Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and The One Time He Does)

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters:  Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW:  Crude language; yearning.

Word Count:  3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone:  he doesn’t have emotions like people do.  He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed.  When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry.  When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.  

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings.  He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time.  He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds.  His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe.  It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you.  In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot.  You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer. 

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help.  He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say.  It’s clumsy.  He hurts in a hundred different places:  his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai. 

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you.  “I take my secret identity very seriously.  If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly.  “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly.  You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently.  “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies. 

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies:  needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape.  Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient.  He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own.  He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him:  makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed.  Your hands are deft but also gentle.  Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently.  Maybe when he was really small.  Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now.  It makes him break out in goosebumps.  He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread.  You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way.  Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out.  “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile.  “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no.  No.  No, I just wanted to mention it.  I’m not asking you to look at it.”  He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him.  Irritates him.  Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies.  You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say.   “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have.  If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better.  “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile.  You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.  

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply.  “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety.  “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.”  He blinks too, behind his visor.  “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do.  “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say.  “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks.  He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place.  They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris.  Vigilante.”  You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder.  You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by.  It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”  

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information.  Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting.  There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you.  “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters.  “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief.  “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night.  Sure.  Okay.  Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude.  Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug.  “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?”  Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger.  You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel.  “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later.  That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does.  He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.  

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy.  His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over.  He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means.  He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose.  It’s the best way he can help Chris:  get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough.  It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better.  Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails.  He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction.  So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night.  He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car.  You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say.  “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown.  He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry.  He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend).  Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.  

“Okay,” you reply softly.  “It’s okay.”

You drive him home.  He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity.  You know his name, his face, where he lives.  Some instrument of vengeance he is.  You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him.  In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him.  “And yet, we’re doing okay.  We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith.  Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.  

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it.  You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.  

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.  

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words.  Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies.  Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.  

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off.  He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake.  It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up.  Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.  

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both.  He’s no virgin.  He fucks.  He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women.  And yet…this feels different.  It feels new.

Peacemaker notices.  “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing.  “Leave her alone.  She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive.  “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique.  Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone.  Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man.  “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him.  It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable.  He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up.  Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.  

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange:  how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep.  How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence.  Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body.  Slowly, carefully.  He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more.  He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his.  He shifts again, gets his arm around you.  Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you.  You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion.  There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet.  “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him.  It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen.  He feels your body go heavy and lax against him.  Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are.  If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks.  Everything’s fine.  I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever:  if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off.  When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up:  Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over.  He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.  

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight.  He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode:  furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.  

Then he loses sight of you. 

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse:  an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there.  The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name.  He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later.  He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet.  He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.  

It’s bad.  It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear.  With terror.  You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations.  He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it.  He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say.  He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home.  Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm.  The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank.  Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.  

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety.  How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying.  How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head.  “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together.  “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies.  “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit.  It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans. 

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all.  You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo.  You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever.  You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions.  The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions:  obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included.  Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings.  He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer.  He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal.  He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t.  He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you.  Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong.  You know Adrian has feelings for you.  You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before.  You’ve had crushes and been the object of them.  You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess.  You know what love feels like.  What a crush feels like.  All that feeling, in so many places:  the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him.  He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move.  This has to be unfamiliar territory for him.  You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take.  You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith.  He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission.  He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take.  The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT.  You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge.  You are healing up nicely.  You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!”  His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous.  “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up.  “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!”  He grins at you.  “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying.  “Just this time.  Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.”  The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you.  His brows are knit in confusion.  

No sense in backtracking now.  “Like a date.  Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.”  A beat.  “With me?  Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm.  The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies.  “Hell yeah, dude.  I’d love that.”

Gaz, phone recording, entering Soap's room while he's sleeping: WAKE UP SLEEPYHEAD!

Soap: ugh, what's going on?

Y/n, sitting up behind him: what the fuck man

Ghost, appearing from under the bedsheets: fuck, what time is it?

