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bits-and-babs · 1 year ago

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✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

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"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house.

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises.

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether.

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence.

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde."

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'.

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes."

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel.

✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it.

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that.

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order.

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it.

He says nothing.

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt.

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils.

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk.

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action.

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much.

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose.

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock.

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'.

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head.

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform.

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast.

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune.

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed.

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet.

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission.

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you.

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up.

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another."

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins.

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side.

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention.

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes.

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow.

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth.

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue.

"The mask stays on."

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand.

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise.

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body.

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape.

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave.

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you.

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged.

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation.

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair.

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand.

“What was the prize?”

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes.

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex.

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression.

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–”

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly.

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress.

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion.

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips.

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot.

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing.

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre.

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?”

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth.

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?”

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper.

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–”

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name.

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration.

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–”

✰

“He’s blonde.”

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull.

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust.

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively.

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

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salty-autistic-writer · 11 days ago

Text

Happy birthday Kath! @weewoowings ❤️

Buck is in love with his boyfriend.

You can't not notice that. Especially not if you’re a member of the 118.

* “That’s it,” Chimney says dryly. “From now on there’s a limit of how often you can mention Tommy in a single shift.”

“Hey!” Buck says, blushing. “It’s not like I’m talking about my boyfriend all the time.”

“Yes, you do,” everyone says at the same time.

“And you have no filter when it comes to him,” Chimney mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “The things I heard! The pictures you put in my head! The audacity…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Tommy is so hot, cool and interesting,” Buck says, shrugging. “I finally have a boyfriend who can lift me, carry me and throw me on the bed, how am I supposed to not talk about him?”

Everybody groans.

“Is there anything Tommy can’t do?” Ravi asks innocently, ignoring Hen’s and Chimney’s glare.

Buck takes a deep breath. And goes on.

* “You are doing it again, aren’t you?” Eddie asks, raising a knowing brow.

“Hm?” Buck takes another picture of the helicopter that’s flying past above them, squinting, trying to zoom in as close as possible.

“You're going to send this to Tommy in a second, asking him is that you, babe? ,” Eddie says dryly.

“Of course, I'm going to ask him. I have a badass boyfriend flying cool helicopters after all,” Buck says cheerfully, typing: Is this you, babe? and sending the picture to Tommy. It’s not as blurry as the last ten ones.

One day, Tommy is going to answer yes. And Buck is not going to be able to contain himself.

He gasps when his phone vibrates a few moments later. Tommy sent him a picture of a happy labrador, together with a text: No, that’s not me :(, but look, I met your twin today! ;)

Buck giggles and sends Tommy five kissy emojis.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Eddie mutters, looking over Buck’s shoulder and seeing Tommy sending ten hearts back. “Why do you two have to be so disgustingly cute?”

“Hey, be happy it’s not his dick this time!” Buck says and smirks, putting his phone away and patting Eddie’s back.

“How could I ever forget about that,” Eddie mutters and sighs heavily. “It’s still burned into my mind. And I still don’t understand how he could send it to me. Just because Eddie starts with E like Evan?! Maybe you should get him to wear reading glasses after all. Please do. The potential of this happening again is too much.”

* “Firefighter Buckley.” “Firefighter pilot Kinard.”

Buck is clearly trying hard to maintain a professional distance while buzzing with excitement about finally meeting his boyfriend during a call.

They do manage to focus on the job. At least until there’s no danger left and all civilians are taken care of. After that, no one can miss the longing glances they throw at each other. It’s just a matter of time really.

“So. See you later,” Tommy says, half-smiling and wringing his hands.

“Yeah,” Buck nods, his eyes wide and shiny. “Later.”

They should be ready to leave. Tommy should go back to the chopper. Buck should return to the truck.

But they are still hesitating. And to the surprise of absolutely no one, they move at the same time, bodies all but colliding, lips pressing together, hands reaching for hips and hums escaping as they kiss passionately.

“Get a room, you two!” Chimney calls and cackles.

