Can I ask for Simon wanting to have the 141 to meet his girl finally only for her to walk into the bar and Johnny to yell out "Sis! What ya doing here!?" And Simon having the crisis of realizing the girl he knows he'll marry one day is his best friends little sister.
He just can't escape Soap can he?
you're utterly mortified. it appears your new boyfriend is, too. he stares, not making every move to greet you like he'd planned to when you arranged this.
"johnny!" you cry, like you were supposed to. like you were here for him and not accidentally dating his teammate.
you love your brother. he's great, a great brother, but you're not here for him. you're not hear as a surprise, to catch up.
you're here to meet your boyfriend's task force.
and for a minute you feel really dumb. how didnt you put together that they're part of the same task force?
how mortified you are washes away because you and simon come to a silent agreement. pretend you don't know each other. you let johnny introduce you to everyone, let him introduce everyone to you. you shake his hand, just like you do with the others, and take a seat across from him.
so what if your foot bumps against his leg and he forgets his words?
it's like learning about him all over again. except johnny is telling you things you already know and you're nodding like you don't.
it's sweet, really. how much your brother cares about his friend. his friend who happens to be your boyfriend. the boyfriend your brother doesn't know about.
it's only when johnny gets up for his round that you turn to simon. "okay, what're we gonna do?" you ask him.
simon shrugs his shoulders. even without the mask on, john and kyle can see his panic. "you don't mention he was your brother," he replies.
your hands raise, exasperated. "you didn't pick up on the fact that we share a last name?"
"i don't know how common of a name mactavish is!"
"not all that common around here!"
it's like a game of tennis, john and kyle looking back and forth between you.
but then you take a breath and push your hands out in front of you, like you're pushing the negativity away from you. "we're not having our first fight over this," you say and reach across the table, offering him your hand.
simon gives it a squeeze and pulls his away. "we're not," he agrees. "but we have to tell him."
"we do," you agree.
"but maybe not today."
you hum in agreement.
"maybe we say that we met today."
you hum in agreement again.
"maybe at our wedding we tell him that he introduced us."
you're ready to gush at the words, but you don't. you hold out your hand again, this time for him to shake. "deal?"
"deal."
johnny returns to the table with five drinks on a tray. nobody says a word.
john has a routine for dinner. cook everything, set the table while it's cooking, plate up and make sure you're sat down first. you get the biggest portion, the first pick of any extras.
the boys are well trained. john can raise his hand and they'll wait in the doorway. panting and drooling and hungry, but you're taking your time, choosing what you'd like to eat.
(you know exactly what you're doing btw)
and the shower caddy is completely full. one set of body wash (3 in 1, ew) for the boys, and everything else for you. shampoo, conditioner, razors, body wash, facial wash, exfoliating soap and so much more. you've got more in the cupboards - face masks and hair mask and mousse and hair oil and that peel face mask stuff. fucking hell you've got everything (and john bought everything for you).
the boys aren't always allowed on john's bed, but you are. literally, it's not just john's bed anymore. sometimes the boys can join. maybe not all the same time, but you get to make that decision now. because it's your bed too. cushions and blankets all over the place.
the pack grooms each other. like animals, you groom each other, ears and tail, combing your hair down. johnny loves a face mask with you. kyle loves watching you peel off those peely face masks. simon accepts you grooming him, lays his head on your stomach while you busy yourself.
and you guys know foxy is a pillow princess. it's johnny and kyle's fault. simon hates it, thinks you should work for your orgasm. of course, you don't have no, not even with him. because john is there, talking you through it, commanding him while simon growls. but he gives you that orgasm, as many as you want that night.
Thinking about ghost who would literally eat anything and picky eater!reader...
Of course, ghost first realized how bad your eating habits are while out getting dinner with you. Yes, dinner, a small payback-maybe-date after he rescued you from your broken down car at 3am.
"Uhm...I'll just have the chicken tenders. From the kids menu, please." You refuse to make eye contact with the waiter or ghost, stomach twisting that none of the more adult options were anything you liked.
