#tf 141

So he goes to his most trusted lieutenant, asking for help.

That’s how ghost ends up holding your back against his chest while your boyfriend John is settled in between your legs.

“Look, see that Captain?” Ghosts fingers barely brush your clit, pulling the hood back. “You’re gonna need to show this part some extra love. Kiss it, suck it, lick it, hell, even spit on it.”

Price stares at your pussy with infatuation, drooling at the sight of you being so shy in his best man’s arms. He can feel your legs trembling as they drape over his shoulders.

You immediately let out a soft gasp as prices lips tenderly suck your aching clit.

Now price is a quick learner, and it doesn’t take him long to find just what makes you tick- you make it so easy with your adorable reactions after all.

You’re squirming, panting, whining- “shh shhh shhh,” muses ghost from behind, muscular arms holding you back. “Don’t make it harder for the man.”

He sets you straight with a decent slap to your right tit. You yelp, earning a low chuckle from the man. “Sorry, doll. Force of habit.”

Ghosts eyes trail down your body to where his captain is vigorously working his mouth like a starved man. “Doing well, sir. She’s ‘boutta cum.”

Prices tongue does a lovely flick over your clit before engulfing it whole again in his warm mouth. You can’t help yourself as you desperately roll your hips over his chin and beard, increasing the friction.

Ghost holds you tighter against him, hands resting on the underside of your chest as he whispers something only you can hear. “Cmon, baby. Cum for the captain why don’t ya? And after, we can get to the main event.”

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you? You’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

Upon your arrival you greeted everyone accordingly, settling into the barracks. For the rest of your first day Soap kept attempting to get to know you, but hell you were even less talkative than Lt, just nodding along or dryly responding to his questions, your face emotionless for the entire duration of the small talk.

Then, Ghost mutters a single dry comment from the corner of the room and you smirk—fucking smirk, nearly chuckle too.

After that, Soap couldn’t stop noticing the tension between you and his Lieutenant.

The lingering eye contact during briefings. The arguments that felt too personal. The way he would stand just a little too close beside you during training, gloved hand brushing your shoulder as he corrected your stance.

“You’re overcompensating,” Ghost said one afternoon behind the shooting range.

“I’m adjusting for wind.”

“You’re adjusting badly.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Funny coming from someone who missed center twice.”

Soap felt like he was interrupting something with the way the two of you stared each other down like the rest of the world had vanished.

Later that night, he cornered Ghost near the armory.

“What's going on between ya too?”

Ghost didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle. “Nothing.”

“Oh, piss off,” Soap scoffed. “It’s bloody obvious.”

Ghost reassembled the magazine with slow, deliberate movements. “You imaginin’ things.”

“I’m telling you, Lt, every time she walks into a room, you both look ready to either kill each other or tear each other’s clothes off.”

That finally earned him a glare, “Drop it, Johnny.”

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

And then there’s pounding footsteps behind you, a hand snatching the back of your jacket, and suddenly you’re yanked off your feet and hauled backwards against a stranger’s chest. There’s a gun jammed up under your chin and some asshole is kicking at your dog.

Your dog- your rescue dog- bolts, leash slipping from your fingers, and the blind panic that hits you has nothing to do with the weapon under your jaw or the group of very armed men who suddenly appear in front of you barking orders.

“Put the gun down!”

“Let them go!”

“Hands where I can see them!”

There are like, a plethora of different voices shouting, guns raised, tension sky high, and all your brain can process is: oh my god this is going to set him back so bad in his recovery.

You’re squirming in this guy’s grip, not because of the gun, but because you are furious. that’s your baby. your abused, soft-eyed, loud-noises-are-still-scary baby.

The shouting ramps up, your annoyance ramps up with it, and finally you just snap, throw your head back and slam your skull into your kidnapper’s nose.

He screeches, his arm jerks, there’s a deafening crack of gunfire from someone in front of you, and a hot spray of blood hits your face as the guy drops. You slip in it, hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

And all you can think is: oh my god my dog is definitely freaking the fuck out somewhere.

You’re probably a little in shock because your survival instincts are nonexistent. instead of crawling for cover, you suck in a breath and start yelling at the top of your lungs. “GHOST! GHOST, COME HERE, BOY! IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE SAFE! MOMMY’S OKAY!”

