#FREE FIRE

[kittenonpluto]

Cillian Murphy | beaten, bloodied, and bruised feat. : Red Lights (2012), Peaky Blinders (2013-2022), Free Fire (2016), The Delinquent Season (2018), & 28 Days Later (2002)

[rogerdeakinsdp]

Cillian Murphy + favorite music moments

happy birthday, Robin! (@madeline-kahn)

[pennyserenade]

picture this | chris o'doyle x reader

summary | there is an american woman, famous for her place in the background of protest photograph, and there is man from the ira. one week of every summer their infamous lives join and they forge a simple something a part from it all. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | ira mention, vietnam war mention, smut, a little bit of an age gap (reader is around 30, chris is 40), friends with benefits, co-workers (?) with benefits, protected sex, fingering, pinv, consensual sex, tender word count | 3.8k a/n | this took way too long to write and i'm sorry about that, but i hope you enjoy it!

Near the middle where the bone protruded on her knee, there was a dainty, thin scar that grew fainter with time. Somewhere–in past publications and museums, in scrapbooks and freshly-printed history books–the scar is being newly formed: she is twenty-two, attending her senior year of college and nothing makes more sense to her than standing up for other people. There is a sign in her hand, uncomplicated in both its design–white board, black lettering–and its demand (PEACE IN VIETNAM). Her youthful face is twisted in pain, her fingers folding the edges of the sign in agony as one knee touches the cement. If the camera had shuttered one second later, you would watch as the other gave way too, and you would see her mouth open wide to let out a scream that would only be masked in the cacophony of other screams.

She is not front in center in the photograph, but near the middle, only captured because of the chance way the bodies moved in that single, precise moment. Behind her is a crowd of soldiers, no older than any of the other students, who will later claim they did not strike first. They will accuse a dusty blond boy who died a week later from injuries he sustained during this photograph. This happened at a college campus she thought she would love forever. Now the degree she got there collected dust in a drawer, and she spent much of her free time trying to do anything that mattered.

Tonight, Chris found she was uncharacteristically romantic, full of cheap, potent beer and the inane idea that because they met once a year and fucked without purpose, that what they did was markedly adult. It wasn’t that she really thought that, but was an easy notion to be taken with; friends she had known in college were getting married and settling down, or already had, and the most consistent relationship she’d had in five years was this annual, week-long endeavor. Of course she knew that what they did was more sophomoric than trying at a real relationship and failing, but she could delude herself into thinking it was more mature on the basis that she did not love him and he did not love her. She told herself because they liked each other intellectually, personally, apart from having sex, it was different:. They had shared interests. He really did think she was clever. When he laughed, the laugh came from some place within him, an innocuous place that did not have coal to burn from in Ireland, but stirred happily back to life with her. When he kissed her, he did it for pleasure. He let her dress and undress herself. He lit her cigarettes the way he did for other acquaintances. When they were at her apartment like this, locked together in the quiet hours of the night, she was unabashed, witty, the least vain and neurotic version of herself.

Chris’ leather jacket hung on the back of a chair in her kitchen, his shoes tucked vertically by the door. His arm sloped over the back of the sofa, hovering near her body but not quite reaching it. In his current state, he looked at perfect ease: dress shirt unbuttoned, the glimmer of his silver St. Christopher’s pendant shining beneath the harsh lighting, a content smile on his face. If one were to glimpse inside her home, one might think he was a permanent resident.

“For a man so supposedly out of touch with the world, that mustache of yours is pretty in vogue, don’t you think?” she teased warmly, nodding towards his mouth. Her beer bottle sweated against the coffee table, without a coaster to protect the wood beneath it.

Growing more comfortable, Chris’ hand moved down, his fingers grazing against her knee. A flush of heat rose to her cheeks almost immediately, and he knew that the touch excited her, simple as it was. She watched carefully as he leaned down, quiet, and pressed his lips to the scar there. It was intimate, too familiar. She was an adult, steady minded, logical, and yet the simple act drove her to wordlessness. This was what a week with Chris always looked like, why she so craved it and feared it: it dizzied her, grounded her in a place that had not ever existed since she was twenty-two. It came back with tenacity whenever he stepped into her life.