Gaz:

Brian Van Holt as Bo Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 10/??

It Was Never Meant To Hurt

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

It’s been 4 days since she’s seen him last. Four days since they gave into each other and she woke up next to an empty bed. It hurts more than she cares to admit, to be used and discarded.

Masterlist

Four days.

Four days since she woke up to an empty bed, the wonderful memories of the night before, the touches and whispered promises against skin going sour the longer she stared at the empty spot next to her.

He’d taken his boots, the shirts he sometimes left in her army-issued wardrobe, and even the pillow smelled nothing like him anymore.

It was almost like he’d erased every trace of evidence that he might be in her life.

And it hurts like a bitch.

“Stay?” She’d whispered into the crook of his neck, shuddering breaths shared between the two of them as she lay there pliant and sweaty in his arms.

“If you insist, love.” He’d whispered, lips pressed to her temple, a deep, satisfied sound rumbling in his chest. It was the best she’d felt in so long, safe and guarded and blissful just laying there with the person she’s loved for over a year now.

They’d been together for a few months now, shared heated glances during meetings, lingering touches before missions, teasing remarks through the comms. It had been good, they had been good. She thought Simon had come to trust her more with the way he’d taken his mask off for her the first time he kissed her.

She’d tried to convince herself it was all in her head at first. That Ghost just wanted his clothes back. Keeping his boots in his own room was more convenient after all, and scents normally faded away, didn’t they?

It was easy to pretend at first, to go about her day like nothing was wrong, like there wasn’t a gaping hole in her chest expanding with every step she took, every dark corner she glances in hoping to see a glimpse of that mask of his.

She’d lost hope on the third day when she finally spotted Ghost in the hallway for the first time since that night…

And he’d walked right past her.

Not even a glance.

She remembers standing there for a moment, stunned at the blatant ignoring, the soft footsteps fading away indicating his departure.

So was she just…another notch in his bedpost?

Was he just playing with her to get her in his bed? It made sense. He’d gotten what he’d wanted and if that really was the case, there was no reason to talk to her and keep her around other than for their missions, was there?

She wants to laugh, or cry? Scream, maybe? Would that make it feel better, loosen the tightness in her chest at the indignation of being used and discarded like-like she was someone cheap?

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forces her feet to keep moving to Price’s office. This feeling could stay lodged inside her, but it didn’t mean she could disregard her duties for it.

Still, hot, angry tears prick at her eyes, ones she refuses to let fall lest they show the world her inner turmoil, her embarrassment, and anger.

                                · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  

Four days.

Four days since Ghost last felt anything close to content.

Clenching his jaw, he focuses on the methodical movements of the pistol in his hand, checking the capacity, reloading and firing off a clip.

One, two, three.

Head, neck, heart.

Three lethal shots.

Three days since he last felt her touch.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers the weapon a fraction, trying to get his thoughts together. Ghost was a cold man, he knew how to push things aside and focus on the task at hand, but he never could seem to push her out of his mind.

Even now, in the middle of practicing in the base’s shooting range, every time there’s a moment void of the bang of a shot fired, his thoughts drift to her as if his mind needs her to fill the physical absence left behind.

“Fucks sake.” He mumbles under his breath, switching out the bullets.

He loves her too much.

The day Simon Riley loses her is the day he fears he’ll lose whatever’s left of him. The shattered, broken pieces of a man that she had somehow stitched together into something worth loving in his eyes.

All his broken pieces are jagged and sharp, nicking and cutting the fingers of anyone who tries to piece them back together.

Her hands are bloody with the effort.

It’s why he needs her to understand, needs to stay away from her because Ghost is not someone who is easy to love. Inevitably he’ll put her in harm’s way, taint her with his darkness to a point where even she may consider it unforgivable.

Avoiding is easier than giving it a chance.

Ghost calls it a tactical retreat.

The door opens, and he doesn’t hear it creak but it’s through pure instinct alone that Ghost spares a glance to it, catching wide eyes with his own.