Hen snorts and rolls her eyes. She’s not surprised at all when Eddie tells her, “Tommy is just as obsessed with Buck by the way. He literally can’t stop talking about him when we meet up. They behave like teenagers with a crush, but imagine teenagers stuck in bodies built like brick walls.” *

The face of the grumpy deliveryman is hidden behind the biggest and most colourful flower bouquet Hen has ever seen in her life. She knows before she hears the words. “Those are for … Evan?”

“Buck!” Hen calls, lips twitching. “You got a delivery from your man!”

“What?” Buck approaches curiously, wiping his hands with a towel, a splotch of oil smeared on his cheek. He freezes and gasps, his eyes widening. “No.”

“Yes,” Hen says, smiling.

Buck blushes. Like strawberries and cream. It’s cute. He carefully takes the bouquet, taking a sniff, shaking his head. “No one ever got me flowers,” he says, voice shaking. “It’s not even a special day.”

Every day is special when you’re in love , Hen thinks to herself, still smiling.

Chimney whistles and takes a picture with his phone. “Aw. This is like straight out of some cheesy romance movie. I have to show Maddie.”

“Is there even a vase big enough for this monster?” Eddie asks teasingly. “You probably have to put them into the sink to water them.”

“Guess everything is big when it comes to Tommy,” Ravi murmurs, ducking to avoid another glare from Chimney and Hen. *

“Is that Tommy’s hoodie?” Hen asks when Buck appears at the station one morning, still yawning and his eyes clouded with leftover sleepiness.

The auburn is not Buck’s colour. And it’s worn out, carrying the signs of a beloved comfort item.

Buck chuckles. “Oh. Oops. Yeah. Uh, I spent the night at his house and … Well. This somehow happened,” he says, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie, his face flushing lightly.

Hen smiles. She feels the sudden need to tell Buck something. “Buck. I hope that no matter how much we tease or joke, you do know that we are very happy for you two.”

“Yeah. I know,” Buck says, nodding. “You know, I think that this relationship … It’s going to work out this time. It’s different. I … I can’t really describe what it is. But I can feel it. You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Hen says gently. “I know. Happiness looks good on you, Buck.”

Buck smiles, but his eyes fill with anxious seriousness. “I just hope I can trust it this time, you know? I want to. I hope I can trust myself to not mess this up.”

“Just listen to your heart, Buck. And remember that no one is perfect. Tommy and you are adults with adult issues. Each relationship has rocky roads. And there will be clouds. But as long as you’re being honest to each other, they will pass.”

Buck nods, expression thoughtful. “Thanks, Hen. Oh, uh, by the way, Tommy always says that he’s grateful he got to know you at the exactly right time of his life because he needed a verbal kick in the ass. So thanks for that too.”

“That time wasn’t easy for all of us,” Hen says, remembering. “But we managed to grow together. That’s the important thing. Now let’s get some coffee before all hell breaks loose.” *

“Hey, Tommy,” the whole 118 says when Tommy comes by the station in a free moment, hugging Buck and commenting on how delicious the lasagna smells.

“Sit and have some,” Bobby tells him, nodding at a free chair.

“Thanks,” Tommy says quietly, a whole spectrum of emotions hidden in a single word. His eyes meet with Hen’s and she smiles at him, nodding barely noticeable. Telling him that he can have this. That he is part of this family.

Tommy sits, his shoulder nudging Buck’s.

The 118 eats, talks and laughs.

And it feels like it’s meant to be this way. Like an invisible string connects the past with the present, leading to the future.

(AO3 Link)

#bucktommy #tevan #tommy kinard #evan buckley #118 firefam #bucktommy fanfic

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moongreenlight · 1 year ago

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Need more secret wife please 😭😭🙏🙏🙏

WIP Wednesday? WIP Wednesday.

Secret Wife p3 SMALL UPDATE that I have been hoarding like a dragon with treasure lol (I am riddled with guilt)

It takes Johnny upwards of two hours sat alone in his car in silence to fully process what just happened. He’d tried to ask a thousand follow up questions in some rapid-fire babble, but he was met with a wall of stony silence. Goes on stupidly for well over two minutes until Ghost knocks him with a cupped palm on his temple. Little rougher than could be considered friendly, but nowhere near harmful. Served to bring him back to earth.