Chris had no shame, leveling a satisfied smirk in her direction. He took in the sight of her face, his hand traveling further up her leg, exploring the width of her smooth thigh beneath his hand. She became tense under his touch, taut with anticipation. He nudged her legs apart with a tap of his fingers. Slowly, as if she had never done it before - not for him, not for anyone - she spread them apart.

“That’s right, my girl,” he cooed. Beneath the fabric of his tight slacks, his cock began to stir in interest.

This was a ritual his body knew what was going to happen next–because it always happened next. His pale blue eyes went a shade darker, the pupils widening as he trailed over the insides of her thighs with his fingers. Up close like this, he could smell the perfume on her, a heady, intoxicating scent that he relished as she leaned back on the couch for him. He rose up to her neck, tonguing at the flesh nearest to her throat, humming contentedly as her thighs attempted to close around his explorative hand.

He nudged alongside her jawline with his nose, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses on her neck. Beneath her skirt, he began rubbing soothing circles on her thighs. He could feel the heat emitting from her cunt, was thoroughly taken with the idea that in this state, he could just as well do anything he wanted to her. For months now, he’d been thinking of this, of her — of her soft whimpers, of the scrunch of her face as she came, of the taste of her, acidic and lovely. He’d palmed himself in the dark of night too many times to count, re-imagining the moments she hung up her inhibitions for him. He wanted her more than he could bring himself to admit.

He reached up and felt for the outline of her underwear. There was nothing. “No knickers?” he murmured against the warmth of her skin.

She shook her head, almost coy.

Chris pressed his lips to hers then. At first a light peck, the feeling of her lips against his was better than he remembered - better than anything he could possibly imagine - and he could not help drawing himself more closely to her. His hand carded through her hair, and when she opened his mouth for him, he groaned softly, ghosting his mouth above her own. They sat like that for a moment, staring at one another, measuring the depths of each other’s want before his tongue touched hers, and she eagerly gripped on the side of his shirt, pulling his body over her own. His feather touches on her thighs crept higher and higher until his fingers ghosted over her cunt. She canted her hips up, pleading silently, as his tongue ran over the top of her mouth, possessive and needy.

“What’s a matter, darlin’? No one touched you while I was away?” he teased. The Irish lilt drove her wild as it spread itself across the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Her nails dug into his side and Chris relished in the sting of it – at this something painful, that could also be nice. There was always a terrible, incessant part of him that wanted to know that things could still be nice.

She attempted to mold her form to his again, mewling from his curious lack of inattention. Chris grinned – nearly beamed – as if in wanting him, she was granting him some longed desired freedom. He knew her cunt ached for him; he felt the heat of it as his hand cascaded further up. Instead of touching her, he brushed lightly over her, grazing everywhere except the spots that would do anything for her. A protest finally rose up in her throat, but as Chris pushed the fabric of her skirt around her waist, whistling at the sight of her before him, it only came out as a weak sound instead. She looked at him, glassy eyed. Even in the dim lighting, he could see her glisten.

The alcohol made her pliant, but not incapable; whereas sober she probably wouldn’t let his curious eyes linger as long as they were, she allowed it now, slightly thrilled. The feeling ran up her spine when he brought fingers to her, spreading her puffy lips apart. She stifled a moan, gripping the edge of her couch, arching into his touch. With Chris, nothing ever managed to feel lewd; it felt like the most correct thing in the world, like he was drawing up a map and saying ‘this is where you are, this is where you belong, this is what you’re meant to do.’ It made her dizzy, how much she wanted him to merely touch her – not to mention how badly she wanted his cock, his tongue, anything at all. She wanted to tell him. To say: you could do anything you want with me. I’ll lie on the carpet, naked, let you look forever if you just keep looking at me like that, making me feel like this. Keep making me want you, just this much.

