Sparring Practise Gone Wrong!!! Gone Sexual!!! Not Clickbait!!!!

'accidental baby daddy soap mactavish' aka the worst man in the world to accidentally knock you up after fucking casually a couple times. there's no such thing as personal space or boundaries or distanced co-parenting with him; he already broke his lease / sold his house. shows up on your doorstep with all his belongings in the world. you wouldn't let the bairn's dad sleep rough, would you? no, the couch won't do, doe, he needs a tempur pedic bed or his sciatica will act up. knocked him flat on his ass last time it flared up, so just let him in the bed. if you're cold, they're cold 'n all that shit.

homemade hair masks for gaz when he comes back from a deployment. especially from dryer places where you know his hair's suffered. aloe vera blended with avocado, egg, honey, and olive oil to help with moisture and protein. maybe a little bit of xantham gum to thicken it up if you want. sitting him down on one of your yoga mats, an old bleached towel on his shoulders as he leans his cheek on your inner thigh while you apply the mask straight to his hair while he watches tv, his shoulders relaxing the longer your fingers work through his hair. eyes fluttering softly as he tries to stay awake at the soft, delicate movements that he only ever receives at home.

How I think the 141 would be with you being pregnant.

It’s the way that I know in my heart of hearts that Price wouldn’t tell his team until after the fact that he got you pregnant and also about the baby already being on your hips. Like??? The men have to suddenly stay at his place for some reason and he minorly forgets about the bomb that’s gonna go off once he gets home since he’s bloodied and bruised with possibly cracked rips. He planned to mention you and his baby to the team in a more controlled setting…oh well… “Here’s my wife(“WIFE?!?”) and my baby(“BABY?!?!”).” None of the men, except Ghost, were pleased to find out so late but they knew it’s because the man’s protective of you.

Gaz is a little secretive about his wife’s pregnancy, the team knows he’s married. He gushes about you nonstop to the guys and proudly wears his ring. But your pregnancy is something he wanted to keep hidden for a bit. He eventually made mention of it and suddenly all three were announcing themselves uncles to their soon to be nephew/niece. Gaz has you and his baby, once the sweetheart is born, as his Lock Screen. The men came like a day after you gave birth to drop off flowers, goodies, food, baby supplies and just about anything they could stuff in the hospital.

Soap is loudly talking about his bonnie wife and barin. The men were there nearly every step of the way of your pregnancy since Soap would go on and on about all the milestones. Even the small ones. The Scot proudly parading his bairn and you up to base once you were rested and probably saying some stupid shit like “I made that. Look at’em, just as bonnie as my wife!” His family is his pride and joy and he’ll be loud about that to anyone that will listen. Spoilers: they have no choice. He’ll yap for hours about you. Price bans your name from being mentioned after he had to sit through 2 long hours about his bonnie wife and wee one.

Ghost tells not a single soul that 1. He’s married. And, 2. His kid has already been born and a year old already. Not even torture can get that info out of him but it’s you that decides his most trusted men deserves to know. You show up to base with your toddler on your hip, Soap and Gaz’s jaws dropped to the floor when you introduced yourself as Mrs. Riley. The absolute chaos that shook the base was astounding. Price had been the one to ask Ghost why he’d mention the two of you now since he understands the most for the need for secrecy. Ghost simply grunted out, “the misses wanted to meet you,” while his toddler sleeps in his arms.

Dumb thing that would not leave my brain

Husband Price is sad. The military fucked him over. No comfort, just angst. Sorry gang

----------------

You don't tie your shoelaces right.

The knots are crooked. One shoe is laced up a little wonkily. Not that you notice.

Price noticed, but he's not going to tell you. He can't stop looking, though. He's trying not to let it get to him, but it's one of his bad days.

He joined the military as a directionless seventeen year old. There was no real weight to the decision when he enlisted. He was just sick of filling out job applications.

And that's when his life started. That's what he always said. Johnathan Price's life started on the first day of basic training. In the past, he said it with a tone of pride

Now, it settles in the back of his mind. A sickening pit weighing behind his eyes.

Lacking a sense of self upon retirement was normal. He was in therapy for that. He was working on a renovation project in your home, a suggestion from his therapist to give him something to do with his hands. But as soon as work finished for the day, John felt hollow again.

His therapist said he was healing. But that didn't make sense to John. the effects of his service were the metaphorical wound, but wounds were isolated. A specific area that has been damaged in a specific way. But that's not what it felt like.

