Dad!Simon thoughts for today :D He’s a girl dad, your honor.
With the mouth on that man, Simon Riley definitely has the absolute sassiest little toddler. She’s only three and hardly goes up to his thigh but she will straight up tell him no. It’s a forceful “no”, too, direct and intense, just like her dad. It's even more ridiculous, too, because she's picked up a bit on his accent. Honestly, she’s a delight for you, normally agreeing with a sweet little “yes, mama!” if you tell her it’s time for bed or that she needs to eat just a few more vegetables but her dad does not get the same sweet temperament all of the time.
You’re on the carpeted floor of her bedroom with photo albums sprawled about, trying to tire out your toddler before bed by showing her your wedding pictures. She’s tired of all the many picture books you and Simon normally read her. Besides, she loves pressing her tiny fingers to the images, squealing with delight as you point out everyone in the images. “See, baby? There’s mama, and your daddy, and here’s your Uncle Johnny, too.”
“Mama, so pretty!” She admires the photographs of you in white the most, tracing her fingers over the fabric of your dress as if to feel it through the image.
When Simon tries to join in, though, his eyes also lingering on the solo images of you in your dress, he doesn’t get the same praise you do. “Is daddy not pretty, too-?” Before he can even complete the playful question in that gruff voice of his, your daughter is sending him a glare.
“Shhh! Don’t talk!” She plops herself into his lap, her little form curled up against him. Her words are blunt and direct in the way only kids can be.
You have to hold back a laugh as Simon looks down at her in astonishment. He pokes her side, tickling her plush little tummy. “It’s like tha’, huh? I can’t talk but you can use me as a chair? You’ve been spendin’ too much time with your Uncle Johnny. Spoiled thing, you are.” Her shrill giggles fill the room as she wiggles in his lap.
“You sure that sass is not from you, my love?” You ask with an amused raise of your brows.
Simon is extremely observant, noticing the tiniest changes in someone's behavior. So it doesn't come off as a surprise when he sees that something is off with his little girl.
While Simon was helping you prepare for supper, he decided to take a peek at the living room because his daughter had just been a tad bit too quiet this whole time.
He sees her there, sitting by the warmth of the fireplace that enveloped around her like the comforting arms of her mother that was making her daughter's favorite dish in the kitchen right over in the next room. She was just staring at the presents under the bright Christmas tree, she didn't even look like she wanted to open them.
Simon approaches her carefully, making his presence known as not to startle her. Her eyes already looked glossy, scaring her would be the last thing he wanted.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Simon asks gently, straight to the point as he places a comforting hand on her back. She doesn't sob, only looks up at him with a disappointed expression.
"Daddy...is it true that Santa isn't real?" She questions with a curious yet obviously heartbroken tone. Simon pauses, not expecting the problem to be something as simple as this. Okay, well maybe it wasn't because it took Simon a good minute to think of what to say.
He chooses to tell her the truth. Simon knew she might get disappointed, even cry a little. But it's normal, she'd find out eventually and this was a good time for it to happen.
"I'm sorry, sweetie..But Santa isn't real, yeah? That doesn't mean the magic of Christmas is going to go away anytime soon though, mummy and daddy are going to make it special for you every single year." When the words leave Simon's mouth, he was bracing himself to see his precious little girl cry.
Yet he was only met with interest. "So that means...mommy and daddy are like Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus?" She asks, a new glimmer in her eyes starting to sparkle. It certainly took Simon aback since it wasn't what he expected.
He lets out a hearty chuckle, picking her up and walking to bring her over to the kitchen. "You could say it like that, sweets. Now, let's go help your mum make the cookies like the cheeky elf you are."
a/n: late merry xmas LOL!! this was rushed so sorry and they dont call em Santa right its father Xmas oh wrll im lazy
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.”
Simon Riley who hates his dad more and more every day after you have a child together. Especially if it's a little boy. Because Simon can see himself (and Tommy) in your son, and will never be able to understand how anyone can abuse their children.
Simon Riley who would move heaven and earth for your son, if it'd make the little boy happy. He absolutely hates seeing your son cry, and going to the store is a losing battle for Simon's bank account.
Just Simon Riley who promised himself, and more importantly you and your son, that he'd never be like his own father. That he'd be better, kinder, loving. He's the kind of father he needed growing up, and he's the perfect father for your kids.
