glory days as he liked to to the rest of the squad, and he’s just rambling on as you sit next to him on the couch, but you’re half asleep. So he’ll talk a bit — adjust his sleepy wife who’s drooping off of his shoulder — and then continue like nothing happened.

But then it would happen again. And again. And again. You sliding down, boneless, eyelids fluttering weakly, snuggled into John like he was your own personal furnace. And none of the boys would say anything (apart from Soap’s quiet laughs), because it happened every time, and they knew the drill — keep a close eye on you to ensure you didn’t fall to the ground, but not close enough to make you feel uncomfortable or to annoy Price, because as much as he trusted them you were still his wife.

“Infiltration wasn’t—“ A pause for him to give up repositioning you and just pull you onto his lap, eliciting a quiet but content sigh from you as you buried your face into his chest “—that much of a challenge, but you forget that there were about a hundred men, yeah? So…”

Meanwhile, having already heard all his stories a hundred times over, you had progressed from half-asleep to out cold, and by the time it got late enough m for everyone to start heading to bed, Price had to carry you bridal-style to your shared bedroom. Not that he was complaining. The missus always got her every want and need provided for, always. Especially when it involved her using him as her pillow.

Still Home

Pairing: John Price x Reader (Established Marriage)

Synopsis: Years have passed, and the house has changed with time—but the love inside it never has. John Price, older now, slower perhaps, still loves you with the same fire he had when it all began. Through lazy mornings, holidays filled with chaos, and quiet evenings curled on the couch, this is the story of a lifetime of love that never stopped growing.

Warnings: Heavy fluff, established relationship, aging, emotional intimacy, domestic comfort, family life, nostalgia and warmth, implied canon divergence, lots of soft kissing and affection.

The house had aged, but it wore the years kindly. The white picket fence had faded to a mellow ivory. The front steps creaked just a bit louder in the winter. And the rose bush by the kitchen window—planted on a spring afternoon not long after you moved in—now curled up toward the eaves, a cascade of soft pink blooms that never failed to bloom first on your anniversary.

The front room was warm, even in the chill of late autumn. The old couch was threadbare on the corners, soft where it mattered, and still just the right size for two people who never seemed to mind being close.

You sat curled against John’s side, your legs draped over his lap, book in hand, glasses low on your nose. His arm was around your shoulder, warm and steady, his hand tracing lazy circles on your arm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The kind of touch that came after decades of knowing someone’s skin better than your own.

John sipped from his chipped navy mug, the one that said World’s Okayest Tea Brewer—a Father’s Day gift from your daughter, smudged slightly from years in the dishwasher. His beard was more salt than pepper now, his frame broader with age, slower in movement but still powerful in presence. That same commanding steadiness. That same protective warmth that once made you fall fast and foolishly, back when you were just two young souls tumbling headfirst into a forever neither of you fully understood yet.

“Cold in here, love?” he asked, voice low and warm, eyes flicking to the window, where the wind tapped at the glass.

“Not with you here,” you murmured, not looking up from your book.

He smiled, and it creased the corners of his eyes just like it used to, only now the lines were deeper—earned, not worn. “Still got that silver tongue.”

“Still fall for you every time,” you replied, soft and true.

He leaned in and kissed your temple, lingering for a second longer than necessary. You hummed. You always did.

Even after all these years, the house held the echoes of your lifetime.

The hallway was a gallery of portraits—framed school photos, vacation candids, weddings, the kids’ graduations. There was one from your thirtieth anniversary in the center of it all: you in a soft blue dress, John in a suit that never quite fit right anymore, your grandchildren laughing wildly in front of you while your children tried (and failed) to pose them properly.

Down in the laundry room, there was a wall that neither of you could bring yourselves to paint over. The pencil lines still climbed the plaster beside the doorway, names and ages scrawled in two different handwritings—Martin and Ellie, their heights recorded every birthday from age one to eighteen. You’d watched them pass each other up, centimetre by centimetre. You still ran your fingers over the lines sometimes when you were down there folding towels, and John always smiled when he caught you.

“They still come home,” you’d said just last week, your chin on his shoulder as you both stood there staring at the wall. “Even now. They come back.”

“They always will,” he said, his voice full of quiet certainty. “It’s home.”

Their rooms had changed over the years. No more posters or glow-in-the-dark stars. The beds had been replaced with guest mattresses, the desks with shelves for books and folded blankets. But there were still old toy boxes in the closets. A few forgotten jackets on the hooks. And whenever the family came over—loud and sprawling and full of chaos—they all still knew where their place was.

The holidays were dangerous in the best way. The grandkids groaned every year about how “gross” you two were.

“Mum, Dad’s staring at her like he’s twenty again,” Martin had complained, mock-suffering, one Christmas Eve while John was cutting vegetables with one hand and gently stroking your back with the other.

“She winked at him. WINKED. I’m emotionally scarred,” Ellie once declared, covering her children’s eyes like it was a scandalous soap opera.

But they always smiled when they said it. Because there was something achingly comforting about the way you and John looked at each other. Like there was no one else in the room. Like the love hadn’t aged a day.

And truthfully—it hadn’t. It had just… deepened. Stretched out into the quiet corners of your life. Into late-night grocery runs. Into slow Sunday mornings. Into the way he tucked your reading glasses into your book when you dozed off, or the way you brewed his tea exactly how he liked it, even after forty years of arguments over the “right” amount of sugar.

Even now, as the wind picked up outside and the lights dimmed in the living room, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his body under yours, the rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet murmur of his voice.

“Still happy?” he asked you once, voice so soft you almost missed it.

You looked up from your book, tilted your head, and smiled at the man who had loved you through everything—war, children, quiet nights, wild ones, wrinkles and graying hair and all.

“More than I ever thought I could be,” you said.

And he kissed you.

Not because it was habit.

Not because the kids were gone and you finally had the house to yourselves again.

But because after all this time, he still couldn’t help it.

Because loving you was the only thing that ever came easy to John Price.

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

i know in my heart price's wife orders clothing catalogs for herself in her maiden name every time she gets mad at john

cut to him waving around a rolled up copy of a land's end sales catalog and threatening to bend her over his knee and spank her with it if she doesn't get it out of her head that she's anything other than a price now

Scrumptious

trying out procreate with a price sketch˚✧₊⁎

I think Simon would do anything you said if you phrased it as a command rather than a question.

“Can we go see the girly pop movie?” “No”

“We are going to see the girly pop movie.” He’s waiting by the door

“Will you wear a maid outfit for me?” “Fuck no”

“Go put the maid outfit on.” “Alright”