She didn't feel bad about it all—it made her feel strangely, inexplicably whole. Better because she didn’t love him, because she only liked him, and he only liked her, and yet they still wanted to touch one another like this, look at each other like that. She’d waited her whole life to feel that way.

“You’re mine,” he told her. The voice sounded as it came from deep within him, a place he didn’t rightly know existed until it did and he couldn’t help but reveal it. “Aren’t you? My girl, waiting for my fingers–” he circled over her opening, watching blurry eyed the way it closed around nothing “--waiting for my cock, wearing no knickers, hoping that I’ll what?” When they made eye contact, she found she never wanted to tear her eyes away from him again. He looked like he could devour her whole. “That I’d notice, fuck you soon as I seen you?”

He clicked his tongue, entering a single one of his thick fingers into her cunt. He tightened his jaw, watching the way it disappeared into the warmth of her. She was wet as hell. When she pushed at his shoulder, squirming a little beneath him, his lips curled up at the end into a small, genuine grin. He liked the way her face contorted, how she pushed even though she wanted more.

“That f–feels good,” she moaned.

“So fucking wet–” He entered another finger into her.

His nose once more rubbed along the smooth outline of her face. How badly he wanted to know the entire shape of her–to reach inside, extract a piece to take home. His fingers rubbed against the spongy top of her walls, and he measured the beat of her heart, the wavering of her breath, the ghost of her against his skin as he adjusted above her. His other hand grazed beneath the fabric of her shirt, peeling it up.

As he hung his head, a shag of hair concealed his face. She pinned it back just as he licked just above her breast. Her body arched up towards his own and he groaned, pulling his now wet fingers out of her and gripping at her hip. He pinned her against him, knocked his nose against hers, before kissing her; he sucked at her bottom lip, ran his tongue over the back of her teeth.

Chris wanted her to make a mess of him, and to let him make a mess of her. He wanted her spread and wet, wanted to plunge his cock deeply inside of her, wanted to run his tongue over the creases between her legs, wanted to suck her clit, bite her nipples, to see her mouth around his cock, his fingers, wanted to watch her pupils dilate, her mouth form into a neat ‘o’, to hear the thud of her heart against his ear, a sound that would no doubt make his own heart beat quicker, and more happily than it had in months.

“Please,” she told him, and he couldn’t resist.

Her fingers found the buttons on his dress shirt and diligently began to undo them as he reached between their bodies to push down his slacks. As she moved the shirt down his arms, he caught her lips against own again.

“D’you have a condom?” he asked, urgent.

“Over there.“ She pointed to the drawer beside them. He kissed her again before leaning over and grabbing the pack out of the assortment of junk she had stored there.

His brows furrowed as he took one of the wrappers out of the pack. He tried not to think entirely much about the fact that there was empty space where others had been, and tore the end as she hooked her fingers beneath his underwear and drew them down around his hips.

Swallowing, he took himself in his hand. As he pinched the tip of the latex, she reached out, stilling his hands. Before he could ask her what she was doing, she was doing it. He watched with widened eyes as she put her mouth around the weeping tip of his cock, taking him slowly into the warmth of her mouth. His fingers gripped the back of the couch and he sucked in a shallow breath. “Jesus Mary—“ he uttered, face tinting red. Her eyes glanced up and he nearly shuddered; they were glassy, impish, delighted as she flattened her tongue on the underside of his cock, tracing the vein up.

He felt drunk when she hummed around him — everything going straight to his brain all of the sudden. What she could not put in her mouth, she stroked with her hand. Chris could not peel his eyes from her. She’d done this before, of course, but never with so much self-possession. Saliva glistened on his cock and cornered the edges of her lips as she pulled back. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. To tell her good girl and watch the way the praise settled over her skin. But it all happened too quickly; she was already moving off of his cock before the words could come up. “

Now,” she told him, still holding him in her hand.

