Frank Castle Tied Up For @daredevilexchange

HAPPY 100 FOLLOWERS!!!! Slow Down (RK900 x Reader NSFW Oneshot)

A/N: hehehehe we're at 100 followers now so i thought—hey, let's celebrate by posting something ~ s p i c y ~

Slow Down (Nines x fem!Reader)

Nines is acting weird.

You decide to figure out why.

Tags: Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Is Bad at Feelings, Sex Pollen (but like a virus), idk don't question it too much, Smut, Shameless Smut, Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Overstimulation, Reader-Insert, No Y/N, Semi-Public Sex

Read here or on AO3.

Something about Nines has been… off since you left the crime scene together—a WR400, ripped to pieces, in the slums of Detroit; her joints wrenched apart, wires twisted and torn; components, dozens of them—broken, modified, scattered the floorboards of an old, rotting house; thirium, pooling underneath, splattering the walls in grotesquely abstract shapes and patterns.

It had been hard to look at.

You had suggested interfacing with her—it had seemed like a good idea, at the time. You figured maybe, if there was any latent information floating around in her CPU, maybe Nines could find it.

Maybe it would help you find who did this to her.

It could be the best lead you were going to get, you’d said. And he had agreed.

But maybe that had been a mistake.

You glance over at him from the passenger seat of your car, worrying the inside of your lip between your teeth as you scan his profile.

It’s dark—nearly midnight—but the intermittent light from the passing streetlamps is more than enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way he sits ramrod straight, fingers digging into the surface of your steering wheel. It’s more than enough to see how his his brows furrow. How they’re knitted together into a deep scowl.

He stares ahead, ignores you even though you know he knows you’re watching him, watching the LED at his temple flicker a dull yellow, cycling around and around and around. You look back down at your hands, resting awkwardly on your lap. Take a moment to pick at the non-existent dirt underneath your nails.

The moment he’d touched her—artificial skin retracted, revealing smooth white plastic and unfeeling steel—he’d recoiled, like he’d been burned.

And he’s been acting so weird since.

You clear your throat. “Hey, uh, are you—”

“I’m fine, Detective,” he says. Snaps, really.

“Right,” you murmur, shifting in your seat. You turn your head to stare out the window. Lean your forehead against the glass and let out a quiet sigh, watching as Detroit slides by in gloomy twilight, blurred by rain that streaks across the window.

You try not to think too hard about the way he’d jerked away from you when you touched his shoulder; how he’d flinched when you handed him your keys and just barely brushed his open palm.

The rest of the drive passes in stiff silence, and by the time you make it back, the station is nearly deserted, with only a few bleary-eyed humans and a handful of androids wandering the premises.

Nines is careful not to touch you when he drops your keys back into your hand. Ignores the concerned look you give him and strides towards his desk. You follow, trail after him and sag down into the squeaky swivel chair at your desk.

You chance another glance over at him, across your connected desks. You lean forward on your elbows, watching his LED, a steady amber that flashes red when your gazes meet. Just as you open your mouth to speak, he stands.

“Excuse me,” he says, swallowing thickly.

And then he’s gone.

You chew at your bottom lip again, watch him leave the bullpen and turn down the hall that leads towards the server room. You let out a frustrated breath, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“Motherfucker,” you whisper under your breath.

The guilt gnawing at you starts to grow. It flowers in the empty spaces between your ribs—it sprouts tendrils that wrap around your lungs, thorns that dig into your thudding heart.

It had been your idea, after all.

Maybe you should go apologize.

You shake your head—you should just finish your paperwork and give the android some space, especially if he’s upset with you. You should just give up trying to understand the innerworkings of CyberLife’s most advanced prototype (he’s made it abundantly clear that you’ve failed at that particular endeavor so far). You should just mind your own goddamn business and go home.

But here you are. Standing up, pushing away from your desk to follow after him.

You shove your hands in your pockets as you round the corner. Try to act nonchalant as possible while you walk down the empty hallway and up to the server room door. It’s dark when you get there, which is—admittedly—a little odd, but you don’t think too hard about it, pushing inside before you lose your nerve.

It’s quiet. Really, really quiet. And real fucking cold, too.

You start walking down the center aisle, glancing up and down the rows of blinking servers as you pass them.

“Nines?” you call. “You in here?”

Something sends a shiver down your spine.

“I, uh… I know you said you’re okay,” you ramble, wandering over to a metal table hidden in the back corner of the room, playing idly with one of the spare cables coiled on top, “but I feel like you’re angry at me or something so—”

You’re pushed up against the wall, hard. Fast.

Panic seizes your throat. You fumble for the empty holster at your belt, then recognize the black and white jacket, the steely eyes glaring down into yours.

“Nines, what the fuck,” you hiss, planting your hands on his chest to push him off of you. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You shove as hard as you can, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even budge.

“…Nines?”

His shoulders are heaving. LED pulsing a bright, angry red. “You need to leave.”

His words are sharp, rough, and it sends a jolt of fear through you.

“Okay, sure, just—” your voice shakes. You start to notice the heat bleeding through the fabric of his uniform. “A-are you overheating or something?” you mutter. “You’re—”

You barely choke back a yelp as he grabs your jaw with one hand.

He stares down at you. Forces your head back until you can’t do anything but stare back at him, can’t do anything but bare your throat and melt in pools of molten silver. You blink—absolutely dumbstruck.

Your heart hammers inside your chest, so hard, so frantic, you’re afraid it might burst. Your face flushes—you know he can hear it, know he can feel it, the way your body responds to his—and suddenly, it’s way too fucking hot in here.

He leans down, keeps you against the wall with fingers that burn against your skin. You feel his breath ghosting across your skin, feel his other hand digging into your waist.

You don’t know what to do—don’t know what the fuck is happening.

He mouths at your collarbone and you jolt, fingers flexing in the soft fabric of his shirt. He dips his tongue into the hollow of your throat, traces its shape and hums as he catalogues the taste of your skin. The whimper falls from your mouth before you can stop it.

“Nines-”

And then he’s kissing you. Crushing his mouth to yours.