His body hums with anticipation, with the itch to reach out and touch, grab, feel. She looks…tired, he registers. They’re still staring at each other, his gaze impassive, hers surprised and…was that a flash of anger and hurt? They stay exactly where they are.

She’s expecting him to say something, Ghost knows. Maybe to break the silence between them that’s been lasting the past half week, maybe to explain and clear the air.

He turns away from her silently, fires off a couple of shots at the nearest target.

It was for the best.

Ghost was a selfish man, but not selfish enough to cause someone he loves harm. Being with him was a liability, he’d realised that when she’d drifted off to sleep in his arms, an action so full of trust it made his cold heart twist. He has no doubt she can handle herself. She was part of the 141 after all, handpicked by Price.

But at the end of the day, she was still human. Not immortal.

So was he, if the painful ache in his heart was anything to go by.

He half expects her to leave, so he’d be mildly surprised and frustrated when she plants herself a few feet away from him, bringing up her own weapon. She fires.

Three shots.

Heart, heart, heart.

There’s nothing but the popping of bullets for the next few minutes, though Ghost never seems to look away from her for more than a couple of seconds. Her movements become more agitated, more jerky like she’s getting progressively more antsy.

It’s only when her gun clatters to the floor and she lets out a pained groan that he snaps his head towards her instinctually.  

Clutching onto her hand, she glares at the gun underneath. She’d touched the hot barrel, her fingertips an angry burning red.

“What?” She snaps, the frown on his face deepening when his eyes flicker to her face. “Finally got something to say?”

“You should get that to medbay.” Is all he says, turning back to his own weapon.

A beat of silence, then a huff of frustration, and suddenly she’s right in his face, standing so close if he breathed in deep enough their chests would brush. It jars him on the inside, being so close to her after so long but outwardly he pins her down with a calm, blank stare.

“So that’s it then, Simon?” She says, eyes narrowed. “We’re back to this now?”

He clenches his jaw but says nothing. It’s the wrong move because it seems to irritate her further. “You just-you left me.” She exclaims. “Acting like I don’t exist, actively ignoring me? What the fuck, Simon?” Mixed in with the fire in her eyes is a layer of hurt which he spots easily.

How does he explain himself?

She doesn’t give him the chance.

“I mean, fuck-” She exhales sharply, turning her head to the side for a moment. When she turns back his heart drops at the light sheen of dampness in her eyes. “If I knew you just wanted to sleep with me I wouldn’t have gone along with it.” Her voice is the barest bit less angry now, more…defeated. “You led me on for five months. Five months. Just to get me in my bed and call it a day.” She barks a laugh that makes a chill run down his spine. “You’re a heartless bastard, you know that?”

Her voice cracking at the end makes reality crash back down to him.

Muted horror creeps into him as he takes in what she’s saying, what she’s assumed.

She thinks he used her. Just wanted to get into her pants and toss her aside.

For the first time in years, Simon Riley feels dread.

“What was it? Was I not good enough for Ghost?” She mocks, but it’s almost like she’s talking to herself, reflecting in some sick way. “You saw someone who was easy on the eyes and took it as a challenge, is that it? For what, some kind of intrinsic satisfaction?” She runs a hand in her hair, briefly pulling at the roots before letting go. “You shouldn’t have pretended it meant anything to you when-”

“You don’t know anything.” He cuts her off with a low voice.

“I think I understand enough.”

“You don’t.”

“Then explain.” She exclaims, shoving him hard. The man doesn’t budge, hands snapping up to grab her wrists and keep them pressed to his chest. “Try and talk yourself out of this once you mangy-”

“It’s for your own good.” He says.

“Who the hell are you to decide what’s good for me?”

“I’m not easy, love.” He says, tightening his grip when she tries to pull her wrists away. “This was never going to be easy.”

“Don’t call me that.” She hisses, and damn if Ghost was a more emotive man it would have made him wince. “I was ready for that.” She clenches her fists. “I knew it would never be easy, but you’re making it fucking impossible by avoiding me.”