“Take a breath, sergeant.”

The low rumble of Simon’s voice barely rises over the dull roar of the cars around them.

“Fuck off.”

Johnny looks less gobsmacked than he feels.

“Mind your manners.”

A bite. He must’ve quit smoking around you for the time being. Made him more waspish than usual.

“Cannae believe you, bastard. Kept a secret tha’ big from us all this time?”

Simon took a labored breath in. A sigh like the stiffness of his muscles was creating a vice around his lungs. He threw a sideways glance back toward your car a few aisles over. Like he was making sure you were still there and situated. Pursed his lips and rubbed the bridge of his nose while saying something about how Soap was to under no circumstance take you up on the dinner offer. Turned on his heel and made his way back over to you without a goodbye.

Johnny had half a mind to disobey out of sheer bull-headedness but decided against it just before he sent you a message on his last day of leave. Deleted the text he’d drafted and resigned to trying to press Simon more about things when they got back on base.

He tried, persistent bugger that he is, to pester his L.T. to give up more information. When the two of you’d gotten married. Why he hadn’t said anything. Why wasn’t he invited to the wedding? Was there a wedding? Does anyone else know? All fruitless. Snubbed each time.

He would have been offended if he hadn’t come to know Ghost so well over the years. He’s cagey at his warmest, so it’s no real surprise that he’s kept this under lock and key. The real shock came from the understanding that it happened at all in the first place. Johnny had a hard time wrapping his mind around someone as kind and welcoming as you somehow getting tangled with someone as stoic and brutish as Ghost. He tried to conjure up infinitely many situations where the two of you met and the coupling made sense, but he never stumbled on one that felt right.

Your went into labor over a month early. Just a few weeks after the boys had returned to base. Four hours before the boys were due to board a flight that would deploy them for three weeks. It was the only time Simon had ever been late to call. Johnny was sent to go track him down by an extraordinarily eggy Price.

He found him ready to leave, rifle slung over his back like a soldier. Pacing the hall outside your room in the bay. Down a short corridor in the back that usually hosted surgeries. He was whale-eyed and hostile toward the sound of Johnny’s boots echoing across the brick. It was jarring to see him so agitated. His hulking frame tangibly vibrating through the pounds of gear he was sporting. He truly considered just walking away. Spinning some tale about desertion because that seemed entirely less daunting than trying to corner an animal like Ghost.

Johnny eventually got him to leave. It was a non-option at this point, just a matter of getting the big bastard into the chopper. Tugging him away was like leashing a feral dog. He was fanatical, tugging at the lead and choking himself the entire way across the landing pad. Didn’t stop snarling until he was pushed down into his seat by Price and made to shut up.

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imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 1 year ago

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imagine sanji being at your bedside

There were a few smells that resonate with you: a newly baked loaf of bread, lavender perfume that brought memories of your mother, peels of sweet oranges, and the minty cigarettes the cook of the Sunny smoked. The latter tingled your senses alive after a particularly nasty fall during another dangerous adventure. Using your body as a shield to save an innocent bystander, pirate life, such a glamours pursuit. All you could remember was being hit in the shoulder by an arrow. Spear? You weren’t quite sure, but whatever hit you, its impact sent you flying yards back. You landed hard against a brick building and that’s all you could remember but you were alive – that much was evident and back on the ship, in your quarters.

Blinking your vision back into a less blurry existence, your nose perked up. Obnoxiously, you sniffed loudly until Sanji looked up from where he sat next to your bed. He froze for a moment as if lost in thought but then his eyes met yours and his entire body seemed to relax. The cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth was removed with a swift movement and he crushed it on the ashtray you kept on the nightstand. He reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You scared the shit of out of.”

“Glad to hear it.” A failed attempt to sit up had Sanji urging you to relax. You asked what happened and he explained the ordeal. Your foolish bravery – truly a Straw Hat, you were. “The little boy?”

Sanji smiled softly, a hint of pride in his eyes as he gave your hand another squeeze. “Unscathed.”