You struggle to keep up, pressed further into the wall by the intensity, the heat of him. He bites down on your lower lip, so fucking hard it breaks the skin and you taste blood—whimper and moan and let his tongue dip into your mouth and tangle with yours.

You wrap your arms around his neck, twist your fingers in his perfect hair and swallow down every perfect throaty groan he gives you. You arch your back. Press up into his torso, his hips, the hardness you feel against your stomach.

He grabs the backs of your thighs, lifts you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist, and kisses you harder, shoves his tongue so fucking far into your mouth you almost choke on it. He ruts against your clothed core, and the friction, the pressure against your clit—fuck—it makes your eyes roll back.

He carries you over to the metal table, drops you down onto its surface and manhandles you onto your stomach. Drags your pants—your underwear—down just far enough to expose your dripping sex.

“N-Nines!” you yelp, pushing up onto your elbows just to be shoved back down flat, his hand planted firmly between your shoulder blades. You hear him unbuckle his belt, hear him yank his zipper down. “Hold on—”

“Can’t—” he grunts, dragging the fat head of his cock up and down your folds. Your hear lurches, and your hips jerk backwards—you can’t help it.

He sinks into you fast. Filling you so suddenly, so full you feel it in your throat.

You cry out—the stretch, the burn—loud and long and broken off by the hand that clamps around your mouth. That pulls you back to meet his thrusts.

“Quiet,” he hisses. He grabs your hip with his other hand, shifts them so he can hit you deeper, so that he can hit that spongey spot inside you that has you weeping, begging him, muffled by his fingers, to give you more.

White-hot pleasure sears in your center, electric. It pulses harder, as his hips snap into yours, coils tighter with each drag of his head against your walls. You whimper and whine, thrust backwards because you want more—need it.

Your whole body tenses, then fucking shatters—clamping down around his cock.

He pounds into you, fucking relentless. Again and again and again. You splutter nonsense, tears rolling down your cheeks, seeping between his fingers. Begging for him to stop—to go harder. His hips stutter, and he groans, voice staticky and distorted and so fucking hot, pumping you full of his artificial release.

Before you can even begin to catch your breath, before you can really register that he’s let go of your mouth, he flips you over onto your back. Yanks your pants off entirely and grabs your legs, pressing them back flat against the table by the backs of your knees—wide fucking open.

“Fuck, N-Nines,” you whimper, hands splayed out against his abdomen. “Slow down, I-I can’t—”

He drives into you again before you can say anything else. Kisses you deep. Hard. Sucks your tongue into his mouth while he fucks you into the table. Swallows the needy moans, the pathetic, broken whimpers that fall from your mouth.

The stretch. The drag. It’s too much. The way he holds you down. The way he makes you take it. The way pleasure—exhilarating, excruciating—builds and builds and builds; the way it crashes into you and you see white.

He’s filling you again. Painting your insides. Fucking the cum that leaks out back into your abused hole, rolling his hips up into yours. You push on his chest, thrash and writhe underneath him.

He pulls out, pumping into his fist, and cums again—splattering your stomach in artificial release.

The room descends into a fragile stillness. You lay, staring at the ceiling, panting. 

“Are you alright, Detective?” he asks eventually, and you manage a weak nod.

“I…” he trails off, tucking himself back into his jeans and righting his jacket. “I apologize, Detective. The interface with the Traci… It… Something happened.”

“Mm?”

He clears his throat. “However, that seems to have… Have cleared the error from my systems.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, nodding again. “Just, uh… Just let me know if you ever need to defrag your hard drive or… or empty your junk mail or something. I’d be, ya know… willing to help out.”

He shoots you an unappreciative glare.

“You should get dressed,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah I will,” you say. “I just need a second. Can’t really feel my legs yet.”

He looks away, but you can feel the smug look on his face.

You can’t really find it in yourself to care though.

Thanks for reading!! Consider giving it a ❤️ and a 🔁 if you enjoyed.

You can check out my other writing here.

A one minute clip that means everything to me at this moment.

She… she calls it “Chupi”.

THE IMPERFECTS 1.03 “Portland Warehouse Massacre”

Anything III (König x Reader)

Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

Requested by: Literally fucking everyone.

A/N: I was really fighting for my life with this chapter y'all. It's more to set up for the next coming chapters.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Forced Proximity || Enemies to ?

Warnings: Graphic language, graphic description of PTSD, graphic violence, graphic description of gun violence, graphic description of injury.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

"That fucker needs to go." 

"He's not going anywhere, Simon."

The Lieutenant spun on his heel, reeling on Price with startling speed. He didn’t budge, though. Not when Ghost stopped only inches away and not when a finger rested on his chest- a warning. A threat. 

“Birdy’s my responsibility,” his voice was dangerously low and the Captain’s eyes narrowed. 

“And you’re all my responsibility,” Price’s words were slow and enunciated, spoken through gritted teeth. The heat rolling off his body was tangible, he was fucking furious. He was torn. “You think this was my fucking idea? I get orders from up top just like you do, Riley. They got their own plans in mind.”

Ghost inhaled sharply, dropping his hand to his side. Up top. If the rank has been anything, it’s been consistently shit. 

“When someone tears their own fuckin’ face-off, the plan needs to change,” Simon murmured, the images of the incident drifting across his vision. The man was no stranger to intrusive thoughts but these were particularly vivid, they splattered across the carefully cleaned plains of his mind- taunting him. 

“I know.” Price lit a cigar, his gaze trailing across the rooftops. “Been working on it.” 

“And?” 

“Baby steps, Simon. Baby steps.” 

_________

Inhale, exhale. Again. 

Bang 

Then again. 

Bang 

And again. 

Bang

One, two, three, the hole never widened; not even by a millimetre. The target stood strong and unwavering, and you were doused in hot anger. You’d selected the biggest one you could find, it wasn’t as tall as you wanted, but you supposed the chances of finding a nearly seven foot soldier on the battlefield were slim. 

You were grateful that the one thing that hadn’t changed over the recent horrors of your life, was your aim. You were still a sniper.

Bang 

You were still the best. 