“You’ll get hurt.” He sighs, frustrated that she just doesn’t seem to understand.

“You’ve already hurt me.” Her voice breaks.

He blinks, her words rattling around in his mind for a second.

He has.

Simon has hurt her. Perhaps more than any physical injury probably could. Tears prick at her eyes, just barely about to fall, and he’s never seen her look so tired, so exhausted, and shaken even after some of their toughest missions.

Simon has seen her get shot in the leg and walk it off without a trace of tears, yet here she stands in front of him on the verge of breaking down because Simon made her feel used.

Worthless.

Because of him.

Shit.

Releasing a shaky breath at the realisation, Ghost lets his hands travel up her arms until they graze her shoulders, grabbing gently. She lets him.

It’s more than he deserves after what he’s let her believe for the past four days.

Dread, loathing, and anger churn through his gut. Not at her, never at her. At himself, for thinking that pushing away someone so strong-willed could ever result in anything but catastrophe for the both of them.

Screw him and his attempts at being selfless.

Simon Riley is a selfish man at heart.

He pulls her into his chest, sighing in muted relief as she pressed her forehead against his chest. Like she used to.

Like it belongs.

“Thought you’d be safer if you kept your distance.” He says low and accented into her temple, brushing his lips against it through his mask like he did the night he left. “I realised it that night.”

“So you left?” She whispers shakily, hands clutching onto the back of his t-shirt. “Instead of talking to over with me, you just fucking left?”

His throat tightens uncomfortably. “Thought it was best.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” If he feels her tears soak through his shirt, he doesn’t bring it up.

“I see that now.” He tangles a hand into her hair, and the familiarity of it nearly knocks the breath out of her lungs. “Didn’t know it’d hurt you this much.”

“I didn’t think-…” Her breath hitches, and she pulls away to try again, meeting his gaze with tear-stained eyes but a demanding, soft gaze. “I didn’t think it’d be that easy for you to leave.”

Screw him. His hands tighten around her and he shakes his head firmly.

“You think it was easy to leave you?” He scoffs, disbelief painting his voice. “You’re out of your mind if so.”

She blinks, stilling as if it’s new information and he’ll admit to feeling the slightest bit remorse that he’d led her to believe that he’d have no problem leaving behind one of the only good things in his life just like that. Without a second thought.

“It was harder than any goddamn op I’ve been through.” He rumbles, watching her eyes widen. “Didn’t think I’d get past your door before turning back.”

Her silence unsettles him, because she doesn’t speak for a moment, just takes him in. Weighing him, weighing his words and his actions. Five months of progress against one night of fucking up.

Simon won’t admit that he holds his breath, knowing that her next word would be a declaration of where the both of them would go from here.

Her answer comes in the form of her wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

The relief that hits him is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

“I’ll fix it.“ He mutters, rubbing circles into her waist. “I’ll fix this, sweetheart.”

“You better,” she whispers into his skin, her eyes fluttering shut.

Requests Are Open!

(30/06/2023)

LEAVE YOUR BOYFRIEND

character/s: eren jaeger x afab!reader

SYNOPSIS: eren isn’t very happy to sit back and watch his best friend, who he is very much in love with, date another man. everyone has there breaking point, you were his. (4.2k)

WARNINGS: 18+/mdni, cheating (not on reader or eren), slight angst, praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex, no condom (remember to wrap it up y’all), heavy cursing, a little bit of soft eren mixed with simp eren, some mean eren sprinkled in there, a dash of pining, mocking, technical exhibitionism, some degradation, i hope i don’t miss anything

A/N: i seriously don’t remember sitting down to write this, also eren finds literally any and every way to insult your boyfriend

Keep reading

What binds us // 2

John 'Soap' MacTavish / fem!Reader

Summary:   Returning home as soon as he is able, Soap can‘t help but hope that his wife will reconsider their divorce. 