You braces for the comments from ghost, having heard plenty from his teammates. Gaz snorting about what he's dubbed "your one vegetable a month" whenever he sees the only sub you eat lettuce with. Soap, too, makes comments about how you should try home-cooked meals instead of your store bought meals. Even price has chuckled about "dessert for lunch again, love?" When literally all you could stomach that week was sweets.
When you doesn't comment, you stubbornly stay staring at your hands "I know it's embarrassing eating with me...sorry."
"Wot? Yer eating, aren't you?" Ghost raises his brow at you, shoveling another giant onion ring into his mouth. "Not my fuckin' issue. If you don't want it, give it to me."
And...really you should have expected this.
Ghost, the man who lived on literal scraps in his childhood, who ate everything he was given because he had no choice. Of course he wouldn't care what you eat, so long as you eat.
"Oh...uhm." You're not sure what to say. You're used to always feeling some level of embarrassment about your diet. "Thank...you."
One dinner turns to two, turns to shared lunches and weekend brunches. You gravitate towards ghost because he doesn't care about your eating habits. If you order something and find it tastes different than expected, ghost will happily devour your dish while you ask about crisps.
You realize you've never been able to eat freely with another person before. It's...really nice.
The concept of price being so damn proud to be dating you, a pretty young thing he's got wrapped around his finger.
He talks about you constantly, his sweet angel that soon enough he'll have safe in his home. Price has always been one to fall too hard too fast, but even gaz can agree that something feels special about this time.
So, the team agrees to meet you.
Only for all of them to nearly choke or die when you come walking up to their table, practically hanging off price's arm.
Because each if them has slept with you.
Gaz has seen you spread out on his bedsheets, legs wrapped around his waist while you begged for just one more round. Soap has seen you in the back of his car, his knees aching from so long spent with his tongue between thighs. Ghost knows what you sound like choking on dick in the alleyway behind the local bar.
And now you sit next to their captain, and he's made it clear he wants to marry you.
When price steps away to get you a drink, you look them dead in the eyes and say "he fucks better than you and he's mature."
Yikes...
Still. It'll be hard keeping a neutral face at the wedding when they've all seen your expression mid-orgasm.
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 summary: in your last relationship aftercare wasn’t even a concept, but with Simon Riley it’s so much more than that.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: just Simon giving you aftercare for the first time because what the hell I have free will ALSO 18+ puhlease!! Mdni I’ll boot kick you out.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff so rotten your teeth will fall out.
Pairings: bf!Simon x gf!Reader
The next best thing to sex with Simon Riley was the aftercare - you thought as your gaze followed him into the bathroom, his frame disappearing behind the doorframe. You were sore, heart hammering and skin slick with sweat as you basked in the aftermath of it all, but a soft smile stretched across your lips.
You felt like you were positively glowing.
It shocked you the first time you both had sex. Not that you expected him to discard you with his back turned. But considering your past relationship, the lack of love after making it was normal for you.
Didn’t make it suck any less though.
So when it came to Simon. A man who practically intimidated every neighbour of yours within a block, muscle and tattoo ridden and who killed for a living - aftercare seemed … overly emotionally strenuous for him. Like it would make things too real? You thought.
But when it came and he held you as though you could crack like strained glass, gently wiping your skin with a lukewarm towel, you couldn’t hide how enamoured you felt.
How did so much care and love come from the same hands that drew blood.
“What’s tha’ look for?” Simon pointed bluntly as he butterflied your hips open to clean your core “nothing just-“ you swallowed thickly, blinking “didn’t expect all this” you breathe. Simon’s brows furrowed in confusion, gaze still tethered to wiping you clean “Christ dove, what kind of men have you been havin’ sex with” his abrasive tone made you huff a laugh “shitty ones” you retorted.
“Fuckin’ clearly” he said, guiding the rough towel over your stomach.