“We got another unit comin’ in for their assessments, Birdy.” The range supervisor’s voice was loud over the speaker and you forced yourself not to jump. “You gotta clear out or pick another lane, mate.” 

Your eyes trailed over the aisles beside you. The rear of their booths were all open, designed for trainees to have an instructor standing over them. Those days of needing direction were over, as were the days of leaving your back vulnerable. 

The lane you had chosen was at the very end of the range, a locked booth designed for soldier’s shooting assessments. It was a bi-annual event, where your marksmanship was tested in order to deem you competent and qualified. No instructor, no target indications, just you in a locked booth with a rifle and a target. 

Now, it was the only place you felt safe enough to shoot. 

You heaved your body up, clearing your weapon before slinging it over your shoulder. It seemed that your time was up. 

As you stepped out of your haven and into the aisle, you tried to settle the anxiety in your chest. It was a burdensome feeling that only faded when you were looking down the sight of your rifle, plaguing your every move and every thought. It was all-consuming. 

A shot rang a few lanes ahead and you flicked your gaze up to the screen as you walked. They were half a centimetre or so off from the central aiming mark but the next shot was dead on. You snorted. 

As you moved to pass, you spared a curious glance at the shooter. 

Your body locked up. 

Right in front of you, lying on his stomach with those long legs sprawled out, was König. 

You seethed. You were suddenly overcome by a rage that, for once, did not wash over you with a flush of heat. Instead, you were cold. Ice trickled the length of your spine and your fingers went numb, pins and needles pricking at your nails. 

Your face stung at the sight of him. 

He was the reason you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror anymore, he was the reason you looked like a fucking abomination. Your face was deformed and mutilated and here this fucker lay, his back turned to the world because he was not the one that got destroyed.

König ruined you and got away unscathed. 

You waited for him to take another shot, using the cover of the resounding gunfire to put down your rifle. He had no idea that you were there, he was entirely unsuspecting. He was vulnerable.

Before you could comprehend what you were doing, your body had moved to stand over his prone figure. You could hear his breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest.

 In, bang, out. 

They had chosen this fucking imbecile to replace you? He couldn’t even breathe right, everything was wrong. His form was wrong, his breathing pattern was wrong, his shooting was wrong, and he was not built to be a sniper. He was built to destroy with his hands, with no finesse, no pinpoint accuracy- just a bludgeon. 

There was no honour in what König was. 

Again, your face stung beneath the gauze. A reminder. Encouragement. 

You reached for the Glock strapped to your belt, cold sweat trickling down your neck.  König took a breath in and you flicked open the buckle. But he didn’t take a shot as you had predicted, and he’d heard the noise from above him. 

When König turned, you let him see you, just as he’d given you that mercy. 

Then you struck. 

Unlike before, König hadn’t been given the chance to kick the weapon from your hands before you descended upon him. A startled rasp ripped from his mouth as you dropped onto his body, bringing the butt of your firearm to strike his temple. 

His head knocked back, bouncing off the mat beneath him. 

How merciful, that it was not concrete? How gracious, that you didn’t grab his head and crush it? 

König groaned, his hands flying up to defend himself, stunned by the sudden impact. You knew that his vision would be spinning, a loud buzz ringing in his ears. You knew too well. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

You pushed his hands away, bringing the gun down again. You felt his skin render from beneath the metal, a wet thud echoing through the booth as you split the skin of his cheek. The blood made your eyes widen. It wasn’t enough. 

You would give him your scars. You would peel his skin from his bone. You would shatter him until he was unrecognisable. 

This wasn’t enough. 

König’s eyes flickered open, hard and betrayed. 

You knew that the element of surprise had run out, but you were not finished. You’d just gotten started, the purple of his cheek and the red dripping down his temple only marked the beginning. But you couldn’t overpower the man below you. 

When his hands gripped your biceps and he opened his mouth to yell, you pushed the barrel of your handgun past his lips until his teeth scraped the steel.

Everything fell still, his hands frozen on your body and his eyes wide. You hoped that he could taste the gunpowder, you hoped that he could taste his death. The sound of the safety flicking off resounded in the booth and the man beneath you flinched. 

His fingers shook against your skin, his breath rattling in his chest. 

König was afraid. 

And at that realization, for the first time in over a year, a genuine smile twisted your lips. The soldier’s eyes widened, his body twitching beneath yours, groaning around the barrel in his mouth. 

“How do you like it?” You whispered, the words a snarl as you leaned down close. 

König’s emerald gaze was steady on yours and you could visibly see him attempt to calm his breathing. In, out, in, out. He was breathing wrong, everything was still just wrong, wrong, wrong. You pressed harder on the gun. 

This wasn’t enough. 

He wasn’t bruised enough, he wasn’t bleeding enough. You moved your left hand to cup his cheek and his eyes flickered. König wanted to buck you off, he wanted to disable you, maybe he even wanted to murder you. You hoped he did, you wanted to see the same hatred in his eyes that you saw that damned fucking night. 

You wanted him to look into your soul and know that you were going to ruin him. 

That you were going to kill him. 

“You feel guilty?” You hissed, your fingers slowly digging into the skin of his cheek. “You feel bad for what you did?” 

König’s eyes softened. 

Don’t want your pity. 

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. 

Finally, he hummed his affirmation around the barrel in his mouth. Your nails dug into the flesh of his face, dragging a jagged scratch inch by inch across his features. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t move, and he didn’t make a sound- he only watched you. 

When you leaned in to brush your lips against his ear, he knew what was coming. 

Satisfaction flooded your senses, righteous anger gripping you by the throat and forcing the words that you’ve wanted to say for so long from your lips. 

“Your fight is finished.” 

König took in a sharp breath. 

You pulled the trigger. 

The sound was deafening and for a sweet, beautiful moment, you felt vindication. You’d  won. You’d bested him. The man that had ruined your life had gotten what he deserved and he needed to die, die, die. That was the only thing that would settle his debt, the only thing that would serve the justice you felt owed. 

With the simplest pull of the trigger, you had been avenged. 

Then, you realised that the blood that had sprayed aross the space between your bodies wasn’t his. It was yours. 