The effects of his job were ingrained into every part of his body. Ground into every pore, every string of connective tissue in his body. There was nothing about him, body or mind that wasn't connected to it.

Like the shoelaces.

A normal husband wouldn't even notice how his spouse ties their shoes.

A normal husband's mind doesn't jump to yearly presentations about mangled feet and ankles, to the list of complications that could spring from improperly laced boots.

A normal husband doesn't instinctually open his mouth to bark an order to tie them right.

A normal husband doesn't have to catch himself and hurriedly clamp his mouth shut before he does.

You and price were going out. A Saturday morning farmer's market. Something to get you out of the house together. He felt a wave of guilt.

This was going to be a sweet moment. He was supposed to enjoy it. To be present, with you. But his mind was elsewhere, consumed.

He marches. No. Walks alongside you, gets in the car, starts it, and drives on autopilot. His mind elsewhere.

God. The military affected him even now. The ability to march along, drive, and even make small talk whilst his mind was wrapped six layers deep. Unawares of his real surroundings was a hard earned skill. What did his therapist call it?

Disassociation. Right. Lots of soldiers do it.

You're talking. He's forcing himself to listen. He hums and responds to your small talk. Something about planting pepper bushes. Sure, love. He'll get on that.

You laugh, the unexpected reaction pulls him out of his mind. He glances over at you, confused, before fixing his eyes back on the road.

"What's so funny?"

You giggle, and he could feel your gaze on him

"You have this silly way of talking. You start a sentence practically shouting and quiet down to a normal volume as you talk. It's just a little funny."

Price furrowed his brow. His mind turned inside out again.

He was aware of that. Nobody had ever commented, though. Not even his nitpicky therapist.

He naturally spoke loudly. yet another example of his old job snaking into every part of his life.

For most of his life, he had to shout, loud and clear, to be heard. Whether it be to be heard over the roar of helicopter blades, to come through clearly through radio, or to be heard by his coworkers, whose hearing had degraded over years in the field.

But it's been two years since he's been in the field. He's been living in a quiet neighborhood. The loudest thing he encounters on a daily basis is a barking dog down the street. There's nothing to dampen his speaking voice now.

"John?"

His eyes snap up. He hadn't responded. Whoops.

"Sorry, love. 'Didn't notice I do that. I'll quiet down."

You say something else, maybe telling him it's okay. Maybe telling him you think it's cute. But he's consumed again.

John feels selfish.

He takes a smooth, controlled turn, forcing his face to relax. The GPS says ten minutes until he reaches the farmers market.

It's selfish of him to stay married to you. John didn't know how to be a man. Let alone a husband. He didn't know how to have a friend. Let alone a lover.

If he catches you doing something risky, the protective fear that shoots through him makes it impossible to dampen the urge to shout. He hates that. He hates that his first reaction to anxiety, to fear for your safety, is to bark an order at you. Like a soldier.

He coveted you softness. Your lack of involvement in the military. He hated that he couldn't be soft, too. He wanted to chastise you softly for accidentally pointing his nailgun at your feet. He wanted to laugh and coo at you to get down when he caught you climbing on an old chair to reach a shelf in the laundry room.

But he reacted to every shred of danger like your life was on the line. Like the lit candle dangerously close to your sleeve was going to put your name on a casualty report.

He can never meet your scared gaze after those moments, his voice still ringing in the air. He always takes the cowards way out and turns to walk away instead.

He pops open the center console and pulls out a tissue, handing it to you before he even registered you had sneezed. A moment of warmth graces his cheeks at the sound of you thanking him.

The GPS says five minutes. He tells you you're arriving soon. He placidly tells you to remind him to look for seeds for the pepper bushes you wanted. Already building a shopping list for the materials to build raised garden boxes to put them in.

That pacifies his guilt slightly. He loves you. He loves you like he's starving. He wants what's best for you. And he's terrified that what's best for you, isn't him. He banishes that thought by doing everything he can for you.

Like a barn cat, he dropped offerings at your feet in hopes you'll understand his ornery way of loving you.

Out of the car. Kiss on the cheek. Into the crowd. He never stopped being a soldier.

Those candles are expensive, you're so right.

He doesn't feel human.

Pepper shoots instead of seeds. He'll keep an eye out.

Is he human? He's lived a life so far removed from how humans are meant to act.

That lady was shoving people. Good job keeping your cool darling.

