something something babysitter!reader, price calling you to pick you up earlier because his shitty ex wife made sure he has the wrong time for the court hearing, you rush over to his house. hes incredibly thankful while horribly stressed, quickly tying his tie around his neck while on the way to the door. you, being the sweet thing you are, follow him around to help, baby on your hip, keys in the other. he takes them while you're standing in the doorframe and without thinking; call it force of habit; he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before speeding off.
Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.
(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)
Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
John Price
Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.
It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.
His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.
“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.
You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.
“John?”
His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.
“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.
“John. I—I think—”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m having contractions.”
By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”
On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.
“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.
“I know. I know. I’m coming.”
Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.
“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.
“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.
“Cabbage?”
When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.
“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.
Call Dropped.
“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.
Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.
He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.
There is no response.
“Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—
Empty.
“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.
But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.
You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.
You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.
There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.
“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.
“A bit busy,” you chuckle.
Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
“I’m not leaving.”
“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”
Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”
You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”
“It might,” he growls.
“It won’t,” you insist.
As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”
“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”
“Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.
Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.
“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”
Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.
He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.
Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.
“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.
“Are you having contractions?”
“…Yes.”
“Goddamn it.”
Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.
He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.
“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.
You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.
Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.
“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
I’m having contractions, reads the text.
Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.
You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.
“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.
“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.
Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.
“Everything good?” asks Ghost.
Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”
“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”
“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.
Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.
“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.
“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”
“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.
Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.
“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.
Are they close together?
It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.
They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.
“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.
Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”
Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.
As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.
You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.
Johnny almost faints.
“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.
“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”
“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.
You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.
Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.
“Need to answer that?”
Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.
“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”
Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”
“She is,” affirms Kyle.
“Then you should answer it.”
Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.
When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.
Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”
“I’m having contractions.”
You sound panicked.
“You’re—are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"
Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”
“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”
“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”
“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”
“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.
Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”
Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”
“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”
Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”
Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.
He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.
As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.
A few steps, and he pushes open the door.
You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.
“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.
You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”
“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.
There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”
tw big age gap like my man’s dick (fifties!price x twenties!reader), fauxcest yum, cockwarming but it’s oral, unprotected smut (wrap it before you tap it etc etc).
connected to this post. more of them here.
soon after getting closer to you, before you even got together, price noticed that you almost always chewed gum. if you weren’t chewing gum, you were biting your bottom lip. he can’t even count how many times he’s watched you bite your poor lip until it bleeds in all the time he’s known you.
“christ, kid. stop doing that.” he’ll scold you and use his thumb to wipe the blood, his expression stern even as you pout. it’s honestly infuriating, how attractive you are even as blood runs down your chin.
and when you’re nervous? it’s your poor nails’ turn. john often swats your hand to stop you from ruining your lovely fingers. other times, when he knows you’re going through a rough time and your anxiety is reaching its peak, he’ll bandage all of your fingers to prevent you from damaging your nails or your cuticles.
he takes his role as your dad very seriously.
though, john loves the more fun parts of your oral fixation. you often bite his biceps or his shoulders, hence why one of his nicknames for you is vampire. my little vampire, to be exact. another perk of you wanting things in your mouth often, is all the times he gets to watch you chew on your pen while you study. it gets the old man going, for sure. he likes to watch you as you do an assignment and murmur words of encouragement here and there. seeing you all focused while you leave little bite marks on one of your pens has him shifting in his seat and adjusting his hardening dick. most times your reward for a study session is an orgasm or two. maybe three if you got a lot of things done and he thinks you deserve some extra love.
having his dick in your mouth for a couple of hours is also a great time. sometimes when he watches a game with you at home, not feeling like inviting the lads over, you’ll get between his knees and nuzzle his crotch until he unzips his pants. “such a good kid for yer dad.” he’ll praise you when you wait for him to take his cock out and let you put it in your mouth. you listen to your dad and it’s just makes his cock throb. the football match is over before he realises and he doesn’t even care if his team wins. all he can feel is your warm mouth around him, your occasional hums making him throb and groan. he’ll pet your head and nod, letting you know you can start sucking. coming in your mouth is the ultimate win.