König was on top of you. The gun was gone, his mask was on, and your face was crushed. You couldn’t breathe you couldn’t think and the only thing you could feel was the searing pain of the knife twisting in your chest. 

No, no, no, no. 

This was wrong, this wasn’t what was meant to happen. Why were you back here? His hand was on your face before you could protest and you felt your head lift from the ground. 

“Even in victory, you are nothing.” 

Crack

“You will always be nothing.” 

Crack

You were screaming, you could hear yourself doing it but your mouth wasn’t moving. Your teeth were caved in, your jaw had collapsed, you felt as though your face had melted from the bone. Yet you could hear the shrieks, hear the wailing. 

The back of your head was wet, your skull felt like it was falling apart at the seams. The breeze tickled against your brain and your nerves were on fire. 

You were broken, broken, broken. 

“Birdy!” 

This time you could feel every crack of your head into the concrete. This time you felt your brain matter smear across the floor. 

“Wake up!” 

Wake up.

Wake up. 

You sat up with the gasp of someone who’d been drowning, clawing at your throat for air. Sweat trickled down your spine, the room was hot and the blankets were tangled between your legs but you were in your bedroom- you recognised it instantly.  

“That’s it, sweetheart,” a rough voice murmured from beside you. There was a hand pressed flat against your chest, firm and grounding. “Breathe.” 

“Simon,” you sobbed. The man hummed in response, his other hand rubbing your back with enough force to rock your body. He was trying to keep you rooted in reality, give you something physical, something tangible to hold on to.

“I’m losing my mind,” you gasped, your chest caving at the realisation. You didn’t know what was real or not, fact or fiction, tangible or imaginary- you lived on a plain of uncertainty. You were lost, you were broken and you were unreliable. 

Price was right. You had become a liability. 

“You’re late to the party,” Simon loosed a soft chuckle, pulling you close against his body. “I lost mine years ago, kid.” 

You relished in his touch as you tried to regroup. You were in your room, you were in your bed, it was the middle of the night and you’d had a nightmare. Your clothes were soaked, sticking to your skin uncomfortably; and you had the horrid realization that maybe it wasn’t all sweat. You sucked in a breath, scrambling to push the blankets from your body. 

“What-” 

You ignored anything that the Lieutenant might of said, scrubbing your hands over your limbs, neck and face. The sweat threw you off and you checked your fingers in the dim light for crimson stains. You couldn’t deal with it again, you couldn’t cope with more damage. You were already disgusting, you were already mutilated and scarred. Unloveable, untouchable, irreparable, irevevocable, irremediable-

No more, no more, no more no more no more-

Simon gripped your hands, tugging them towards his chest and jerking your body forward. You dragged in a sharp breath, eyes wide and frantic. 

“You didn’t hurt yourself,” the words were urgent and low, his gaze holding you still just as well as his grip. “You’re alright, Birdy.” 

You took in a rattling breath and his grip tightened. 

“You’re alright, kid,” Simon reinforced, that ocean gaze compelling you to calm your heart rate. He left no room for discussion with the way that he looked at you, there was no option to disobey. You pushed air into your lungs, following the pattern he’d set for you. “It was just a nightmare.” 

You frowned. “Only at the very end.” 

Not when you had been shooting, not when you’d been atop of your enemy with a gun in his mouth; that was not the nightmare. You’d felt vindicated, you’d felt insane but satisfied. During those moments in the dream, you were not afraid of König. You were not shaking, you were not whimpering or begging for your life. 

You were strong. 

Stronger than him. 

“How’d you know I was–” You cleared your throat. “How’d you get in here?” 

The silence that followed had you on edge, as Simon’s hand worked methodically across your back.  He didn’t answer for a long while and your thoughts began to sober. Why was he in your room? How had he gotten there? How did he know you were having a night terror? His quarters were nowhere near yours, he was in the hallway over, divided by thick concrete walls; he most definitely couldn’t have heard your screams.

“Someone tipped me off,” the words were spoken through clenched teeth and his minsitrations against your back faltered. Your chest tightened at the implication. “They thought I’d be better suited to come help you.”

“How-” 

“He’s down the hall, Birdy.” Simon interrupted and you could feel his fingers curl into a fist against your spine. “Everyone in this fuckin’ corridor could hear you.” 

Your breathing began to pick up and heat flushed against your skin, the blood boiling from beneath the surface.

“That doesn’t explain how you got in,” you rasped, gripping the blankets at your side. You needed to ground yourself, you needed to be calm. 

“He thought you were being attacked or somethin’ with the way you were yellin’,” Simon sighed. It wasn’t a direct answer but it was a good enough indication as to what had happened. 

You let your gaze drift to the door, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight before you. The hinges had been ripped from the wall, the frame torn straight from the brick. The door itself was missing completely, and as you slowly leaned over to get a look at the floor, your heart dropped to your stomach. 

Your bedroom door lay in pieces, the splintered remnants splayed across the floor like shattered glass. 

📸 fishIuv

Six Words (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader)

Summary: After a mission goes wrong, you're tasked with keeping an injured Ghost safe from swarming insurgents. When you almost fail to save him, you realize your feelings towards him makes you a liability. Ghost disagrees.

Prompt: #61 "I don't know how to love you" From my prompt list here.

A/N: I need prompts, my head is empty with nothing but Konig and Ghost SOS.

Category: Angst - Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Swearing - Gun Violence - Themes of War

Missions were the hardest part.

The gunfire over comms, the callouts and the target indications. Every now and then you’d wince at the wounded cries of your colleagues, it was always the younger ones who screamed.

And although it was eery, you were glad to hear them. If they were crying it meant they were alive.

It was the silence that you were afraid of.

“Sunshine, this is Bravo-6. How copy?”

You blinked, flicking your gaze from your rifle’s scope. Car horns blared from the bustling city beneath you, unaware of the conflict happening 40 stories high.

“Bravo-6, this is Sunshine. Loud and clear, over.”