No. He is unrecognizable to his own species.

He kisses you on the cheekbone. He wonders if you know your husband isnt truly human.

You go home. He makes an excuse about a project that needs work before it gets dark.

John feels like a coward.

(simon riley x f!reader, same rank!)

violence, cod inaccuracies, reader is a badass

simon riley never calls you baby

until he does.

you tell him it has to stay hidden. you can't be known as "the girl fucking the lieutenant", no matter if you're the same rank as him, the same sweat and tears put into the job. it scares you, the thought of losing decades of hard work over some stupid fling with a man they call ghost. a man who brings you tea on your sick days, a man with soft eyes and a listening ear, the only man who's ever brought you to orgasm. the push and pull of your autonomy and your love is ever growing, that bone deep fear rooted in your marrow.

simon's scared too. scared of waking up and it's all a dream. scared that his enemies will find out, scared that it'll show he isn't so dead after all. he's been a rotting thing on earth for nearly four decades and he's comfortable with it; no matter how alive you make him feel. his hand on your waist feels right, but he can't bring his heart into the light.

so you call each other "lieutenant." maybe "riley" when he pisses you off, just to get under his skin. "dove" is rare, but it warms you up just the same, gives you an unbidden vision of hot chocolate and snow days. mainly its "l.t.", remnant of johnny, the respect and friendliness woven together sweetly. you murmured "babe" to him once, in the early morning when he sneaks out, and felt his shoulders bunch, the weight of it too much to bear. that was the end of pet names, or so you thought.

--

it's a foggy day on what becomes the worst night of your life. the mission is at a standstill, the intel outdated. you were supposed to be taking out a terrorist organization, blowing up the base of their operations, but instead the building is damp and abandoned, echoes of life the only sign they were here. price is in your ear, telling you to clear one last room and retreat, simon already on his way out. you nudge your way into the room with caution, years of practiced steps coming to you on instinct. for some reason, you don't catch the glint of a stranger's eye in a hidden corner. you don't see the rope in his hands, the knife between his teeth. the next thing you see is the floor, fog seeping over concrete as rough hands gag you and mutter promises of ungodly harm.

something's wrong. "price." simon murmurs soft and low, crossing out of the building to the tree cover below. "where is she? s'pposed t' be out by now." he's scanning the building through his scope, looking for that figure he knows so well, could find blind. "copy. 'er tracker says she's still in the buildin'. let's-" there's a piercing scream in the air. the ravens take flight from the trees. dark wings, dark words. "ghost-" "goin' in." a sigh on the other end. he can practically feel price's hesistancy but he doesn't care, heavy feet already moving back into the building. "you're goin' in blind, radar's jus' gone out." he swears under his breath, clearing hallway after hallway as the building falls back into silence. just as he comes upon a 4-way split, you scream again, the sound far away and to his left. "'m comin' dove, hold on." there's no gunfire, no sounds of fight. it's so eerie he thinks he might have dreamed it, his worst nightmare come true. his instincts lead the way, some knowledge of your location hidden in his blood. pop. finally a gunshot, and if he squints hard, he tries to imagine it being from your weapon. he's close, nostrils expanding at the scent of you, memorized even without your favored perfume.

there were four of them. you still can't believe you missed them, the thought in the back of your head as you fight for your life. scrambling from the rope one tries to force on you, becoming an eel as you slip out of their grasps. this is what you do, what you're trained for. until someone stomps down hard on your ankle, the force of it cracking straight through. you scream, can't help it, searing pain blinding your vision for precious seconds. they take advantage of it, gloved hands tying your own behind your back in a tight knot. you can't reach your comms so you scream again, this one out of frustration, desperation that your team, that simon, might not find you.

the big one shuts you up with a hand to your throat, a bruising grip that leaves you unable to speak. they aren't well trained, fumbling hands and shaky grips, and you're finally able to reach your holster, shooting the first between the eyes before you can even glimpse his face. now you're in your element, adrenaline covering the pain of your ankle as you fight back, shooting one after the other, digging out your knife for close combat. it's over in a blink, the men no match for your skills, and once you double check they're dead, you collapse in the corner, the pain of your ankle roaring. that's when you hear it.