today is a bad day. terrible, even.
you got up an hour earlier than your alarm and couldn’t go back to sleep. you burnt two pieces of bread before you could make proper toast. john dropped you off at the train station, like he does almost every day, but your train was late and when it arrived, it was so crowded. your best friend was sick and a random prick sat next to you instead. the guy really didn’t know what no meant and kept pestering you the whole lecture. he even tried to get your number multiple times, even after you told him you had a boyfriend. what an asshole.
as if all of that weren’t enough, it started raining the second you stepped outside your university when it was supposed to be sunny!
john comes to pick you up from the train station, eager to see his baby after hours being apart. you really have him acting like a damn teenager. but oh, when he’s met with you looking like a wet kitten, all pouty and shivering, he’s frowning more than the time soap decided to prank him by getting rid of his cigars. “oh, kiddo.” he murmurs and wraps his jacket around you before ushering you in the car and turning the heat on.
you’re quiet the whole way home and he doesn’t say anything either. just puts one of the cds he asked you to burn for him, a few different ones with your favourite songs for different occasions. the good thing about being neighbours is that you can get to his house, or he at yours, whenever. so, he leads you to his place for some much needed tlc.
a warm shower and wearing his clothes has your eyes getting teary. you’ve been so overwhelmed all day and you’ve been keeping your composure but you can’t stop the dam from breaking anymore. not when you feel so safe, with john’s scent on you. so you waddle to the kitchen, where he’s making tea, sniffling like a kid after waking up from a nightmare. well, you kind of are a kid to him, aren’t you? in some twisted sense, anyway.
he opens his arms the moment he sees you and wraps them tightly around you once you fall into his chest. “shh, s’ alright, kid. i’m right here. dad’s here.” he shushes you and caresses your back, his heart breaking with each sob that leaves your mouth. you cry and cry until you can’t breathe properly, scaring your old man. he can’t have anything bad happening to his baby. so he taps your cheek a couple times to get you to look up. “open your mouth.” it’s an order, one that you immediately follow, and he smiles before inserting two finger in your mouth.
the way you instantly seem to calm down is very satisfying to john. he watches you fondly as you suck and nibble on his fingers, caressing your cheek with his other hand. “good, yeah?” he murmurs and you hum around his fingers, making a shiver run down his spine.
after a few minutes, you speak up, not taking his fingers off your mouth. “dad. need you, please.” your words are a little muffled but their effect on him is very clear.
“yeah? y’need yer dad, baby?” he asks as he moves his fingers in your mouth. he feels around your teeth, your tongue, your gums… he loves feeling every part of you, wants to commit each detail of you in his memory. a groan leaves his mouth when your hand cups his hard on and he’s quick to remove his fingers before pressing his lips against yours. it’s a messy kiss, teeth clashing and spit getting all over.
it’s not long before you're lying on the kitchen counter, legs spread with john between them. he strokes his dick a couple times before he slides in, making you moan and clutch his biceps. “dad! oh fuck. da-mph.” you whine and whimper as he puts his pointer and middle finger in your mouth again, his hips moving in quick and deep thrusts. you alternate between moaning and sucking on his fingers, biting down when he hits that spot that makes you see stars.
“so fucking tight.” he grunts and keeps pounding into you like a man on a mission. he keep his eyes on you, unable to look away. you’re like an angel, sprawled over the counter with your pretty mouth around his digits. what a sight for sore eyes. “dad’s got you, kiddo. i’ll fuck those yucky feeling away.”
one of your hands finds his free one, intertwining your fingers. you’re not even aware of how it almost makes him cum on the spot. you just keep grinding your hips and suckling on your dads finger. that’s the only thing in your head. dad, dad, dad. all that matters.