If Price was raising you, it meant that the fight would soon be moving into your arcs of fire.  You settled in behind your rifle, resting your cheek against the stock. You’d already accounted for the distance and thankfully the wind was steady enough that adjusting your weapon sight hadn’t been difficult to calculate.

“Sunshine, you’ll have company soon, 42nd floor. Clear them out.”

“Copy that, Bravo-6.”

The windows had already been blown out, providing you the clearance to take your shots, so you waited, watching the elevator and stairs with your finger curled lightly against the trigger. However, when someone had finally come busting through the door, you hadn’t expected it to be Ghost.

Jesus. Ripping your finger off the trigger, your heart raced, its panicked beating echoing in your ears like a church bell.

You hissed a curse beneath your breath, what the fuck was he doing in the red zone? Bravo team was meant to herd them onto the 42nd floor so you could clear the board, not pay a house call with them.

“Ghost, what the fuck are you doing?” You snapped into your headset.

You watched him throw himself over a bench on the far side of floor, tucking his body behind it for cover. He turned his head to the window, presumably to where he knew you were nested.

“Shit’s gone sideways, change of plans. I’ll distract them, you shoot ‘em.” His voice was ragged and rougher than usual. Small groans were woven into his words and as you looked at him a little longer, you realized that he was pressing a hand to his stomach.

Ghost had been shot.

Your heart dropped.

“Incoming!” He shouted, twisting his body to face the bench rather than away from it.

You hissed, moving your sights to where they should have been- at the doors. Instantly, you realized there were too many of them, he hadn’t cut down as many as he should have and now it was a race against the clock. Kill them before they killed Ghost.

You got to work, falling into a frenzied rhythm. Spot and shoot, spot and shoot. You forced yourself to not check on your teammate huddled into the corner, to not see if he’d been turned to minced meat.

One by one, they fell. And one by one, anxiety had begun to claw its way through your chest. You had a sniper rifle, not an LMG, it was near impossible to clear this many people before they’d be able to reach him.

“Fuck! Fucking shoot, Sunshine!” Ghost roared through your comms. Your breath was unsteady now. One after the other they fell and one after the other they pushed towards the little bench Simon Riley was hiding behind.

You said nothing, unable to talk, unable to think, only able to shoot and shoot and shoot.

“I’m getting overrun here!”

You pushed your scope to view Ghost. There were four of them on him already and so many more pushing ahead. Your heart dropped as the sounds of your shots became hollower, the tell-tale signs of sound echoing through your mag, you were coming up on empty.

Then there was a dull click where there should have been a ‘bang’.

 “Reloading!” You shrieked, dumping the mag and scrambling for a fresh one from your body armour. All the while you watched Ghost fight on the back foot, offense became defence and fluidity became manic.

He was going to die.

And it would be your fault.

“Covering!”

You held your breath.

Soap slid through the doorway, shooting before he’d even had a good look at the scene before him. He knew there was too many of them, he’d heard the radio chatter and he’d heard your panic.

You could have cried at the sight of him.

You finished reloading, repositioning yourself with a newfound hope fuelling your body. Between the three of you, the rest of the insurgents had been light work to clear out. It was a massacre, a sight that would traumatize most with bodies piling along the floor.

But all you could think of was Simon.

You heard his groans as Soap helped him to his feet, muttering comfort beneath his breath the way only Soap could. “Come on, LT. You’re pretty banged up, let’s get you home.”

As the adrenaline began to seep from your body, leaving you shaking and quiet, your mind began to spiral.

Nights spent on the roof, revelling in each other’s company but not saying a word. The short tit for tat banter that you’d fallen into. The drunken nights you’d sought each other out, to chase the nightmares with touches neither of you would remember in the morning.

You’d almost let him die.

Ghost straightened as best as he could, leaning against Soap as the Sergeant held him up. They both came to a stop by the window near the exit, the battered soldier pausing to gaze out across the buildings. And although you knew he couldn’t actually see you, it felt like he was looking straight at you.

“You did good, Sunshine.”

The words were genuine, almost soft if it weren’t the ragged breathing from his injury.

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t respond, the pair continued on, disappearing into the elevator and leaving you to suffer with your thoughts.

_______

The cold, night air always helped to clear your head.

You were sat on the rooftop, legs dangling off the edge of the building as though it were just a normal bench. Your chest rested against the railing; your arms folded over the top of it.

Your mind was a mess.

How had that mission gone so wrong, so fast? Logically, there wasn’t much more that you could have done. You were on the trigger constantly, a body dropped every two to three seconds, a good enough pace when you were constantly switching targets.

But you weren’t fast enough.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

Your body jolted, gripping the railing tight with a gasp so you didn’t fall right off the edge. Ghost stood beside you, clad in a pair of soft black trousers and a hoodie that was drawn over his head. You swallowed your anxiety when he lowered himself to sit beside you.

You’d seen him without that jumper plenty of times, twisting against each other in the dark with alcohol on your tongues. But seeing him with it, seeing him look like any other man preparing for bed, made your heart soften.

“No.” You rasped, answering his quiet joke.

You both fell into silence, but it wasn’t comfortable like it usually was, at least not on your end. You were stressed, the tension rising in your chest to suffocate you. You forced your eyes to remain on the horizon, observing what you could under the moonlight.

There was a nudge by your hand and you glanced down. The man held out a cigarette and a lighter and you forced yourself not to look at the unlit one hanging from his mouth. It was an unwritten rule, when he rolled the mask above his lips to smoke, you would avert your gaze.

You took the cigarette with a sigh and a soft ‘thank you’, perching it between your lips. You lit the smoke, drawing the first drag to keep it alight and Ghost softly took the lighter from you.

“Didn’t know you were out of hospital,” you said, taking another draw. You blinked away the head-spin from the nicotine, feeling the stress melt from your shoulders.

“If you’d known you wouldn’t be up here,” he said simply. You clenched your jaw, hoping he wouldn’t push the subject. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, watching for any tell-tale sign to say that he was right.

But you just took another drag.

“You’re avoiding me,” Ghost finally said outright.

Your heart stuttered in your chest and you made an effort not to crush the cigarette between your fingers.

“I almost got you killed.”