Content:   civilian wife, lots of hurt/angst and some comfort, divorce (?), swearing, coming-home-from-deployment

Word Count:   2.6k

Part:   1/2/3 <- previous chapter next chapter ->

Notes: I finally got around to finishing the second chapter! Had to write this one in my phone notes, so please forgive any mistakes you might find. I felt so bad for him halfway through, but tried to stay strong. 💔 They also own a cat, everybody say hi to Salome - 🐈

True to his word, Price had arranged a flight home within 72 hours of his first message, and Soap didn‘t even bat an eye at the eye-watering extra fees for his checked luggage and business class upgrade. 

He‘d been all wired up since his wife had called him. He snapped and shouted at everyone except Lieutenant Ghost (he wasn‘t suicidal enough for that - yet) that came too close, asked stupid questions or even dared to simply breathe too loudly in his proximity. Soap felt himself unravel at the edges, one carefully placed stitch at a time.

Only the extensive therapy he‘d been dragged to over the years gave him enough of an outside perspective on the turmoil inside of himself to realize that all that molten hot anger was not directed at the useless driver, or the informant who didn‘t seem to be able shut the fuck up for a moment.

No. Soap knew that all the irritation and itch to hurt was directed at himself. That he‘d messed up badly this time, that it had been going on for months and he‘d been too focused on other things to see it. Or maybe he‘d just suppressed the sadness in his wife‘s voice, the silences and half-assed answers when he asked her about her day and immediately accepted her fine‘s and the usual‘s.

He had been such a colossal prick looking back, it was kind of astonishing that she‘d held out and waited for him as long as she had. Soap had scrolled back through their conversations, had listened to some of her older voice messages, read his own excuses for cancelling again and again.

And even though she‘d assured him that his training and the missions and his career was more important, he should have been better than that. Should have watched out for her, cared more - not lost himself in the work that ate away at his soul and mind when the cure for all his aches was waiting at home.

Soap rubbed over his eyes angrily as he stared out the plane window, long legs stretched far away from himself. The seat to his left was blissfully empty thanks to his second reservation under her name. The stewardess had given up on offering food, but steadily poured him another glass of Scotch when he pressed the little button on the menu screen.

His eyes felt dry and raw, and Soap wasn‘t ashamed to admit to himself that he‘d been on the verge of tears for three days now. His wife had tried calling him twice more since he‘d hung up, then texted him that he shouldn’t do anything stupid. 

Don‘t come home for this, John. I will always be here for you regardless. 

He brushed his thumb over the message, and was silently thankful for the forced airplane mode. The drinks in his system made his thoughts run even wilder, insecurities and fears that most army men carried in their hearts rising up in his throat.

Is there someone else? He wanted to type back. Is that why you don‘t want me to fix it?

But Soap knew she‘d never hurt him in such a way, that she truly thought they‘d be better off on their own. He would just have to prove her wrong.

Soap barely registered the landing, the extensive security screenings and double checking of his gun licenses, then military clearance. It was all standard procedure, he was able to answer their questions in his sleep. 

The only difference was that his wife wasn‘t there to greet him, wasn‘t standing ready with one of those airport luggage trolleys that always seemed to have at least one jammed wheel. The knowledge didn’t stop him from looking for her, traitorous heart beating fast and then dropping into his stomach at her absence. 

Glasgow wasn‘t very busy at this time of night, on a Tuesday no less, and the taxi driver was content to let the meter run when Soap asked him to wait outside the 24 hours supermarket. He picked up the disgusting stuffed olives she loved so much, briefly contemplating flowers before abandoning the thought. They‘d never been that kind of couple, and he didn‘t want to start putting on a mask when what he really needed to do was strip himself.

For the first time since they‘d bought their small house he was glad that she hadn‘t listened to him about completely replacing all the street facing windows with milk glass. Soap was able to see her clearly, sitting at the low sofa table with her legs tucked underneath herself and their fat ginger cat on her lap as she typed away at something. 

Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail, face bare and pale in the glow of the laptop, and he oddly felt like he was intruding on a scene not meant for his eyes.