Seconds passed and you were still unable to wipe the adoration off your face, something Simon noticed with a huff of a laugh “ya lookin’ at me like I’ve just bought you a fuckin’ puppy” mirth dripped off of his tone.
You gently pushed him “shut up”
“What kinda man do ya’ take me for” Simon questioned while he moved to soothe the inside of your thighs. You let his words hang in the air before you responded “not a shitty one” he hummed in amusement, his belief of your words wavered thin.
Simon tended to the hickeys and bruises, apologising gruffly for getting carried away. To which you said that you didn’t mind “Good” he said, throwing the towel into the dirty clothes basket before lying down next to you “C’mere” he graveled, arms outstretched.
You complied, draping your arm across his scarred chest. A new found sense of relief flooded through you at the feeling of being so tenderly cared for. Simon heaved a sigh, coiling his arm around your waist to pull you closer “M’fuckin’ girl” he murmured before kissing the crown of your head.
During the first week of your new job, you meet someone just as shy as you.
Based on this request!
You’re the new secretary under the contract coordinator of KorTac. Your job is to manage all the paperwork that comes with scheduling and contract-work in the military.
You’re not surprised you landed the position. You’re a shy, quiet person by nature and the workload you now manage is done almost entirely by yourself. The only person you really work with is the coordinator, Janelle. She’s strict and does whatever it takes to get herself, you, and the contractors paid. All completely fine by you. Keeping your head down and being organized was your forte.
Well, until someone came into your office on your second day.
“Um- excuse me?” A man asked, his gruff accent somehow came across as meek.
You looked up over your computer monitor, face already warming, and found an extremely tall, and handsome, man towering over your desk. “Yes?” You asked just as shyly.
“Hi, I am looking for Mrs. Janelle. Is she in her office?” The question sounded practiced. Like he had repeated it to himself a few times before he came in to ask.
You shook your head. “No, I’m so sorry. She’s in a meeting right now. Do you have -um- a message I could leave for her?”
He tensed up and brought his hands to his pockets. “Y-yes. Could you let her know König needs to schedule a meeting with her soon?”
“Mhm,” you nodded and jotted down the question on a sticky note. “It’s K-Ö-N-I-G, right?”
“Um, yes.” He nodded.
You looked back up at him and smiled softly. “I’ll let her know.”
He seemed flustered at your kindness. “Thank you, Süße.”
You nodded and felt your face heat even more. “No problem. Was there anything else you needed, König?”
He shook his head. “No, but thank you.” He waved a bit shyly before leaving your office. You watched him leave with a soft smile lingering on your lips.
29th June 2026.
This year's Strawberry Moon was extremely low in the sky, which made it look very large and bright. (A perfect photographic opportunity!)
The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore — one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.
You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he won’t name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth — his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.
Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.
You wanted to get up to finally rinse.
To feel like a person again.
But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.
"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.
"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.
"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."
"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.
His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.
He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.
"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"
"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.
"Mm-mm," he protested.
Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.
He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.
He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."
You could hear his grin.
"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"
A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."
He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.
He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.
"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."
"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.
"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."
It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.
He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.
Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.
He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.
After the ultrasound, Peach learns she’s becoming a big sister, John doubles down on caring for you, ginger tea and tiny hat in tow, and proudly tells the 141 you said yes, all of you settling into a family that finally feels right on time.
41. Little Heart, Big News
The ultrasound photos were still warm in your hand by the time you carried them into the living room. Peach was sprawled on the rug with Slinky curled at her side, humming as she stacked blocks into a lopsided castle. John lingered behind you, quieter than usual, the awe from the scan still clinging to his eyes like sleep.
"Peach," you said softly, lowering yourself onto the rug beside her. "Mummy and Daddy have something special to show you."
She looked up, wide-eyed and expectant, clutching a purple block to her chest. "Is it a present?"
You smiled. "Kind of." You slid the black-and-white picture toward her.