A/n: GUYS OMG, I know it's been 1 month and a little more since my last official work. I've been procrastinating on this for so long since I only have less than a week till school again.. Also everyone I love on this app is just disappearing, like @ghost-cyphera just deleted her account 4 days ago and I got the notif but didn't see it in time, I didn't even get to say goodbye. Just wanted to apologize to you guys after being gone for so long as well. Also, another villain!Ghost drabble? 👀
Finding it difficult to walk was one of the least things you've suspected you'd be concerned of upon conceiving, always needing your handmaiden's help in such a mundane task was shameful to say the least but your husband insisted.
If it hadn't been the hand maiden then it would've been him instead, you couldn't keep him from his duties from the kingdom as he carried even yours. Wanting you to turn your attention to the health of the babe growing in you and especially yourself..
"My lady.." you were pulled out of your thoughts by the voice of your handmaiden. You took in a breath from the cool air that blew on your face as you stood by the stone railing..
"Yes, Leticia?" You turned to her..
"The prince consort has requested your company.." Leticia announced, you nod as you removed your hand from the cold stone. You glanced once more to the people of your kingdom, going about their day and life before gently lifting yourself off from leaning on the stone.
Leticia offered you her arm to help you walk more efficiently..
...
"You sent for me..?" You asked your husband, he was sat and signing another set of documents and scrolls. You closed the door, palms gently pushing till you heard it click.
"No, I told them to announce my arrival to you. How dare they exert my wife by giving her false instructions.." he huffed to which you laughed. He wouldn't do anything violent about it, as he so usually does with staff that don't comply but he knew it'd upset you if anything gory were to happen to them.
"I am quite alright, I need to move around too. It's proven to be good for our child." You said, sitting next to the graciously comfortable chair next to his working desk that he had someone make for you.
You felt relief from the pressure previously on your back, hand on the bump of your stomach and with that a sigh came from your lips. Peacefully watching your husband, the sound of the satisfying scratching of the quill on the crisp papers.
You felt his hand grasp yours, he pulled it, lips resting on the back. His affection made your heart beat faster and he felt it, the pad of his index finger on your wrist. The thumping made him chuckle as you smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder.
"You should rest for a while, my love. You'd work yourself to sickness at this point." You kiss his cheek softly. He put his quill down, "If that's my wife wants.." he said.
He wrapped his arm around you, the other hand placed on your baby bump. His thumb gently rubbing, you jolted a bit feeling a strong kick..
It made you groan, how restless the rascal is. Your husband adjusted his hand to feel the next kick.. he'd swear it was a girl, not that he'd care for that sort of thing. He'd kill for them either way, especially for you. He could stare at you all day, swollen with his child.
How glowing you looked wrapped in the finest silk and the gold and jewels in your hair and body clicking upon contact with another piece, he wished he could tell you how utterly speechless you'd leave each man by just walking passed them but to him no word is enough to describe you.
At least he could spend these small intimate moments with just you and you alone, free of the world for even just a few minutes as he needed a break from the work he very much was eager to do to be able to receive praise from his wife..
You finished night chores in the kitchen after dinner and Simon was laying in bed “enjoying” Manchester match alone, since you were too loud 🙄
Once you get in bed too you toke a look at the screen.
“Unlucky one?” You say softly sitting next to him, he was grumpy, so you kissed him.
He signed not kissing you back, so you give him two more but he leans his head on the side ignoring you.
“C’mon the match is over.”
“No, it’s not. 3 minutes left.” He says pushing your head out of the way.
You kissed him again and again and then again, leaving sweet pecks on his lips. The match was over and he was listening to the after match conference.
“So you’re into this old man more than me? Give me one kiss!” He sighed and bought his lazy hand behind your head pulling you down for a short stamp.
“One more…” You say leaning closer and he kisses you back.
“A bit more…” as you said that he pulls you in a passionate kiss, a slow one.
After you broke the kiss and try to sit back like before, he grabs your arm pulling you down next to him kissing you a few times as he slowly positions himself on top of you.
“Simon it’s already 11:00 pm- Mhh~” he cuts you off.
“Now you got me in the mood, so shut up” he said with his nose against yours looking into your loving eyes before kissing you passionately.
Thinking about Ghost helping you out when your breastmilk is clogged 🥴
I mean, he was totally obsessed with your chest before the baby, before you were even pregnant, but now? With your tits all swollen with milk, your nipples puffy constantly? Oh, he's completely crazy for you.
He'd be a little jealous of the baby. They get to have their lips on your pretty tits all the time, why can't he? He almost creams his pants just from you asking him all shyly to help you with your milk because it's backed up and you're sore.