It took him a couple more moments to unglue his feet from the sidewalk, to push open the rusty door of the little path lined with colored pebbles that ended in their front door. He‘d been meaning to replace it, along with their postbox - when had that been? Two years ago now?

He fiddled with his keys, anxious. What did it say about him that he felt like a stranger standing outside his own home?

Shaking his head and dropping his heavy bags, he rung the doorbell instead.

There was a beat of silence, and Soap could just picture his wife raising her head away from the screen, how Salome had probably squeezed herself under the armchair, hissing. Neither one of the women in his life liked it when unannounced visitors came around.

Then the faint glow from the livingroom became brighter, he could see it through the colorful glass shards of the entrance door - how the dark shape of her moved closer. She hesitated on the other side. He wondered if he could take the blow of her not answering the door, or if his heart would shatter right here on their doorstep with the faint drizzle of rain dampening his curls.

But then she cracked the door open, her big eyes peering up at him for a moment. They stared at each other, and then she exhaled shakily, resting her forehead on the chipped wood. 

"You came," his wife whispered, and Soap ducked his head down to her level, shoulder against the frame as he fought hard not to beg her to open the door further and let him in.

"f'course I did," he rasped, shocked at the raw need in his voice. "Said I would, didn’t I?"

She blinked her eyes back open, and it seemed like she was holding back words heavy on her tongue. That was okay, he knew what she was thinking anyway: wouldn‘t have been the first time you said one thing and did another.

"But you were out on a mission."

There was no question, but he nodded anyway.

"I was."

"And then you left early."

"Yes, ma‘am." 

She snorted, then pulled open the door more firmly and stepped aside. Soap stumbled inside, immediately assaulted by warmth and the smell of her that permeated their home. It was dizzying and intoxicating and it made him want to curl up in a ball and weep.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, apparently unbothered that it was two in the morning and that he was dripping all over her nice new carpet in the entryway. 

"Starving," he breathed, then followed her like a lost puppy as she disappeared into the kitchen. 

Soap felt wrong-footed, clumsy and awkward as he wrung his hands and watched her reheat a plate of spaghetti.

His wife hugged herself around the middle, staring at the rotating dish in the microwave.

He wanted to tell her to be careful as she took it out with her bare hands instead of using the cute oven mitts she‘d gotten from her sister, but all he managed was a weak thanks as she put it down next to him on the kitchen island. 

They stood there, and she didn‘t meet his eyes anymore as Soap stared down at the crown of her head. They were close and yet there seemed to be a chasm, an ocean impossible to cross right between them. He might as well have been back in Afghanistan.

"Baby," he whispered, clutching the countertop so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She shook her head, then leaned away from him with yet another shaky exhale and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

"Mo ghràidh," Soap tried again, undeterred. "Can I hug you?"

"I-" she started, voice thick. "I don‘t know if I want that."

"Okay," he agreed, heart stinging. "Will you keep standing with me just like this then?"

She nodded slowly, leaning against the counter next to him and staring at the floor. 

When he didn‘t move, too busy drinking her in, she nudged him softly in the side. 

"It‘ll go cold."

"I‘m not actually hungry."

"Oh." It was a faint sound, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "I see."

They stood like that for some time, the rain heavier now as it hit the windows in a steady rhythm. Soap almost jumped out of his skin when something warm and furry circled around his legs, purring.

"Fuckin‘ cat is lucky I‘m not carrying," he swore, nudging Salome with his boot in greeting. She purred even louder, rubbing her chin along his shins. 

His wife giggled, then scooped the gingery monster into her arms. The one green eye that wasn‘t blind yet sparkled in the half-dark, and their cat meowed loudly at Soap.

"She just missed you," she smiled, kissing the scarred ears for a moment.

And did you? He wanted to ask, but swallowed the words down. It seemed like he‘d reached his limit of things he was able to leave unsaid for the night though, because the next question slipped out before he could stop himself.

"Did you call the lawyer again?" 