Chris understood; he nodded and adroitly peeled the condom over himself.

She laid back, spreading her legs apart to make room for him. He looked down at her, reverent, but still with the mind to be clever. “Mind me if I’m wrong, but I thought you women liked a bit of foreplay?” he joked, running his finger alongside her thigh.

Her lips mirrored his own. “This entire day’s been foreplay.” Her own fingers sprawled against his stomach, wrapping around his sides. She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Like you said, I’ve wanted you to take me as soon as you saw me.”

It didn’t take much more convincing for him. His head dipped, his mouth on hers as he guided her back on the couch. She wrapped a leg around him, their tongues rolling against one another’s as he positioned himself over her. Even through the cotton of his undershirt, he could feel her pebbled nipples against his chest. He sighed, kissing at her jaw, her neck, leaving wet kisses over her collarbone. Reaching between her legs, he ran two fingers through her folds, testing how slick she was for him. He sucked hard on the skin over her breast—hard enough to leave a bruise—and hummed agreeably as she coated his fingers.

“My naughty, naughty American,” he delighted. He spread her folds apart with his fingers, rubbing over her core teasingly. She looked him in the eye, mouth parting to let mouth a silent moan.

Chris repositioned, replacing his fingers with his cock, rubbing the head of it through her folds. He went slack jawed with her as he teased the tip inside of her, stretching her entrance with the fat head of it. Her nails, which had been ghosting over his skin, dug in slightly. After a few moments, he pulled back out, much to both of their dismay.

“Don’t know if you’re wet enough,” he whispered against her lips, grinding his hips in an upward motion. She whined, pouting.

“I am,” she insisted.

“Not for me,” he replied, his hand reaching back between their bodies. He pressed two fingers inside of her, grinning as her brows drew together. “You’re mine,” he told her again, dragging his fingers along her walls. “You can fill yourself with whatever or whoever you like while I’m gone, but I want it to be known that this—“ he rubbed the top of her cunt, reaching a deep part of her that made her squirm. “—is mine. All fucking mine.”

She was intoxicated, the heady fumes of desire spreading out around them. He thrust his fingers inside of her, widening them apart to stretch her for him. Wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, she brought him down to kiss her. He did, parting from her only to cast his translucent eyes down to where he was touching her.

“Fuck, I’m wet enough, Chris,” she said murmured his lips, frustrated. He laughed.

“Not enough. Want you dripping,” he said back, a bit stern. She could see it, suddenly, the way she hadn’t ever been able to before: an etch of seriousness that told her he could be a somber man. She found it terribly attractive. She sucked at the end of his tongue.

“If you fuck me properly, I will be,” she retorted, drawing her fingers around his sides, up to his back. She traced alongside his spine.

He scoffed, though she could see in his eyes he liked the teasing.

“You’re not being very nice to me. Don’t know if I should.” They both watched as he dragged his wet fingers up to her puffy clit. He traced wide, light circles around it. She held her breath, drawing her legs up involuntarily for him.

“You’re clenching around nothing, baby. What a pity.”

“Chris—“ she breathed out. “Chris.”

“Yes, that’ll do,” he nodded in approval, righting himself over her again. He applied more pressure on her clit.

“My pretty-“ Chris took himself in his hand again, lining his cock over her entrance, “-pretty girl all worked up.” He shook his head as if chiding, before thrusting his hips forward slowly. His eyes followed his cock as it disappeared into her, her cunt stretching beautifully around him. She was a goddess, laid out before him, wanting and waiting. Despite his desire for all of her, he thrilled at the slow taking of her. He was savoring it, remembering the tightness of her cunt, allowing the curve of her nails to embed themselves into his mind as well as his skin.

When he found himself fully seated inside of her, he turned his head, kissing the side of her lips, his eyelids, her nose. She pulsated around him. “You feel so tight,” he told her, gradually pulling out, only enough to feel the squeeze of her around him without losing too much of the warmth. He nearly sighed in contentment as he moved back inside.