“let go for dad, kiddo.” price uses that tone that has you complying immediately. he can feel you spasming and clenching around him while your fingers dip in his hand, your other hand gripping his so tightly that it has him groaning in pain. it’s enough to push him to the edge, his seed filling you up.
he lets you settle down for a few minutes before he pulls out. “i know. i know, baby. i’m sorry.” he murmurs when you wince and rubs your thigh as he watches his cum drop out of you. “jesus christ. can’t ever get enough of this.”
retired!price, settled in the peaceful countryside, with an absolutely feral daughter.
she’s got one welly on, the other long gone -- sucked off her foot out by the gate three hours ago. her hair’s full of grass, a smear of mud painted up one round cheek and a knee scabbed over from a fall she didn’t even cry about earlier in the week. her pockets are heavy and squirming because she’s been collecting worms again, a fat fistful of them packed in with soil and gravel and the one acorn she decided is special. she comes barreling into the kitchen smelling damp and like the pond, leaving a trail of blackened footprints across the floor he just mopped, a bucket of frogs sloshing against her shins. she’s already named six of them. she’s got the seventh fisted up in one grubby hand, legs kicking, and she thrusts it out toward him where he’s sat reading at the table.
“y’suppose’ t’kiss it, papa. then he turns into a prince.”
the corner of his mouth twitches. he sets the book down on his knee. “is that right?”
“he’s called gerald.”
“course he is.” he leans in, eyes going over the frog and then up to her filthy delighted face. “a bit young to be needin' a prince, aren't we?”
a worm chooses that moment to make a break for it over the lip of her pocket and she stuffs it back down without breaking eye contact, cheeks warming when he looks down at the crime.
“are those worms again, love?”
“they’re for later.”
“mm.” he doesn’t ask more, he’s learned it’s best not to. he scrubs a hand down his beard to cover the grin. “tell you what -- gerald and all his friends stay out by the pond -- those are the rules, aren't they?” he presses her gently. a serial frog-catcher, they’ve already gone over this. she frowns but nods her head, eyes falling into her bucket. “you can show me every single one of ’em on the way. deal?”
he takes her by the cleaner of the two hands and lets her walk him out to the water, crouches there in the reeds while she introduces him to each frog by name and invents histories for the worms, nodding along like it’s the most important briefing he’s had in years (it is). the bucket gets tipped out into the water, the worms are released into ‘the wild,’ which is the flowerbed.
then he hoses her down in the yard before lunch, both of them squinting in the spray, her shrieking, the one welly filling up with water -- and he’s already lost the next ten minutes of his afternoon to wrestling her out of wet clothes.
Icky!dad Price knew he was wrong. He should’ve have preyed on you the way he did. You were a vulnerable little thing. Shoulders hunched and your head always looking down. Never spoke up for yourself. Head in the clouds thinking of god knows what. But once he realized how you had a terrible relationship with your father and how much it affected you, he knew you just needed some guidance. Some grounding. Just needed a dad in your life, and he’d be happy to play the role.
Icky!dad Price wouldn’t said he corrupted you. More like raised you, if you will. Gave you a set of rules, took care of you, did everything a proper dad should.
Icky!dad Price never corrected people when they thought you were genuinely his daughter; now you guys don’t look alike in the slightest so they were going based off the assumption that you were adopted. Still, he simply smiled and continued to let them think to themselves, because technically you were his daughter. His kiddo.
Icky!dad Price babies you like no other. You're literally 21, but at the end of the day, you're still Price's baby. So yes, he will get down and tie your shoes, give you a bedtime, and even dress you. Dad always makes sure his kid is constantly pampered.
Icky!dad Price gets off to the thought of you being his daughter. When you’re in bed and you’re helplessly whining as he fucks into your sweet spot, he just simply shushes you and coos “that’s my girl, I knew my kid could do it.” When your back arches and you finally cream on his cock.
Icky!dad Price is a disgusting degenerate of a man and you love every bit of it.
꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ — Figured out gradient text its so cutie. I feel like this could have been ickier. oh well..
More Dad!Price x wife!Reader bc oooohhhohoho dad Price and my baby fever 🥺
It’s late morning, and the house is soft and warm in the golden day.
A faint breeze drifts through the open window. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls. The scent of soft laundry clings to the air.