The officer’s breath came out in a short huff, the equivalent of a laugh for the sullen character. “Don’t flatter yourself. We fucked up; you were on clean up.”

Your heart was racing now, but you knew what the problem was. You knew why you were beating yourself up over something that wasn’t really your fault. It was childish and it was immature and one day it might just get you both killed.

You’d become a liability. It was your duty to inform him.

“I’m going to apply for a transfer out of the 141.” Your sentence rang like the toll of a church bell, echoing between you. You couldn’t believe you’d finally said it but you’d known for a while.

“What?” Ghost shifted beside you, twisting his body to stare at you front on.

“I’m going to get someone killed-“

“Is this about today?” Ghost questioned and you risked a glance at him. His lips were curled in disbelief and he flicked the cigarette off the roof. He dragged his mask back over his mouth, but his eyes still flashed with incredulity. “Get the fuck over it, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s about you, Simon!” You snapped.

Ghost fell silent.

“I’m fucking compromised,” you stood to your feet, flinging your cigarette over the railing. The soldier followed in suit, towering over you instantly. “I can’t be in a situation like that again- what if I’d have failed? I couldn’t fucking breathe, I couldn’t think-“

His hand came to rest against your shoulder and your words guttered to a stop.

You peered up at him in surprise, meeting that dark gaze. For the longest time, you’d always thought Simon had dark eyes, the blackest you’d seen. The breath left your body when, on closer inspection, you realized they were fucking blue.

For a long moment neither of you said nothing, silenced by the sudden display of affection. There was no end goal, no reason for him to be touching you. No high to be chasing, no bullet to push you out of the way of.

He was trying to comfort you.

He took a sharp breath. “I know.”

You blinked at him, opening your mouth then closing it again. He’d understood. He knew what you were saying, he’d known all along because Simon had been fighting the same thoughts.

When his fingers tightened against your shoulder, your lip trembled.

You wanted to hold him. You wanted to see him.

You knew that you could do neither.

“I don’t know how to love you,” you whispered, “I don’t know how to feel like this and work with you. Watch you get shot at. Be the one to make sure you don’t die.”

Simon shrugged, his gaze never leaving your face, taking in your features as though committing it to memory. He had no words of affection to give you but you could feel it in the way his thumb rubbed against your skin ever so softly, a ghost of his touch.

“You’re smarter than me, Sunshine. You can figure it out too.” His words were careful, and you blinked up at him from where you’d hung your head.

You can figure it out too.

When he pulled his hand from your shoulder, you felt the cold of his absence. But his words had set a fire in your chest that kept you burning.

Six words from Simon Riley were enough to set your world ablaze.

Consider Us Even

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X GN!Reader Word count: 3100± Warning: Profanity Summary: He owed you a date. He's paying it. [Part 2 of You're Gonna Owe Me for This]

It was more or less three months after Simon decided that he owed you a date that he finally went home. At some point, you were worried that something had happened to him during his leave, but when it was to the point where you were about to text him, you saw him about to enter his flat upon your own arrival at yours.

Simon did not see you, but you were at least glad that he came back alive. Who could even imagine what he went through in his work the last three months?

The next day, just as you were about to leave your flat, you found Simon waiting in the hallway across your door. He did not look different. Well, of course, that was what you saw because who knew what was behind the mask? He could have been piercing his cheek with a chopstick since the last time you saw each other for all you knew.

“Mornin’,” Simon greeted.

“Morning to you, too,” you replied. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Half an hour,” Simon answered. “I knocked.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t hear. I must’ve been in the shower.”

“I figured,” Simon said.

“I mean, you could just text me,” you gave him an apologetic smile.

“Anyway,” Simon moved on, “are you free next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday?” you paused, thinking of a way to mess with him. “Ah, I already have a date on Saturday.”

Simon froze for a second.

“That’s… unfortunate,” Simon said, he sounded so disappointed.

Feeling bad, you ended up letting out an amused chunk of air out of your nostrils.

“I’m fucking with you,” you admitted. “Yeah, I have a clear schedule next Saturday.”

Still, Simon took a moment to judge your statement.

“Alright,” Simon sighed. “Say, next Saturday’s raining because the weather here is shit… you’re still down to go?”

“Do you want me in a raincoat and boots?” you asked.

“Only if they’re goth,” Simon answered.

You chuckled, clocking the slight shift in his eyes that was probably the closest thing you had seen him getting amused.

“Noted, sir,” you, very stiffly, saluted him.

Simon sighed in disbelief.

“See you Saturday, yeah?” Simon concluded. “Late afternoon?”

“Sure. See you then, too,” you nodded.

Then, Saturday came.

No, you definitely did not plan your outfit. Definitely not. Just like Simon definitely did not.

Simon was contemplating, staring at his masks, wondering which he should be wearing. There was skull mask #1, then there was the backup skull mask, then the backup backup skull mask, and at least skull masks #2 through #6. 

He ended up picking the one you patched up. Sometimes he could feel your stitches on his lips and for some reason that made this mask his favourite.

You dressed accordingly, but made sure you would look nice at the end of the day because who knew what would happen by then. Again, Simon happened to be your neighbour and he might have known what you look like on laundry day. No one looked good on laundry day and you were just the exception sometimes.

Then, finally, he knocked on your door. You made sure to hear it this time because you were waiting.

Simon, upon seeing you, took a moment. Honestly, you were expecting a compliment, but then you realised that he might not be the type to do so. Until he did. Kind of.

“You look different,” he said.

“Well, I put quite an effort into it,” you admitted.

“Looks great,” Simon added.

“Thank you,” you said. “You, too. I guess. I don’t know what you look like.”

“And you never will,” Simon stated.

“What?” was all you could say.

“You’re ready to go?” Simon asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Are you?”

Simon slightly tilted his head aside, but said, “I think so.”

With that, the two of you made your way out of the flat building. You just followed him wherever he led you. There were hardly any words exchanged as you walked.

Simon turned out to be the sweetest yet gentlest person, contrary to what he looked like. He kindly opened a few doors for you. When you were out on the street, he walked on the outer side and weaved you through people.