She was already flush and warm all over from the alcohol in her system, and the feel of him inside of her felt less like an intrusion, as much as it did a missing piece to a lifelong puzzle. His cock was better than his fingers, thicker, longer, going deep as he grinded his hips down into hers. Impatient, she told him, “Faster.”

He huffed out a laugh, but obeyed, drawing up more quickly this time, pressing into her with more intent. She bit back a moan as she felt the plunge of him inside of her. Her knees went higher, something he encouraged by hooking one of them around his arm and thrusting roughly inside of her.

“Fuck, like that,” she moaned, nodding as he went impossibly deep inside of her then. She felt herself grow wetter—could hear it too, the slap of their bodies growing nosier the more intense he grew with his thrusts. It was no longer an issue for him to slide in; her body beckoned him, made all the room so he could seat himself closer and closer to her core.

Chris began to whimper as his thrusts grew more erratic. The pendant on his necklace swung as he watched the way his cock entered her, hitting her in the face as he pushed inside. Her tongue latched onto it, drawing the cool metal into her mouth. When he looked back at her, his eyes were full of unadulterated want. He shuddered, his hands falling over the back of her shoulders, attempting to draw her closer than she already was. She felt the fabric of his undershirt against her sensitive nipples, felt the drag of his pubic bone against her clit as he worked himself inside of her; he was all around her, hot, tangible, lovely, human. Hers.

His fingers wrapped tightly around her shoulders, almost with a bruising intensity, as he began to twitch inside of her. She looked him in the eyes, nodding, urging. He came then, the warmth of his seed inside of her making her gasp, even through the latex of the condom. Her arms wrapped around him, and she panted, smiling.

Pressing a kiss to her breast, he steadied his breathing. She brushed her fingers through his unruly hair, enjoying the faint tickle of his mustache against her skin.

“I’m still gonna make you cum,” he promised, cupping his hand around one of her breasts. They adjusted, so that he tucked himself beside her on the couch, their legs intertwining. His touch was curious more than attentive, the tips of his fingers caressing her warm flesh.

“We’ve got all night.”

“I know,” he smiled, licking behind her ear. Her eyes shut closed, and she pressed away the thoughts that this was not friendly. The alcohol made her feel pleasant, warm, and she did not care.

“Gonna make you cum a lot, my American,” he murmured, biting her earlobe.

She kissed him softly and he returned the kiss in kind, resting a hand on her cheek. He wanted to tell her something terribly romantic, to confess that he liked her quite a lot, that he enjoyed being here more than she would know. But Ireland was such a quiet, fearful place and the IRA had made him wearier than ever; it was best to say nothing than to say too much. It was better to show. His hand drew up between her legs, his eyes glimmering as he pulled away from her.

I want to know all you, said the line he traced up her thigh.

Alright, she consented, parting her legs for him.

[august-diehl]

CILLIAN MURPHY as Chris in Free Fire (2016) | dir. Ben Wheatley

[staiyn]

Memes to keep time

more Cillian character memes

Been sick for a while and its starting to get even worse again. But I am working on everything right now. So to keep ya'lls time here some memes of the cutie

Ps. Sorry if not accurate

[saintmuses]

❝𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩❞

Pairing:

Chris x Rockstar!Reader

Summary:

It was 1978, she was living her life on stages. She had her whole future planned out which was playing in front of crowds until she dropped dead. Well that was the plan until the night she met Chris.

Warning(s): soft SMUT. Slight Oral (m-receiving). Slight fingering. P in V. Attack/threat (from a stranger). Minors, dni!

Word Count: 3k

For some reason, this particular night called her. Called out to her in a certain fashion with a seductive tone with a voice as a sin. 