You're not getting him off you after that. His head is constantly under your shirt, lips wrapped around your nipple and his hand pawing at your tits, squeezing and squishing them lightly as he tries to coax the milk out, hoping and praying that he'll get to taste some.
He'd slobber all over your chest, saliva spilling down as he moans and sucks roughly on your perky, sensitive nipples.
"Mmh, come on, sweetheart. Let me taste it, be a good girl." He'd mumble, letting out a loud, lust-filled groan as he felt a small but steady trickle of your milk spilling into his mouth.
warings: fem!reader (referred as mommy), probably spelling mistakes (i wrote this in class), mentions of war, blood and violence.
your daughter's light steps follow quickly your husband's, walking around the house, as she takes quick notes on her fluffy notebook, using the pink pen with feathers Soap gifted her on his last visit home.
"so, daddy." her strong british accent makes you laugh. "what would you say it's the best part of your work?"
she couldn't shut up when coming back from school. with her homework being interviewing her hero, she didn't think twice when she chose her dad. he sighs and sits on the couch, a mug of coffee hanging from his big hands. he hasn't been home for long. his last mission finished some days ago, and he has been trying to adapt himself to the safness of your shared house again. it's always hard after deployments, but, at the same time, it's the only thought that lets him move and shot and end his mission. he smiles sweetly when your kid climbs to his lap, sitting between her dad's big arms. he rests his back against the couch, letting her rest on his chest.
"the best part? when it's done. and well done." he murmurs. she takes notes quickly, probably with a lot of ortographic mistakes. "and when all my comrades are safe." she takes note of that too.
"like uncle Soap?" she asks.
"specially uncle Soap." he agrees.
you observe them while she writes on her notebook. the same cold, clear eyes, the same untamed blonde hair. your daughter is an exact copy of the intimidating soldier, but armed with a pink, fluffy pen. your husband lets his eyes close, his breath sharing pace with your daughter's. "daddy, c'mon, i need this for tomorrow!" he opens one eye, looking at her.
"shoot." his voice sounds raspy, due to tiredness, but you know he won't let himself sleep until his girl gets her homework done.
"what's the hardest part of your work?" that's a tricky question. she's too young to understand what his work really means. how much pressure he has. how many comrades he lost. how many things no one should ever witness he saw. he thinks, drinking a sip from his cup, before speaking.
"being far from home." he answers. she takes notes again.
"because you miss me and mommy?" she asks. he nods softly, taking a look at her papers, and probably all the drawings she added to his answers.
he wasn't sure about having a kid. being a soldier in active? no way. he was scared to hold her, scared to let his hands -those who shot incontable people- touch something so pure and made of love. he was scared his scars would make her cry, he was scared she would be ashamed of his work, of his life. but it was his dream. return to a family.
you remember clearly the first time he hold her. tears running down his cheeks and the subtle trembling on a man trained to be stable.
"alright, daddy. who's your favorite coworker?" he snorts before messing her hair.
"you know that, princess." he hums. she nods, quickly writing the name of her favorite uncle. you know Soap and your husband are close from missions ago, even before he met you in that humanitarian mission. he thinks often about that day, when your head rests on his arm and your face is buried on his neck, sleeping soundly against his warmth. he was so lucky -he even thanked the asshole that shot him-. dizzy, bleeding out, and alone. he found your tent by chance, or by miracle. a nurse so close to the conflict area was a problem, definitely, but you saved his life. you, not scared of his mask, of his cold tone, of his blood-stained hands. you, who took the bullet out carefully, who tenderly disinfected the wound, who softly bandaged it. you saved him. not once, but twice. that day, you saved the soldier. when you married him, you saved the man.
you let him put his shields down. you made him laugh, you made him feel like he doesn't need his mask. you caressed every scar of his body until he forgot all the trauma hiding under them. you showed him tenderness, and he learnt from it, caressing your body with care, kissing every inch of skin with love. and you gave him a daughter. his precious daughter.
"ok, daddy. last question." she looks at him in the eyes, blue against blue. he raises a brow. "do you like your work?"
you see conflict in his eyes. he likes helping people, but he doesn't enjoy killing. his eyes get dense, troubled with memories, with wars and blood, with death. you daughter searches his eyes. "i think it's a cool work, but i would like daddy to be home everyday."
"i would also love to be home everyday, princess." he takes a look at you, your presence almost ethereal. he palms the seat next to him, and you join your little family. he kisses your head when you let your body rest against his. "soon."