You pad down the hall in bare feet, cardigan draped loosely over your shoulders, a warm mug in your hand and stop in the doorway.
You have to bite back a gentle laugh, because there they are.
Your son is curled up on one side of the bed, legs tucked up, his head resting against the edge of Price's arm. His mouth is slightly open, one hand clutched around the corner of a baby blanket and the other around his teddy.
Price is on his back, one arm stretched protectively along the bed under your son, the other curled just slightly around the tiny bundle nestled on his chest.
Your newborn, fast asleep on her father’s chest, her little face pressed to the space just over his heart. The rise and fall of his breathing rocks her gently, like she’s floating on a steady boat.
Her tiny hand is wrapped around one of his dog tags.
You stand there, heart aching with joy. You take a step closer, just to savor it.
Price barely stirs, a low hum in his chest. One eye cracks open, sluggish and warm.
“Mmm. You okay?”
You nod, smiling. “You’re all asleep. Like three puppies in a pile.”
“Warm pile,” Price mumbles. “Perfect pile.”
His arm stretches out, palm open in silent invitation. “C’mere.”
You set the mug down quietly and crawl into the open space beside him, tucking yourself into his side. He groans contentedly and wraps his arm around your shoulders.
You rest your head just under his jaw, your hand brushing over your daughter's tiny back. The baby sleeps on, undisturbed.
Your son shifts, but doesn’t wake, just sighs and scoots in a little closer to Price's other side.
“You’re surrounded, Captain," you whisper.
Price's smile is sleepy. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Nursing placements in NICU and seeing all these cute little babies made me think about how John’ll react to you giving birth to a preemie baby.
He’d absolutely be terrified, screaming on the inside when he sees this tiny little thing in a warm insulted crib to help the baby stay warm.
Probs go into the toilet and starts heaving and crying while he tries to muffles his sobs with his hand. He's a captain and doesn't want to be seen as weak but he couldn't his heart from hurting at the sight of the tiny babe too weak to even suckle some milk.
John goes into protective mode seeing you all upset and miserable while you stare into the crib. He has to swallow all of his pain to comfort you. Sweet praises spilling from his lips, wiping away any self-depricating thoughts you have of yourself.
He'll rent a motel nearby so that it's easier for you to see the baby whenever you want. Holds your hand when your nervously caress the baby. He'll stop all nursery decorations until he knows that the babe will be coming home safe and sound.
John never leaves your said, he's there when you feed the baby for the first time, bathe the baby and every other mile stone.
Until this point in time in his life, he's been so career orientated that he'd unintentionally ignore you. Now, everything is on hold, his career, deployments, training. Everything. His priority is to make sure that the baby gets home safe and that he's able to keep you as far away as possible from postpartum depression.
Even though there are still some bump along the way, he tries his best. He really does.
You show up at base with two toddlers trailing behind you, having to remind them not to bother people while they’re working.
You don’t bother knocking as you walk in, grinning as you watch the kids pile into their father’s lap.
Price instantly stops caring about his work, grinning and ruffling hair. “Well this is a nice surprise, what are you three doing here?”
You wander over and press a kiss to his cheek before explaining. “The preschool is shut today, something about a staff shortage.. so we thought we’d pay daddy a surprise visit, didn’t we?”
The twins giggle and nod, rambling nonsense at him.
You smile happily, watching him entertain their nonsense - despite what people told you before, Price is an incredible dad and husband; ridiculously patient.
After a few minutes you clear your throat slightly to get the attention of your children. “Why don’t you show daddy what we made this morning?”
They shriek excitedly and jump up, taking the two tubs you hand them - knowing if only one of them got to give them a present there’d be an argument.
Price chuckles at the Tupperware shoved in his face, making a point of thanking them - per your request of getting them to remember Ps and Qs - before taking it.
The exaggerated excitement is taken over by real joy as he opens them to reveal a batch of flapjacks, his favourite.
Later, as the twins clamber over Soap - tugging at his hair like a handle and trying to get up to his shoulders - Price gets to boast about how his 3 favourite people were the ones to make the team a snack.