She didn’t know why, but she was ready to fall in the deep abyss that was the night sky filled with clusters of stars. To her, the stars reminded her of gold dust from afar; the closest thing to her was the gold glitter smeared on her cheekbones that was brushed upwardly and gold eyeshadow that looked like fallen dust.

It was nineteen seventy-eight, and Y/N could practically taste the anticipation on her lips as she could hear the rising excitement of having her on stage at . 

Clad in worn-out converses, bell bottom jeans and skin tight tank top, she was the lead singer and one of the songs her band had written and produced ended up playing on the radio.

It was music to her ears, flowing in one ear with gold glitter and coming out with dust in gold dust because she drained every critic, every success, it was the most powerful thing in the world. The power that the words held over them. Sending them into a trance-like state, and she couldn't blame them because if she was in their shoes, she would've felt the same.

Her voice nearly faltered when her eyes landed on a lone guy standing by the wall, far away from the sporadic crowd, gripping the base of the microphone with one hand and holding the spine of the stand with the other; she was surprised by the fact that she could see him in the crowd like this. Pulsing, erratic, a unified wave with the strobe lights flashing red and blue over the nightclub.

Her voice then faded into the low range, whispering the words of the song that was blasting across the place as she raked her eyes down his frame.

She could tell that his hair was somewhat shoulder length and dark, almost as dark as the wall behind him, maybe even closer to black. She could tell there was a mustache adorning his skin between his nose and his upper lip, and he was handsome despite of it. He would've been just a regular nobody, and she would be none wiser, but the thing about him that drew her in like a moth to its flame was the holster hidden underneath his leather jacket.

And that was why she could tell he wasn't a regular nobody. Maybe nobody in her world, but as far as it goes...he wasn't a nobody in his world; of that she could tell. He was dressed in dark colored pants, a patterned buttoned up shirt beneath the leather jacket he was adorning that were clearly custom cut for his body.

Who carried a gun to a nightclub? Or even a bar? He was at a high risk of destroying the place with a sea of crowd full of intoxicated people and a few were all high on powdered addiction. 

She felt like she was singing the words to him. Maybe she was, but no one had to know. She was nearly flustered when she knew that he knew she was looking at him as she growled into the microphone -with the words that drove through the crowd relentlessly- due to the smirk that lilted his lips.

Those lips from afar, are the ones that she wanted to kiss. And she didn't even know him. Just a mere stranger from the sideline, an observant, a bystander. A handsome bystander at that. All she knew was his eyes were on her, and she relished in the attention that he was giving her. There could be many men in one room that could be so handsome, but she would single him out. 

It was electrifying.

Her painted lips trembled slightly at the sight of his face as he stared at her. It wasn't the one of those creepy stares that she would get every now and then. It was more of a romantic novel stare like one of those movies that border-lined dramatic on romantic scenes. She didn’t know him. Yet, she didn’t care because she had a feeling she will know him very soon.

She nibbled her bottom lip when the drummer took over for the solo, and her eyes were heavily lidded as she mentally beckoned him to come to her. To come closer to her, to lessen the distance between him and her with the crowd in between. 

To suppress the electricity charged tension that she had felt earlier before coming upon the elevated platform, she then knew it was him that was making the night called to her. She then shifted her hips to shimmy them to the beats of the drums as it echoed throughout the room.

Her eyes were still on his as she finished the song. She wouldn't be able to look at the song the same way ever again.

Every time she would sing the song in the future, she would remember the icy eyed man in a leather jacket.

Y/N dipped the rag into the running warm water and raised it in front of her as she stared at the dirty mirror of the small dingy bathroom, then dragged the damp cloth across her face to clean up the gold dust off of her cheeks.

When she was at the age of sixteen, she ran away from home; her mother and her father died in a robbery gone wrong sending her and her brother to their guardian. There were more secrets in the family, and more lies that she couldn't take anymore and ran out of the town ever since.

She was a runaway from the quiet town of Massachusetts and had ended up in California after weeks of long days and lonely nights where people paid her no mind and not an ounce of sympathy in their hearts. It had been one cold rainy night on the street in Los Angeles where she met her very first friend and bandmate.