Her little fingers plucked the photo carefully, holding it up too close to her face at first. She frowned. "It's fuzzy."
John chuckled, sinking down beside you, floorboards creaking under his weight. "That's because it's a picture from inside Mummy's tummy, sweetheart."
Her eyes went round, lips forming a perfect O. She glanced at you, then back at John. "Inside?"
You nodded, brushing curls off her forehead. "That's your baby brother or sister."
She gasped, tiny hands flying to her cheeks. "That's the baby?!"
John's heart nearly burst at her excitement. He leaned forward, pointing to the grainy outline. "See this bit here? That's the head. And there—those are little arms."
Peach squinted hard, then lit up. "It's waving at me!"
You laughed through the tears pricking your eyes. "Maybe it is."
She stared at the photo for a long beat, then set it gently on the coffee table like it was glass. Without a word she crawled into John's lap, folding herself into him, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Does the baby know me?" she whispered.
John kissed the top of her head, voice low and steady. "Not yet, peach. But it will. The baby's going to know you're the best big sister in the whole wide world."
Her grin spread so wide it nearly split her face. "I'll share my toys."
That nearly undid John. He blinked hard and hugged her tighter, rough voice betraying the crack of emotion. "Baby's lucky to have you."
Slinky decided that was his cue and padded over, hopped into your lap, then planted himself—purring—across your stomach like a furry paperweight. Peach gasped again. "Slinky knows! He's guarding the baby!"
"Cats know everything," you said solemnly, scratching behind a twitching ear. "He's part of the security detail now."
"Like Daddy," she said proudly.
"Exactly like Daddy," you murmured, catching John's eye. The corner of his mouth tugged up.
That night after toothbrushing songs and three stories and "goodnight baby" whispered into your belly, Peach fell asleep gripping her stuffed bear with the ultrasound photo tucked neatly under the bunny's arm like a blanket. You stood in the doorway with John and just... looked.
"She's already guarding it like it's hers," he murmured, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. He bent to kiss your temple. "Proper little sentinel."
"She loves it already," you whispered.
His palm found your stomach, broad and warm, the touch instinctive now. "So do I."
You leaned back into him and let your eyes close. In the quiet, the house had a different hum—dishwasher sighing, radiators ticking, your two heartbeats stacked with a third that had rattled the dark room at the hospital. A little lime-sized drum.
Later, tucked into bed, the duvet cocooned up to your ribs, you felt him restless beside you—sleep not quick to come. You shifted onto your side and he went willingly, sliding closer, hand flattening low over your belly like a vow.
"Can't shut it off?" you asked, voice a sleepy rasp.
He made a small sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "No."
"Nightmares?"
He shook his head against the pillow. "Thinkin'." A quiet beat. "Names. Stupid, I know. It's early."
You smiled in the dark. "Hit me."
"Not Sparkle," he said dryly, and you snorted into the pillow. "Or Buzz."
"Rude," you whispered. "You're crushing her creative spirit."
He huffed. "We could... I dunno. Something strong. Solid." He paused, then, softer, "Something that sounds like home."
You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach and laced your fingers through. "We'll know when we know."
He was quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing the line of your knuckles. When he spoke again, the words were careful, as if they could break in transit. "I'm late to it all. Late to you. Late to her. Feels like I'm tryin' to catch up and... I don't want to miss anything."
"You won't," you said simply. "You're here."
He leaned forward until his forehead touched yours. "I'm here," he echoed, like a promise.
You fell asleep to the slow draw of his breathing, the way his fingers kept counting your pulse like a habit he didn't want to break.
Morning brought nausea in a wave so abrupt you barely made it to the sink. Peach appeared in the doorway with bedhead and a solemn expression, while John moved like he'd been waiting for it—cool flannel, glass of water, steady hand on your back.
"Breathe, love. That's it," he murmured, his palm a broad anchor between your shoulder blades. "Don't fight it."
When the worst passed, he guided you to a chair, already kettling water like a man with a mission.
