Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.
They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.
So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."
John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"
"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.
"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.
"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."
The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.
Who picks the content? Who commands you to send them exactly what they want? Do they want videos? Pictures? A live feed? Are they desperate and needy? Do they beg for you? It's all of the above.
requested by @bythegraceofathena
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 + Kate Laswell x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: masturbation, mutual masturbation, sexual content, long-distance sex, begging, dildo, established relationship
Word Count: 1.5k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
A hot shower is all John needs.
The video calls are great when he’s able. Time, and the sensitivity of the mission sometimes don’t permit contact. Those are the hardest for John. You’re left worrying about him, and John hates it when you worry, especially now when you’re newly pregnant.
For the days when he’s missing you, craving your hands and body, there’s a hot shower, and the pictures. He stores them in a clear, water-proof bag to protect them. Otherwise, they’re tucked close, hidden in his uniform over his heart along with milder photos of his family.
These pictures are for his eyes only. Ones you gladly took. John stares at them now, one forearm resting against the stone wall, the bag clenched in his fist. His other hand palms himself, stroking in a steady rhythm, his imagination running wild, fantasy after fantasy devolving by the eroticism of the photographs.
The first photo is of you on your knees and between John’s legs. You’re sucking him off, eyes watery, with John’s hand cradling the back of your head. The second is you taking him from behind. The third is a close shot of your breasts. The fourth is you on your back, legs up in the air and wide, a teasing smile on your lips as John penetrates you.
His fist moves faster, the tension building low in his back, balls tightening with the anticipation of release. Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, John’s breath quickens, needy grunts threatening to burst from him as his eyelids flutter, nearing his end.
Twist of a wrist. A quick glance at a photo. And John is done.
Stifling his moan with his arm, John ejaculates onto the wall.
“Captain!”
John’s head jerks up. It’s Soap.
“What!” he barks.
“You’re using all the hot water!”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle snuggles down into his makeshift bed. It’s not a cot, or even a bed roll. It’s a threadbare sleeping bag with a small flap for the pillow. The safehouse is quiet except for Captain Price’s snoring. Simon is on watch. Every few minutes, Kyle hears the man’s muted footsteps on the roof.
Turning onto his side, and away from his snoozing brothers, he quietly retrieves the photographs from a small pocket within his jacket. These he keeps close and away from prying eyes. Due to the sensitivity of their missions, how dangerous they can be, they’re always being advised not to keep any personal belongings that might identify him or those he cares about.
These photos cannot be traced. Coming from an old Polaroid camera, Kyle specified what you could and couldn’t do. Nothing digital. Nothing that sent for printing elsewhere. Nothing on your personal device. And no face. If the photos were to fall into enemy hands, they’d have no face to match. They can assume and speculate, but they’d never know, even if they ripped him apart attempting to find out.
Each photo has the same black backdrop. No hint at where you took them or when. The only source of light is the flash from the camera. All the pictures are of you, naked, posed in various positions, some more tasteful than others. Those others are straight filth, and Kyle adores those the best.
As he masturbates in the dark, keeping quiet as to not disturb the others, Kyle uses those graphic images to fall into memory, of all the times he took you that way. He imagines your sounds and tells, the ecstasy on your face, the words you say and those you keep to yourself.
Alone and in the dark, Kyle dreams of you.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Prepared? No.
For Johnny, it’s only begging, and even that is a bit of a game. The rest is up to you, leaving him in heated anticipation, a surprise that he can savor until Johnny sees you again.
“Please,” he begs, voice gruff and thick.
To Johnny, it’s just his voice, but you’ve commented on how his accent thickens, more pronounced than it usually is. Always when he’s angry or turned on. Never in between.
Slowly spreading your legs, you show off what Johnny’s been begging for. Johnny’s mouth waters. If this damn tablet wasn’t used by others he’d lick the screen.
“Closer. Please, love. Closer.”
You scoot forward, keeping your legs propped and knees bent. “Like this?” as if you have no idea what Johnny wants.
“Just like that,” he praises.
After Simon had his time with his wife, he found Johnny, told him Price had set up a secure channel for them to call home. Johnny jumped on it before Simon finished talking, rushing with the urge to see you after being separated for so long. Weeks don’t seem that hard at first, but as the mission trudges on, it eats away at you, leaving you aching for those you care about most.
“Do you want me to touch myself, Johnny?”
He bites down on his lip, shoving down a groan. This is fucking excruciating. Seeing you but not able to touch, to feel your warmth, your softness. Bodies pressed closed. Slick and hot and sweat-drenched.
“Please,” he repeats. Johnny will beg forever.
Hand sliding between and down, you make a v with two fingers, opening yourself wide to tease your opening and then up to the place Johnny loves to suckle on.
Control is slipping away.
Fuck it, he thinks, openly masturbating while you do the same.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
It’s Simon, a small desk, and a chair. On the desk is a video stream, live and unfiltered, secured on a private channel, encrypted. Price could at least do that for him. What the man can’t do is bring you here in person or send Simon back to you. Not until the mission is complete, or it’s failed.
Wired headphones are plugged into the laptop in front of him. Noises you make are for his ears alone, it’s Simon’s voice that might be caught, but Price promised he’d keep the area clear.
You deserve this, Simon. I know you miss her.
Leaning forward, Simon places a forearm on the table. The other arm is below the desk, undoing the front of his pants, reaching in to release his erection. Before him, you’re on hands and knees, front end pressed downward, looking over your shoulder at Simon. He has a clear view of your pussy, how glossy and slick it us. Between your spread legs is a dildo. Custom made in the size and shape of his dick.
“Sit on it,” growls Simon.
These words and the ones that follow are commands. You adhere to them all.
Your ass comes down, the dildo disappearing as your pussy stretches around it, taking more until you’re fully seated.
Casually, Simon sits back in the chair, satisfied, jerking himself as you begin to bounce on the dildo.
“I miss you, Simon,” you moan as you grind down on it.
“Miss you, too, dove,” he groans, gaze glued to where you’re impaled, picturing himself there and not a replica.
Simon is close, nearing his end. “Squeeze it,” he commands.
You reach back, squeezing the fake balls, gasping as you lift, bending forward. It takes a second, and then the white appears, blooming before dripping out.
Kate Laswell
There are perks to Laswell’s position. Privacy, where there is none, the foremost.
On the table in front of her is a small tablet perched on a stand, the screen facing Kate. Not too bright to blind her but not soft enough that she can’t see you, her gorgeous wife, on the other side.
“Can I open it?” you ask, your voice crackling slightly through the headphones.
Privacy. The best perk, which is why Kate can do this at all, be in this room without disturbance, to access you without other eyes peeking. This is for her, and for you, alone.
In your hands is a wrapped box, not much larger than a shoe box. This is the first of five, with five planned meetings between now and when Kate comes home. She might miss one but that’s the downside of her work.
Kate smiles at your excitement. “Of course. It’s for you.”
A small, amused smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth as you open the box. You freeze, and for a moment, Kate believes the connection is lost.
“Kate,” you finally say, looking up. “This is…”
“Put it on,” encourages Kate.
Remaining on screen, you slowly undress, putting on the outfit Kate picked for you. Simple, clean lines tailored to your exact measurements, accentuating the beauty that’s already there.
“I love you,” Kate murmurs.
You playfully turn one way then the other, giving Kate a clear view. “I wear this next time? When I open the second gift?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s in it?”
“No,” laughs Kate. “And no peeking.”
“Fine,” you huff, bringing your face close to the screen.
i'm so happy to get to share this with all of you. that spread is gonna be may and aug's patron post cards, sub between now and july 31 to get simon's half.