The armed men in front of you actually jerk back in surprise.

You scramble to your feet, still wobbling, spinning in circles as you cup your hands around your mouth.

“GHOST! COME HERE, BABY! IT’S OKAY, SWEETHEART, YOU’RE SAFE, MOMMY’S RIGHT HERE! ”

“Uh… Ghost?” one of the men asks carefully.

You whirl toward him, wild eyed. “Yeah, that’s my fucking dog. My good boy who has been doing so well in his recovery from being an abuse victim, and now his progress is probably going to backslide because some jackass decided to play hostage taker- GHOST! C’MERE MY WITTLE BABY BOY, MOMMY WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU- ”

Three of the soldiers are doing that nervous side eye thing at the fourth one- a hulking mountain of a guy in a skull mask- who has gone absolutely, completely still with a very real, very noticeable bulge forming in his cargo pants.

You, meanwhile, are still cupping your hands and cooing into the empty street:

shut up my show is on (show is me thinking….) anyway ex army! reader who is also simon’s sweet wife …

thinking about how silent simon riley is on base, how he barely talks about his life back at home. he’s so menacing, cruel, he trains recruits like there’s no tomorrow. he’s changed since “roach” was decommissioned, since the 141 became more prolific.

the new recruits tentatively speak about him and roach, speak about how they were inseparable.

“you really think the ghost could like someone?” a recruit asks, in the mess hall, eating his rice pudding.

“think he could have loved them.” the other recruit says, “heard when roach died his heart was broken.”

and that’s that. he was a cruel man that’d lost too much. his own family, his partner. and now he was cruel and icy to everyone else.

that is until one day someone comes to the base’s reception, with a lunchbox in her hands. you’re standing there, your hair, that barely reaches your shoulders. you’ve got a large lunchbox in your hands, and you give a small smile to the receptionist as you give your ID card to be scanned. 

you’re sweet, wearing a cutesy summer top and a pair of cargo trousers, a right fit for the summer. 

you walk down the halls, with ease, mouthing 174 over and over again until you find simon’s office, and it’s fucking empty. he’s working again, through lunchtime, and obviously won’t eat until he comes back home to you for dinner.

 he’s sparring with the newbies in the gym, and you knock on the door. you swear you hear the recruits thinking he’s shout at you, but he drops everything he’s doing to rush to you.

“love,” he says, “you alright?” his hands pat your head and back down, and you shake your head. but still he insists, “you sure?”

“i’m sure sweetheart.” you shake your head, and then hand him the lunchbox. “please eat your greens lieutenant.” you blush, before putting the box in his hands.

he waves the recruits off, “take lunch off, we’ll be back in the afternoon.” and you just shake your head. 

“i swear she looks familiar.” a recruit says, “like i’ve seen photos of her around.”

simon isn’t so stupid to carry photos of you in his office. but there is a photo of his squadron in the early days. he’s near the back of the photo, tall and menacing, and two rows down you’re there too, grinning with your sparkling eyes. 

He´d already made you cum with his mouth, fucked you for over an hour until he came inside you. And when you thought you were getting a break, he flipped your trembling body around and thrust into you again before pulling you against him.

Now you´re sitting on top of him with your back against his chest, your legs straddling his. His cock is deep inside you, just grinding while some of his load leaks out of you. One of his hands toys with your clit, the other wrapped around your waist while your head lays against his shoulder.

You whine while shaking around him, and with his kindest voice he says ´´What is it, sweetheart? Does it not feel good?´´ pushing his cock even further into you. You lift your head and buck away from him, it´s too much, too good, but you can´t formulate sentences right now. ´´No, no, no, love -´´ he says, using the hand between his legs to pull you back into him ´´- you´re supposed to stay right here´´, the hand around your waist lifting to hold you by your neck.

this keeps going on until you catch them at last having a date at a place you'd been talking about for weeks in hopes one of them would want to go with you, not even as a date but just with you, and you are left standing there and feeling like you are worth less than the dirt on their shoes while they look at each other with the softest of eyes- a look they've never even given your used body.

it's why you go to drink your sorrows away. it's why you let a man, big and thick and british with mutton chops and warm, strong hands on your waist and a rumbling voice who calls himself "john", take you back to his house and take such nice, good care of you.