“Oh, good,” you sighed feeling a weight off your chest that made way for physical ache. Your entire body felt exhausted and the little pained face you made was enough for Sanji.

“Go back to sleep, Chopper said it would be good for you.” Nodding, you asked if he’d stay at your side. Lifting your hand to his mouth, he gave it a tender kiss. “Of course.”

Eyes descending into slumber, a thought had you alert. “You’ll have to leave to cook for the others.”

The cook laughed, a false viciousness in his eyes. “Let them all starve.”

“Oh, you cruel, cruel prince,” you whispered, feeling the weight of his hand on your shoulder than back around your hand. He felt so warm, you felt so safe – and as you drifted back to sleep, the smell of his minty cigarettes lingered in the air as the sound of his lighter clicking shut. You fell asleep freely knowing Sanji would be waiting for you and oh, how you couldn’t wait to wake.

#sanji x reader #black leg sanji #one piece #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #one piece sanji

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tllgrrl · 4 months ago

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Grimes 68 by @tllgrrl aka nefertiri jones

Summary: After almost 8 years apart, Michonne finds Rick Grimes, the love of her life and father of their children, and he brings her into the Civic Republic Military. For the time being: 1) She has to pretend to be someone else to avoid being seen as a threat; 2) He has to figure out a plan for the two of them to get out; and 3) They have to try and act like they’re strangers to each other instead of reunited lovers.

(The key word is “try”.)

* * * * *

*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…*

The steel kill sticks striking against the brick wall rang in the parking lot of what was left of a post office.

A former postal service semi that now had protective grills over the windows led the next herd of the dead, or what the CRM called “deltas”— “delts” for short—into the large space on the one side of the harvest wall.

The shuffling hoard was drawn by the noise and flashing lights mounted on the truck.

*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…*

The consignees readied themselves on the other side, and as the delts shambled to open spaces in the wall, each one was met with a blow that drove a sharp, prong-ended spear (“kill stick”) into its skull, followed by a twist of the wrist that destroyed its brain, effectively and finally killing it.

It was a repetitive, bloody, mind-numbing grind, and some said that it was brutal for the workers because it wasn’t easy to completely forget that the delts were once living human beings too.

Grimes had done his time at The Wall. He’d even become a legend with the number of kills he could rack up in a shift.

It was painted in big letters on the side of a nearby building, for all to see:

GRIMES 68.

He was also well-known for the number of attempts he’d made to do something no one else in the City wanted to do: Escape. Wanting to leave the safety and security of the CR so badly that he actually cut off his own shackled hand at the wrist, only to fail again and be brought back to the Wall.

Time and time again an officer in the Civic Republic Military gave him a chance to join up, and he refused each offer, preferring to be at the culling facility, killing the dead and planning his next escape attempt.

Then one day, he accepted the offer. He traded his Consignee jacket for a CRM uniform. Instead of using a kill stick, he got a fancy, deadly prosthetic hand with a retractable blade. He got all kinds of specialized training, all the perks as he rose through the ranks, and he never had to cull delts again.

But now, after having been gone for years, there he was. Back at the Wall. Watching.

Watching her.

The new consignee.

The dark-skinned Black woman with her hair cut short on one side of her head, exposing a beautiful profile; and locs cascading down just past her shoulder in the back and on the other side of her face .

The woman who, after her on-boarding interview, was designated a Type “B”, seeking safety, willing to work, and keeping to herself, but had the carriage and demeanour of an “A” who was always observing, was more than capable of defending herself, and being a provider of safety. A leader.

Word soon got around among the Consignees that the ex-consignee/now military officer known as “the famous Rick Grimes” had not only survived a chopper crash, but he’d started showing up at the harvest wall. Coming back to a place he’d gotten away from years earlier, only to return when a mysterious new consignee was brought into the CRM.

*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…*

“Hey. Look who just pulled up,” said a consignee who had her red hair tied back with, of all things, a bright pink ribbon that was tied in a bow.

“Holy shit! ‘zat Grimes?” another consignee added, tying a bandana on his head, cholo style, then slipping on his face shield. “He doesn’t have to be here any more. What’s up with that?”