Not long from your leave, Simon brought you into a store with a bunch of fruits displayed upfront. You were passing a row of grapes when Simon broke the ice.

“I don’t think we’re allowed to buy one singular date, so I’m just gonna ask you how much do you want? 100 grams? A kilo?” Simon asked.

“Excuse me?” you replied just as Simon stopped walking in front of a variety of date fruits.

“There’s these smaller ones, they’re pretty sweet. Then, there’s this—”

You cut him off with a chuckle full of disbelief. In response, Simon only looked at you. He looked serious.

Was he serious? He might be. What if he was? You could not get a read of him and you started getting nervous that he might actually be serious.

“So, how much? Which one?” Simon continued. “There’s some dipped in chocolate, some with nuts. Or maybe you’d like the syrup instead. They also have date infused milk.”

Eyes slightly widened, you raised an eyebrow whilst looking at him. Still, Simon only looked at you without any readable expression seen in his eyes.

That lasted for sometime.

“I’m fucking with you,” Simon admitted. 

Now you were the one who only looked at him.

“Consider us even,” Simon said.

“So, you dragged me into this store just for a lame joke?” you concluded.

“I thought you’d like it,” Simon reasoned

“I adore your commitment,” you smiled.

“If you want them, I’ll get you some,” Simon said.

You chuckled, “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Let’s get a move on, then,” Simon stated.

The two of you started walking out the store.

“Where are we going?” you finally asked.

“There’s this place my friend recommended. It shouldn’t be that far ahead,” Simon answered.

So, here was what happened when he arrived home a few days ago. Simon was mentally breaking every piece of furniture in his place out of frustration. He had no idea what to do.

It all started with you delivering him a cake—which plate had not he returned to you somehow—and it proceeded to him making the stupidest excuse to get you his number—which resulted in you texting him with yours—then, he decided that he owed you a date approximately three months ago.

So, Simon did what he thought he would never do.

He texted Johnny what he and his stupid (legendary) mohawk would do if they asked someone out on a date. There was a lot of teasing in the chatroom and even more threats. By the end of it, Soap had something to blackmail Ghost with and Ghost had at least half an idea on what to do to repay what he owed you.

Simon gave Johnny a broad area of where he lived and some time later, he recommended a place. By the look of it, it was a cafe. Simon considered a cafe as a safe enough place for a first date; if there would even be a second or thirteenth eventually in the future. 

With so, Simon looked up where the place was and decided that he would take you there.

However, when the two of you arrived in front of said cafe, Simon had no idea what to say. He was frozen on the sidewalk, looking at the place before looking at you who were looking at him with a questioning look.

The next time Simon saw him, Soap would get kicked in the chest so hard, it would practically fillet his spine off.

“Is this the place?” you asked.

“Supposedly,” Simon answered.

“Your friend recommended this place?” you asked again, slightly a little more amused, but still intrigued.

“Yeah,” Simon breathed.

“You trust this friend?” you continued.

“With my life,” Simon said.

You could not help, but chuckle. Simon looked at you.

“If you don’t want to spend maybe an hour in a cat cafe with me, let’s just consider this friend of yours is trying to mess with you and we can go elsewhere?” you suggested.

Internally, you felt a little sorry because you now had the intention to spend maybe an hour in a cat cafe with a big, muscular man with a skull mask.

“Yeah, there’s this place—”

“Oh, my God, look at that cat, Simon,” you blurted and went straight into the place without consulting Simon any further.

Once inside, you looked back to Simon who was only still standing where he was and gave him an excited grin in hope to encourage him. That was all it took for him to actually go. Your stupid (gorgeous) smile.

About fifteen minutes in, you noticed that Simon was simply just moving every cat that went towards him by itself to the space next to him almost robotically. A few minutes after that, you realised even more that the cats seemed to be attracted towards him because they kept coming at him, but he always put them away—a useless effort.

One of the cats had black fur with a white patch on its face. This one in particular managed to climb up to Simon’s shoulder while he was putting another cat away.

You would tell him that he looked cute, but you were worried that he might actually murder you if so.

“That one looks like you,” you pointed out.

Hesitantly, Simon picked up the cat and held it in front of his face. He looked at the collar and saw the cat’s name.

“Even better, it’s got my name,” Simon informed. “Ghost.”

“Ghost?” you repeated.

“They call me Ghost,” Simon casually said before putting the cat next to him.

“Should I be calling you Ghost instead?” you asked.

“I’d rather you don’t,” Simon answered, about to move another cat, but he stopped when he looked at the cat’s collar. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Hearing that, you looked at him, wondering if there was something wrong. Maybe he wanted to leave. Maybe you should not have come here. Maybe he was very uncomfortable.

God, what had you done?

“We… don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” you said. “I just… I thought it’d be funny to actually see you around cats.”

“Oh, it’s very funny. Do you want to know what’s funny?” Simon flatly replied. “This cat also got my name.”

“Simon?” you guessed.

“Riley,” Simon stated.

“Riley,” you repeated. “That’s your—”

“Yeah,” Simon nodded. “I thought you knew.”

“I know nothing about you,” you said. “I should be terrified of you.”

There was a pause.

“Why Ghost?” you asked. “I reckon it has something to do with the mask.”

“You know, sweetheart, I owe you a date, not a story,” Simon brought up.

“People tell stories on dates,” you reasoned, hoping he did not notice how you smiled when he called you sweetheart.

Simon only looked at you for a moment.

“I don’t have a pleasant story,” Simon said. “Except if it’s about my neighbour who I ended up going on a date with.”

Scoffing a smile, you playfully shoved him by the arm. At that brief moment, you felt his arm. That reminded you that you, as weird as even just the thought of it was, had never even seen what his arm looked like.

Maybe his arms looked like the two muscular arms holding hands meme. Now, you started picturing all the possibilities of what his arms looked like. Maybe he had a tattoo, a lot of people in the military had tattoos. Maybe his tattoo had a skull on it. Maybe not.

It just seemed to be his personality in general.

“Fine,” Simon said. “What do you want to know about me? I’ll answer some, but only if you do the same.”