"Ginger tea," he announced, clinical, setting a mug before you. "Dry toast on stand-by. You're benched today."
"John," you tried.
"You're benched," he repeated, eyes kind, jaw set. "Captain's orders."
Peach slid onto the chair beside you, small hand patting your arm. "I can help," she said. "I can bring the baby some toast."
You smiled at the ceiling. "Thank you, nurse."
By mid-morning, the house had settled into a new cadence you hadn't heard before: Peach narrating a "big sister" drawing ("This is me and this is the baby and this is Daddy but I'm taller than him in this one"), Slinky thumping onto the sofa and planting himself across your lap like an overzealous hot-water bottle, and John at the table with reading glasses perched low, a notebook open to a page titled—god help you—"First Trimester: Notes."
You watched him underline small, frequent meals like it was a field strategy. "John Price," you said, laughter softening the words, "you sound like a first-time dad."
He peered over the rims of his glasses. "I am a first-time dad," he said, unabashed. "At least with all this."
"You're doing great," you said honestly.
"Doin' my homework," he grunted, and slid a pack of ginger biscuits across the table like contraband. "For later."
Peach popped up between you like a jack-in-the-box, shoving a crayon masterpiece under your nose. In neon marker, a wobbly stick-figure family stood under a wide blue sky. A tiny dot hovered inside your rectangle torso, surrounded by so many hearts the paper wrinkled.
"I wrote 'welcome baby' but I forgot the E and then I squeezed it in," she explained, very serious when in fact there were no real letters written.
"It's perfect," you said, throat tight. "Let's put it on the fridge."
"All of them?" John asked dryly, glancing at the gallery already pinned there.
"Obviously," you said.
By afternoon, the three of you had framed the ultrasound—cheap black frame, pride of place on the hallway shelf. Peach insisted on dusting it with a tissue. "So it sparkles," she said, satisfied.
John made tea and hovered at your shoulder while you texted a photo of the frame to your parents: Peach is promoted. We're over the moon. Your phone buzzed itself silly. You put it face down and let the kitchen be quiet again.
"Come here," he said softly, tugging you between his knees where he sat at the table. He wrapped his arms around your hips, cheek pressed to your stomach. "Hello, trouble," he murmured to your skin, voice gone low in a way that made your eyes sting. "It's your dad. Be kind to your mum, yeah?"
"Did you just introduce yourself to our baby?" you whispered, laughing into his hair.
"Formality," he said into your shirt. "I'm old-fashioned."
"You're ridiculous," you corrected, but you stroked the back of his neck and let him stay there as long as he needed.
The briefing room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and gun oil—standard. Price leaned back in his chair, sonogram photo folded neatly in his wallet, burning a hole in his pocket like a secret too bright to pocket for long. Soap sprawled, Gaz had his boots propped, Ghost loomed in his corner with his mask tugged low.
Price cleared his throat. "Got somethin' to share with you lot."
Soap grinned immediately. "Oh, here we go. Finally admit you're an old man?"
"Shut it," Price said, but a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He slipped the photo out, laid it on the table with the kind of reverence he didn't even give maps.
Gaz leaned in first, brows lifting. "No way. That's—"
"A bean," Soap finished reverently, snatching the picture like classified intel. "Holy hell, Cap. You serious?"
Gaz chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't think we'd see the day."
Price let them wind up, puffing a dry cigar he had no intention of lighting. When the noise crested he cut it with a look and an offhand grenade: "And while you're squawkin'—yes, I asked her. She said yes. We're gettin' married."
Silence lasted a full five heartbeats—an eternity for this table.
Gaz broke first, grinning like he couldn't help it. "About damn time. Congratulations, Captain."
Soap nearly shouted. "Knew it! Knew it. He was gone the second he started 'popping by that shop' for bread twice a day."
Ghost leaned back, arms folded, and though the mask hid his mouth, his eyes softened at the edges. "Hell of a year for you, Captain."