"baby?" it's him (but it can't be). he's never called you that. you pretend not to see when he whispers it into your neck as you feign sleep, when he murmurs it in a grunt as he's deep in your cunt. he's never said it to your face. "baby!" it's definitely him, that gruff voice cutting across the fog. you whine out of frustration, your throat too sore from your attacker to call out. instead, you limp to the door, almost running into simon as he comes crashing into your own personal hell. he sweeps you into his arms and you let him, grabbing his shoulders to make sure he's real.

"y' hurt?" he takes a look around the room, at the carnage in your wake. "my brave girl." you're sobbing, unsure whether its from frustration or relief. still can't believe you got caught, feeling like such a stereotype to have your knight in shining armor rescue you. "handled them all y'rself, hm, baby?" he's all sweetness and it hurts, seeing his eyes swell in pride as he takes in the four dead men, gunshots and a knife sticking out of one's eye. "why- why are you calling me that, simon?" he's ushering you out, your arm around his neck as you limp towards freedom. "proud of you." he says it simply, eyes trained on potential threats, not watching your reaction.

"aye, i told you, gaz. ye owe me a drink." soap's voice crackles through the comms. they were on. which meant your team heard the whole thing, heard simon practically claim you, knew you were together, thought you were a slu- "she's too good for him. i don't believe it." gaz's voice replied. "bugger off." simon grumbled into the mic, the sounds of them snickering loud and clear. "good?" he turned back at you, stopping you before you approached the clearing where your team waited. his eyes told you something different, that he'd walk out of here right now if you wanted. the cock of his head meant he'd follow you anywhere, live off the lamb for decades if you wanted. that was all you needed to know. you nodded and pushed forward. "yeah, i'm good, baby."

--

this is SO CRINGE but it's been in my drafts forever and needed to start paying rent

Uhm maybe this is too evil but. I’m thinking about getting a divorce from Price. It’s not angry and it’s not contested— in fact, it’s him who makes the suggestion.

You’ve been trying for a baby for years, with no results. And it’s put a strain on you both. Broken the love you shared. You can’t help but feel guilty— you wanted to have a child, but family was his dream. And you couldn’t give it to him. Blaming yourself just widened the divide wedging between you.

He insists you take the house. You’re the one who tried so hard for so long to make it home. Spent your time there alone when he was deployed. You sell it— not able to bring yourself to face the empty nursery, no matter how many coats of fresh paint it had.

Simon helped you move. As John’s right hand, it was almost like he was still with you. And it’s true— John had asked Simon to make sure you were alright. That you’d had everything you needed. But Simon would’ve done that whether he’d asked or not. He’d always been fond of you. Spent holidays with you both, helped you with Christmas dinners. He knew from the moment he met you why John had fallen in love with you. You just made it so easy.

He keeps visiting. Helping you unpack. Set things up. Do little fixes John used to take care of for you. Taking you out places so you don’t sit in the grief for too long.

It doesn’t take long for something to develop. Maybe something had always been there, like a dormant little seed in cold winter soil, waiting for a spring. It comes to a head right before he ships out for a deployment. The night after you sleep together for the first time is the best night’s rest you’ve had since the separation.

But a few weeks later, you don’t feel so well.

And two little lines look back at you from a tiny screen as you grip the bathroom sink to keep your balance.

Thinking about Simon Riley standing on a bridge in the dead of night on Christmas Eve trying to get the energy to jump off. Snow falling down and dampening all the sounds around him.

All the sounds except the crunching of boots as someone approaches, someone bundled up to the gills in their coat and scarf (but no hat on to cover the ridiculous haircut that makes them look years younger, as if the cherry red of their nose didn’t do that already).

“Planning on takin’ a swim?”

“No. Hoping I sink.”

“Big lad like you very well might.”

“Ta.”

“Come back to mine,” he says. “Sleep on it.”

“Always hit on men tryin’ to die?”

“They’re usually the only ones desperate enough to say yes. Got a clean couch and a cup of coffee in it fer ye.”

“Prefer tea.”

“I’m walking away then!”

A snort. He sticks out a hand, fingers stiff and pale from the cold. No gloves. Cautiously says: “Name’s Simon.”

“John.”

“You won’t try to stop me in the morning?”

“No promises.”

“Lead the way to this couch then, Johnny.”

The way soap would lose his goddamned mind if you told him he had boyfriend dick

He’s already like 1% away from complete thoughtless ecstasy when he gets to watch you ride him, and then?

“God, you have such a boyfriend dick— I could take it every day, it fits so right—“

And like, you’re not dating. But he sure is looking at rings anyways.

I just know its a pain to get that face paint off…🥲💀