Letter To Santa
TaskForce 141 x Child!GN!Reader
Warnings: none, be prepared for teeth rotting, sweet fluff. We believe in Santa on this page. This is primarily center around our dear Capt. Price because seeing him as a father figure would cure my woes. This is not proof read and I just woke up so have fun ❄️🎶🎄
Word Count: 1.29K
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The stocking were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that St.Nicholas soon would be there.
Little hands eagerly worked at a red pen and delicate paper, smoothing out wrinkles. Fingers grazed papyrus with ease and little barefeet barely brushed against the cold floor. Brows knitted in concentration as the wee babe bite their tongue in thought.
“How do you spell Santa?”
The sweet voice echoed through the barrack walls quite the contrast of its usual interior.
“S-A-N-T-A. Here little one, I’ll write it down for you.” The gruff voice bent down with a crack of his spine before letters curled one by one to spell the jolly fat man’s name.
“And how do you spell Christmas?”
A gruff sigh came from the man’s beard lips as he spelt out the words CHRISTMAS in extra large font for the babe.
Captain Price was a man well into his years, beaten and broken down from multiple years of war and hardship but, somehow or another you wiggled your way into his heart. He most certainly thought of you as his own and cared for you like such.
Calloused hands tending to your every need such as tying your shoes, reaching top shelves, teaching you sight words and so on and so forth.
“Kid, what are they teaching you in school? Do I have to spell everything for you?” He teased, running large calloused digits though H/C hair, ruffling it a bit but quickly slicking down its strands back in place.
“Could you write my letter? Please? I’ll tell you everything you need to write!?” Eager pleads filled the air and brought about the rest of the men to seek out your woes.
“Just this once! And I won’t ask for anything else!”
A half snort left the masked lips of our dearest stoic, balaclava covered “friend”. Deep voice for a large man indeed. A bit scary but, you were never scared of the one in which they call “Ghost”. Oh no, quite the opposite. You played with him, hugged him, snuggled up to him, had breakfast with him, much like everyone else who you had wrapped around your little tiny fingers.
“I find that rather hard to believe,love” He stated rather promptly, leaning back against a rickety chair, stretching his limbs out a bit.
“It’s true! I promise! And I can’t lie because Santa is watching AND, unlike some people-“ You shot glares at Ghost and Soap, Soap whom shot you a half innocent look back as if he had no idea what you were even rambling about. Ghost, if at all possible rolled his eyes beneath the mask at your little rambling. At least Gaz was safe from your rambles and tales of the “naughty and nice list.” You were certain your name and Gaz’s name was on the nice list, and maybe Price’s, but Ghost and Soap’s? Absolutely not!
“I’m gonna be on Santa’s nice list so I can get lots and lots of presents. So I can’t lie. Just, someone please write my Santa letter for me!? That’s all I ask! Please!? Pretty please?! Pretty please with sugar on top?!”
Little hands clasped together eagerly begging and pleading for your letter to be written, feet bounced from one heel to the next, little E/C eyes looked up to the men round, full of light and wonder but pupils wide and begging almost like a puppy who wanted a treat.
“Tch, fine. Only this once. Got it? Now, come here, little one. I’ll see to it that your letter is written and fit for Santa.” Captain Price patted his knee and you eagerly abided, settled atop his knee as if he were Santa himself. Come to think of it, if he had a longer, white beard and was a little fatter and more jollier, he could be Santa. You giggled in thought, earning a brow raise from Price before he carefully held you steady.
The hand that was holding you, held that same bright red ink pen gently against the notebook paper that you had originally used to write your own, little letter.
“Ready Captain? I gotta big list of things to write and say. Think you can keep up?” You teased the old Captain though you did this quite often and found joy in joking about his age. Though, the Captain wasn’t that old. He was in his late 30’s, early 40’s but, to you he was ancient.
“Take your best shot, kiddo.”
He chuckled before the tip of the red pen pressed against the crinkled paper, whereas you rambled on about your list, Price was lightly writing out as followed:
Dear Santa,
I have been really good this year. I have done all of my chores without complaining and been on my best behavior. For Christmas this year I want (insert toy list here) and for my “pretend” family to get everything they want Christmas. Oh! And I want them to be able to go home and spend Christmas with the people they love. Because that’s what Christmas is all about. Family and love.
P.S. Can you please get my Uncle Ghost a boyfriend/girlfriend. Thanks. He’s really lonely.
“Is that good?” You asked the Captain with a small tilt of your head, holding up the crinkled paper reading over each and every sentence you made Price write.
“Men, Do me the honor of looking over their letter. Tell me, is it Santa Clause worthy?” Price held the crinkled paper up for Ghost, Soap and Gaz to look over.
Gaz was the first to read it, chocolate hues scanning the paper over and over again with a small chuckle at the last sentence. A hand went over to tuck strands of H/C behind your ears and compliment your work, though Price wrote you you worded it.
Soap was next and as azure blue eyes looked over the paper he chuckled whole heartedly.
“Ya really are doin’ poor L.T. a favor here aren’t ya lass/lad?” Soap chuckled wholeheartedly before Ghost snatched the paper from the Scotsman.
“Johnny what’re you laughing at-“
He breathed in a heavy sigh at the last little sentence you had, had Price write.
“Bloody hell…”
He grumbled, large digits pinching the bridge of nose through mask and balaclava.
“It’s funny.”
You giggled, peering over Price’s tired shoulders to see Ghost’s reaction.
“Aye lass/lad, it’s also Santa worthy.” Soap got in another chuckle before snatching the crinkle red written letter back from Ghost and letting Price read over it one more time, before sealing it up into an envelope, licking it shut and sticking a little stamp on it.
“Say, Y/N? Do you know what Santa’s address is?” The Captain arched a brow at you as you seemed to be falling somewhat sleep in his gentle hold.
“Uh uh. But I bet it’s on your maps. Somewhere. You got lots of them. You can find it, I believe in you.”
You chuckled in a half sleepy manner, leaning back against Price’s broad chest, H/C and H/L falling over your tired features.
Price turned your body, so you were tucked tightly into his arms gently moving strands of hair out of your face. He thought for a moment at your little request and a subtle hum came from him.
In a hushed tone he whispered a simple,
“Don’t worry little lamb, St.Nicholas will get your letter, my men and I will make sure of it. “
He pressed a soft kiss against the crown of your head before letting you slumber and dream in his arms. He fetched the other men to quickly find Santa’s address for your silly, one of a kind letter.
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A/N: I suck at accents and writing but, my brain has been turned off recently because ya girl graduated last Saturday and I threw everything I've ever known out the window haha. I love writing fluff and I will die on that hill. This idea also came to me from a couple of AI chat roleplays and simply, well Christmas spirit. I know the gang is probably ooc and I sincerely apologize for that. I will get better, trust me! Reqs are open forever and always! Reblogs are def appreciated!
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styling baby ghost's pretty silver hair, brushing it for him and making him look even cuter - this child au is bringing out all my caretaking instincts sjdjfjsjs
All you're doing is brushing his hair, and Ghost is all but melting. It's hard to focus on anything but the slow strokes of the brush and the occasional sigh of your breath behind him. He's lucky you don't expect anything more than his silent cooperation— if he had to talk, his words would surely come out scrambled and much too slow.
"Your hair is so pretty," you murmur, and it's warm fingers, not the brush, that comb through the strands next.
It takes active effort not to slump over against your leg. The continued handling leaves him fighting the instinct to go limp and pliant under his Master's hands... but that would make the brushing stop.
He's not willing to let this blessed comfort end so soon. Not yet.
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