"Aye," Price said, the word shaped like a prayer and a promise both. "Reckon I've done alright."
Soap, never one to leave well enough alone, leaned forward on his forearms. "So when's the wedding then? We wearin' kilts or what?"
"You'll wear a suit and keep your gob shut," Price deadpanned.
Gaz raised his hands. "We'll behave. Within reason."
Later, when the ribbing faded to a content hum, Ghost slid the photo back across the table with gloved fingers.
"Congratulations," he said quietly, sincerity tucked under the gravel. "You'll be a good father. Better than most."
Price didn't say much, never needed many words. He tapped two fingers against the photo, then Ghost's shoulder in silent thanks. His chest felt too tight for a room this size, my not the bad way. Just... full.
On his way out, he detoured through a supermarket like a man on recon, bought three kinds of ginger biscuits and a tin of peppermint tea because his notes said they helped, and hesitated then added a tiny knitted hat that looked absurdly small until he pictured it in your hands. He shook his head at himself all the way to the till and bought it anyway.
Evening folded the house in soft shadows. You sat on the sofa with a blanket, Peach tucked under your arm, Slinky a warm comma at your hip. John came in from the cold smelling like rain and tobacco and something sweeter, paper bag crinkling.
"What's that?" you asked, smiling already.
"Supplies," he said, entirely too casual, and produced his haul: tea, biscuits, the tiniest hat you'd ever seen.
Your laugh broke in the middle. "John."
He looked abruptly sheepish. "Look, it was starin' at me. I—"
You stood and crossed the room and kissed him until he smiled against your mouth. "You're impossible."
"Been called worse," he said into your forehead.
Peach popped up like a meerkat. "Is that for the baby?" She reached for the hat with reverent fingers. "It's so small."
"Babies are small," John agreed gravely, sinking down beside you both. "Start small. Get big."
"Like Slinky," she said, squinting at the cat, who looked gravely offended.
"Not like Slinky," John muttered.
Peach scampered off to fetch her drawing, then marched back and thrust it into his hands. "We need to make a list," she declared, bossy as you. "We need diapers and baby bottles and tiny socks and a bed and a hat and—"
"Already on it," he said, and you watched in real time as the world rearranged itself in him: soldier, father, husband, all in one body that suddenly looked too big for a single life.
Later, when Peach was asleep and the house quieted to that soft velvet hum again, you stood at the hallway shelf with the framed ultrasound and the tiny hat sitting next to it like a marker on a map. John came up behind you and slid his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
"Hello, trouble," he murmured to the glass. "We're all waiting for you."
You covered his hands with yours. "We're ready," you said.
"Not even close," he said, amused and a little awed. "But we will be."
You looked at the grainy little arc on the screen—the curve of a head, the suggestion of a hand—and felt something settle low and certain in your bones.
Home, you thought. Not just a place. A person. People.
The three of you stood there—two grown, one lime-sized—while the house breathed around you, while the cat patrolled like a tiny guard, while a drawing crinkled on the fridge under a magnet shaped like a cow.
Outside, the wind pushed at the eaves. Inside, John's hand spread over your stomach, warm and sure.
And for the first time in a long time, nothing in you felt late. Everything felt right on time.
🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪
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he’s sitting on the couch watching television when you walk into the room after getting back from work.
when you finally reach the couch, you immediately snuggle into him and all he says is, “is that all i get?”
you turn your head to look at him.
“what do you mean?” you ask softly.
“i haven’t seen you all day, don’t you wanna give your daddy a kiss?”
you quirk your eyebrows at him before laughing.
“you’re so gross,” you say as you shove him gently but his gaze stays locked on yours.
you know that look, that stupid smirk that doesn’t leave his face, he’s going to get what he wants because at the end of the day you're still weak for him.
you roll your eyes and kiss him softly, and that’s when he knows he’s in.
he starts sneaking it into casual conversations after that, always referring to himself as your “daddy” and you laugh, brushing him off as just teasing you.
but it gets worse when he starts using it in the bedroom.
you start acting out?