“Deal! I have so many questions,” you stated excitedly.

Simon held up a finger.

“Let’s wait until we’re somewhere better suited for that kind of conversation,” Simon said.

“Let’s go now, then?” you suggested.

“You were so eager to get in here earlier,” Simon recalled.

“I changed my mind,” you shrugged.

The next place you went to was an actual cafe. The one with warm and cold drinks instead of cats.

Simon placed you both in the furthest corner. He sat facing the wall while you sat across him. The nearest window was feet away.  As you arrived earlier, it started raining outside.

Now, the two of you sat with your chosen beverage. Simon had brought his to his lips, but you stopped him by holding his wrist.

Simon looked at your hand for a moment before looking up at you.

“You still have your mask on,” you pointed out.

“Fuck, right,” Simon realised.

Carefully, you removed your hand from his wrist. However, Simon did the exact same thing again without taking his mask off, but you quickly stopped him again by putting your hand on his wrist again.

“Fucking ridiculous,” Simon realised, shaking his head lightly.

You chuckled.

This time, Simon lifted his mask up to his nose, holding it with his thumb, before taking a sip.

At this point, you could see the scruff of a beard that he had, a couple of scars, the tip of his nose, and his lips. His lips would probably be the only thing you thought of for at least the next two weeks.

As soon as Simon lowered back his mask, you looked down at your cup. 

“You know, most people just watch and let me wet my pants,” Simon brought up.

“That’s just mean,” you commented.

“My friend, especially, thinks it’s funny,” Simon added.

“The same one who recommended you that place earlier?” you guessed, lighty smiling at him.

“That exact one,” Simon confirmed. “Uh… soap.”

“Soap?” you repeated.

“People call him Soap,” Simon said.

“What the hell kind of name is Soap? Is it an inside joke?” you asked.

“Not exactly, no. It’s not that pleasant of a story either,” Simon answered. “You see, he’s good at cleaning houses.”

“With… guns?” you continued.

Simon gave you a nod.

“I guess that makes sense,” you said.

Filling the next seconds, the two of you sipped your drink. Simon remembered to lift his mask this time and you could not help but glanced over.

God, you really should not be doing that. What if he really did not want you to see his face?

Simon also accidentally pulled his dog tag when he pulled his mask this time. He let the metal hang in between his pecs. Just looking at that, you felt quite flustered and immediately looked away.

“You know, you can maybe add a zipper to your mask,” you said. “You can maybe add it, like… make it a flap. Like a door.”

“That might actually be a good idea,” Simon said. “That ought to solve most of my problems, but… I tried and it ruined the shape of the mask. Then, if so, I wouldn’t have to bother my neighbour in the middle of the night and ask said neighbour to help me fix my mask.”

“I mean, you can bother your neighbour any time you want, any way possible,” you said.

“How am I supposed to owe my neighbour a date, then?” Simon questioned.

“You could ask your neighbour on a date,” you replied.

“Interesting concept,” Simon nodded.

You chuckled.

There was a little gap in between you two.

“So, are you in the Royal Marine?” you continued. “You seem like one.”

“No. I’m in the Royal Army. Exactly, I’m a… lieutenant in the Special Air Service,” Simon answered.

“What the fuck?” you muttered. “Isn’t that like… super important?”

Simon let out one amused scoff.

“Is that why you wear the mask?” you asked despite not finding the sense in your question.

“The thing is, as long as I’m not a civilian, the mask stays,” Simon explained.

“Are there exceptions?” you continued.

“Jesus, you do have a lot of questions, don’t you?” Simon sighed.

You pouted a little.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“No, it’s alright. You look cute when you’re curious,” Simon stated.

If you were not visibly flustered before, you were now.

That was the start of a very pleasant conversation between you two actually getting to know each other. Simon did not say much about himself, but he was very interested in you. He listened to every single word you said as if it was a need-to-know on a mission.

Although Simon was reluctant to take you to eat dinner outside due to the mask situation, he did take you to a restaurant and ordered food to be taken away for the two of you before you two made your way back to your flats.

It was a long walk. Way longer than when you two left the building earlier this aftertoon. At some point as you walked, Simon dared to put his hand on the small of your back.

Honestly, who would have known that this very intimidating looking person could be so kind and sweet? He was also funny, too. In his own way. He turned out to be one of the most interesting people you had known and you knew him a little better than most people.

In addition, you might have gained the ability to read him a little better and thus enhanced your ability to read other people who were easier to read compared to him.

Wishing the day was not over so soon was not an exaggeration. Simon planted a desire in your heart simply to just take care of him. Maybe ironing his uniform or making sure his mask was straight or brewing him some tea, maybe even tuck him to sleep and washed his face off the warpaint he used around his eyes.

Unfortunately, you soon arrived in your flat building. The two of you eventually got into the lift and out of it.

Simon stopped in front of your door with you.

“Thank you for taking me out today, Simon. I really had fun,” you said.

“We’re even then, yeah?” Simon asked.

“I guess so,” you answered. “However, I will be disappointed if you stop annoying me.”

“Don’t tempt me, I might borrow every single piece of hardware that you have and return none of them until you knock on my door and wonder where your vacuum cleaner is,” Simon replied.

“Just don’t ghost me,” you proudly smiled, flicking your eyebrows.

Simon only looked at you, there was half of an approval in his eyes.

“I’ll see you around,” Simon said as he stepped back.

“Wait,” you called.

Simon stopped on his tracks.

You kissed the tips of your fingers before pressing them on the mouth area of his mask. The next three seconds felt like three hours where Simon only stared into your eyes, stunned. You only gave him a smile.

Your smile seemed to slap him back into the moment.

“You’re gonna owe me for that,” Simon stated.

“Oh, fuck you,” you chuckled.

Here's part 3

hyperfixating on top gun is so fun there's so many shirtless men

Jude and Cardan

Kanej will always be the death of me. Like ur actually joking right? Kaz couldn’t tell inej that he wanted her but grabbed her arm!?? ND TOLD HER TO STAY WITH HIM!!?! Call the cops right now.