She stiffened a little, then glanced up at him from behind long eyelashes.

"Yeah," his wife said slowly, thinking hard. "She wasn‘t very happy that I called you. Thinks you‘ll talk me out of it." 

Damn right I am.

"What," he scoffed, arms crossed in defense of what might follow next. "She wanted you to just… send the finished papers?"

"Something like that."

Soap ground his teeth hard, trying not to panic again. 

"Well, I‘m glad you didn‘t listen."

"I wanted to," she confessed, and now it was him who couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. "I wanted it so badly, John. I‘ve been miserable and alone, and our whole life just seems to suffocate me recently."

"I‘m sorry," he said, and meant it with his whole heart. "I know I fucked up, that I should have been better for you-"

"No," she interrupted him, and reached out a hand, resting it on his bicep. Her small fingers were cold but it made him feel warm regardless. "I didn’t need you to be better, I just wanted you to be there."

His throat closed up, and Soap let his head drop far enough to rest his chin on his chest, trying to keep the tears at bay. Their cat meowed between them, as he rested one hand on hers without glancing up.

"I lost sight of what was most important t’me," he whispered. "‘s not an excuse but… bein’ out there, it just fucks up your perspective. Days bleed into one big messed up pile of monotonous tasks, violence, and death. I‘m not a good man, never pretended to be. You knew that when you married me, and never blamed me for it. And… I love you so fucking much, it hurts to even just think-"

He had to pause, drag one hand over his face roughly. 

His wife sighed softly, then rested her cheek on his arm where their hands were joined. 

"I know I hurt you, badly. And I know that you said you‘d stay in my life as a friend, but you‘re not. You never have been. You‘re my soulmate, my wife, and I-" Soap swallowed, torn between wanting to get it all out and crawl deeper into himself. "I want us to try again. Price offered three weeks of leave, but if I have to find a doctor that can testify how fucked in the head I am so I can stay longer, I will." 

"John!" She gasped, grabbing his chin to force him into facing her again. "You know that a bad psych eval might mean the end of your entire career!" 

Thinking about that hurt, but not as much as her phone call had. 

"I‘d do it for you," he whispered back. "I‘ll say that-"

"Shut up," she hissed, then dropped Salome on the countertop and shoved the cold spaghetti towards him. "Eat this, and then you‘ll go sleep on the sofa. I don‘t want to hear any of this nonsense."

"But-"

"No."

Chastened, Soap carried his plate into the dim living room and tried very hard not to take a peek at the still open website on his wife‘s laptop. There was a strange sense of relief when he noticed that all their wedding and travel pictures were still up on the walls, and he fiddled with his ring as he slumped heavily on the sofa.

The food was good as always, and he didn’t try to protest when she dragged in two pillows and a blanket, carefully putting it down next to him. 

She stood there for a moment, looking down at him with soft, sad eyes. Soap balanced his plate on a cushion nearby, then gently pulled her closer by the hips until she stood between his legs and he was able to bury his face in her stomach.

His wife didn’t move for a few long heartbeats, then stroked through his mohawk and all the way down to the top of his spine. Soap exhaled sharply, and hugged her, unable to speak as she comforted him when it really should have been the reverse. 

And much, much later, when the lack of sleep and constant worry finally caught up with him, she didn’t comment on the tear-stained blotches on her shirt, or the way his head hit the pillow way too hard. She draped the feathery soft blanket all around him, and the perfume of her skin and laundry detergent was the most heavenly thing he‘d smelt in months.

Just as he closed his swollen and dry eyes, his wife bent down - Soap held his breath as she kissed his forehead and cheekbone.

"We can talk again in the morning, my love," she whispered, and all he managed to do was squeeze her hand one last time before she packed up her things and left.

Tiny, clawed footsteps - then the sudden heavy weight of their cat on his hip startled him from a restless slumber, and Soap groggily patted the gnarled ears as he instinctively listened out for danger nearby. 

"You think we still got a chance, old girl?" He asked, and Salome meowed back. 

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