“Bethune’s not-so-secret admirer,” snickered the worker to pink bow’s left, stabbing his kill stick into a delt that sagged and dropped. “She doesn’t see him yet. But she knows he’s there. Watch. In 3..2..1.”

Michonne—known to the other consignees as “Dana Bethune” —stationed at the far end of the wall, continued to methodically dispatch delts.

Then she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and found the tall CRM officer. Standing there, at ease, even with his helmet and face guard on, she knew he was watching her.

It seemed like they stood there, the only people at the wall. 5…10…15 minutes. Watching each other. Breathing the same air. At last…

3 seconds later, she turned her head back to the oncoming delts, and went back to work.

Behind her mask, the other consignees couldn’t see the small smile that graced her lips, or hear her whisper “I found you.”

Behind his mask, no one could see the CRM officer smile as he whispered “You found me.”

*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…*

“You see that?” drawled the consignee to pink bow’s right, continuing to spear oncoming delts. “Somethin’s up with those two.”

“I know, right? For the past two weeks, he’s here. Same time every day she’s on shift, just before third break. Look at him lookin’. Even wearin’ the consignee jacket, the mask, an’ her hair all tucked in, it only takes him a second to find her. And a second for her to know he’s here. Like they’re—”

“Might could be that ass is imprinted on his brain!” laughed a big man nearby with a bushy black beard.

“Maybe it’s because she saved his life out there.”

“Peterson said somethin’ about that. It’s true?”

“‘parently so. His chopper went down. Got blown right outta the sky and crashed.”

“You serious?!”

“Word is it was a scrub with some kinda RPG an’ shit,” a consignee added to the story while wiping a splatter of brains and blood off of his face guard.

“Stop lyin’! How’d they even get that? After the Fall, CRM took over most of the bases out there with a quickness.”

“There was military stuff out in the wild even before everything went to shit. All kinds o’ stuff is still out there,” bushy beard opined. “Shouldn’t be a surprise all these years later somebody has a bazooka or some ordinance hidden away. There’s jeeps, even tanks here and there. I lived in one for a couple o’ months before I got found and brought here. CRM scoops ‘em up quick as they can, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So anyway, the scuttlebut’s that Sargent Major Loverboy there, an’ the other troopers jumped out of the wrecked chopper an’ the scrub starts firein’ on ‘em. The ones he could catch, he slit their throats…with a sword.”

“A what?” bandana scoffed, stabbing into what was left of the next delt’s face. “Get outta here with that BS, man!”

“I’m just tellin’ you what I heard! Grimes was about ta get got, when Bethune comes runnin’ outta the woods, grabs one of the dead trooper’s weapons and shoots the scrub!”

“Wow. Maybe that’s why he’s here all the time,” pink bow chuckled. “Hell, I’d be in love with her too.”

“Get in line,” beard snarked. “You really think those two know each other?”

“Know each other?” the woman laughed, stabbed a delt and shook its eyeball off of her kill stick. “I think they’re fuckin’.”

“No way!” bandana exclaimed. “She just got here!”

<<<Good work, Section 5 and 6 Consignees. Bethune and Clifton, please report to post-shift health check before boarding transport.>>>

“Think about it,” pink bow explained. “Grimes is an officer on the inside now and doesn’t need to be at the Harvest Wall any more. Who’d come back to this shit after their 6 years of consignment is up? Now, all of a sudden, he’s back. Out here almost every day. Why?”

She tipped her head toward the driveway and they watched Grimes remove his helmet and turn completely around to watch “why” aka “Dana Bethune” walk past, avoiding his eyes.

*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK…*

“Oh, yeah…” pink bow grinned. “They’re fuckin’.”

* * * * *

This bit of nonsense was inspired by The Walking Dead spin-off, The Ones Who Live - Episode 3: “Bye”.

Click HERE for the AO3 version.

Thank you for reading!

#original characters #OCs #consignee chatter #main characters gossiped about #richonne #rick grimes #michonne grimes #rick and michonne #the ones who live #twd towl #the walking dead the ones who live #fan art #fan fiction #by tllgrrl aka nefertiri jones #it’s me splashing around in another pool

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