“come on, love. don’t you wanna be good for daddy, hm?” he says in that soft voice and it has you melting.
he knows just how to break you. he knows you love when you talks to you in that gentle voice of his. he also doesn't forget the way you subconsciously lean your cheek into his hand when he strokes it softly.
always so sweet for him.
he also is incredibly patient.
it doesn’t matter how much his pants tighten when he watches you squirm in front of him because you’re too embarrassed to ask him to fuck you. he’s going to wait, however long it takes.
john makes you use your words. if you don’t say anything, you won’t get anything.
"you gonna tell daddy what you want?"
he looks at you expectantly with a smug look on his face as he feeds off your embarrassment.
when you finally give into him, a pitiful "please touch me, daddy" leaving your lips, he smiles cockily before he leans down to kiss you roughly and his hand wraps around your throat holding you in place.
smut !! p in v sex , public sex , degrading ( ish ) , 3rd party finding yall ! enjoy — <3
taking price and ghost fighting and running with it.
some stupid argument about john price not following rules in their little tuesday off base bar games blossoming into two weeks worth of high level pettiness.
snide remarks, shoulder shoving, hell the only time they even looked at each other these days was when they were on the mats. knuckles red and angry as they tore at one another. pride too solid to shake.
which is how you landed beneath simon.
wobbling cries muffled by the thick of his glove. baby doll tee pulled over your swaying tits and showing off a glistening sweaty back to him.
"s-si'! hun—" you hiccup, words slurred beneath the fabric. back stinging with wicked pleasure as he bends you into a mean arch. he watches the fat of your ass ricket with every drive home of his hard pelvis.
"sh, lovie. can' let big man see us 'ere?" he grins, balaclava pulled over his nose. he licks a fat wet strip up your nape. groaning at the musky sent of sex that pours over the room. "fuckin, juusstt like tha',"
prices room.
atop prices desk.
without price.
he curves his hand around your right thigh, smacking harshly at the puffy skin of your ass. you squirm, nails digging into the wooden desk. moans only meeting his covering hand.
he dips his hand down to the slick cream mess between you two. stringy connections of cum pull taught each time he drags out all the way to his tip, just to shove all the way back in as he drags you backwards and shoves his hips forwards. you scream, eyes white as you claw at the hand around your jaw.
he gathers the slick, white ring around his cock creating gummy noises he isnt bothered to muffle.
simon also knows important papers lay just beneath your rocking body. he rubs at your clit messily, juices soppy. you keen, stomach throbbing with the buldge he bullies into you. you smack at his hand, tears brimming your tearline.
everything blurs hot for a second. the slamming of a door doesnt register past your clotted ears.
"wot the fuc—" price barges in. face hot with anger before his eyes slot to yours. he watches as shameful lust swirls in them before he flickers down to the wet connection between you and the lieutenant.
you whimper, would be more embarrassed if you hadnt fucked them both before.
simon plows into your feral, blunt covered nails digging into your cheek.
"gon' cum pretty girl? righ' on the old mans shite?" his fingers move from over your mouth to cupping your jaw firmly. moving your head to arch it back. eyes bearily finding him upside down.
he grins, eyes squinted in pure joy.
looking back up to price as he feels you tighten around him the most deliciously. browns burning with complete intention. youre lost, too worried about your impending explosion of a release to truly care as price watches you melt dumb.
he kisses your temple. feeling you muddle over.
babbles leave swollen lips and brows completely furrowed. "there! t-there, please si'! f-fuc—" with his mean pinch on your clit you choke on your moans, blanking as all crashes down on you.
nails dig into simons skin, blood prickling beneath. raspy screaming moan bouncing between both mens ears.
by the time you blink back to current reality, youre carefully laid over johns ruined desk. damp body smudging papers as they stick to your panting chest.
simon dutifully rubs your hips. smiling at john like the asshole he is.