They had a simple idea. A seed, really. It was a tiny seed that slowly turned into roots then it erupted into a wild thing. A simple idea was to form a rock band, whereas everyone chased their dreams, and had been crushed when life deemed to not be satisfied enough to give them what they deserved after a lot of sacrifices and dedication.

Somehow, Y/N and her bandmate were able to make it come true. It was a small dream, really. It went from two, a guitarist and a singer. That was a rough draft; then they somehow got three more. A dream became a reality when she was eighteen when she heard her song on the radio for the first time. She wasn't always the avid music lover; she'd settle for classical music. 

When she was a little girl, she wanted to be a doctor; to follow her father's footsteps. After her parents died, that desire went from being a doctor to a writer. A writer about horrors, she supposed. Granted she had enough of them to last a lifetime.

Between running away from a small town in Massachusetts to arriving in a severely overpopulated city that is Los Angeles, music had become her only source of comfort. she had constantly listened to Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, ABBA, Meat Loaf, the Runaways, and etcetera on the radios in the random vehicles as she raised her thumb in the cool days of spring and hot days of summer to hitch a ride or two across the States to realize that the music was her lover. Then from that point on, it manifested into a dream.

No matter how much she played the music, sung into the melody's lips, her lover, she would always be the imposter; inside of the rock persona, she was a nobody, a nineteen-year-old from the quiet town who escaped from her past, because nothing will change the truth about herself. 

Y/N sighed as she pulled her leather jacket around her frame tightly as she stepped through the back door and into the October air. She glanced around when she felt a shift in the air; she already sent her friends to the hotel earlier and wanted the night to herself so she was on high alert.

Before she could take a step on the way out of the alleyway, she felt a presence looming over her, and she turned around. She let out a groan when her back slammed against the rough wall, and she opened her eyes to see an unknown man hovering over her with his hand wrapped around her throat, constricting her airways along with a knife to her skin.

"Ah, pretty thing." The man hissed; his eyes flashed maliciously as his lips curled. "Why won't you fight back?" He asked after he realized she wasn't taking control of the situation.

"Are you stupid?" She hissed gasping as she struggled to breathe, "you’re holding a knife to my neck."

He bared his teeth in response which revealed his fury, and he reared back to shove the weapon into the juncture of her neck.

She squeezed her eyelids shut in preparation of the pain that she knew she would feel once his knife cut into her skin, but nothing happened until she heard a gun going off and she felt his fingers loosening the grip on her throat; so, she opened her eyes to see a stunned face reflecting back at her, his eyes were wide, unseeingly and his mouth was agape before collapsing onto the pavement.

Her eyes followed to see a familiar man she saw in the audience earlier, the one who she couldn't take her eyes off all night, standing in front of her with his fingers gripping a handgun in his hand and drops of blood splattered his face.

"You alright?" he asked, his hand -the one not holding the weapon- was reaching for the handkerchief inside of his leather jacket, tugging on it and pulled it out as he placed the weapon back into his holster.

The man whipped the cloth into a loose form as her eyes drew to it; it was white, a stark contrast of himself. White was pure, from what she could tell he was not pure, and she was certain that he weathered a lot of burden in that regard.

She snorted, "I am…” she trailed off, eyeing him. “But who the hell are you?" She asked, shaking her head slightly.

"Chris." His eyebrows shot up with a smirk, then he wrapped the cloth around his face to wipe off the excess of her attacker's blood.

"Well, Chris. Thank you for saving my life." She grumbled, straightening her leather jacket, dusting off some lint off of her shoulders before looking at him.

"You don’t like it when someone saves you?" He asked after stuffing the cloth into the pocket of his pants.

She nodded, pushing a several loose strands away from her face. “Don’t like owing someone a debt.” 

He inclined his head towards her, "Let me take you to some place nearby and we can talk more about this," he gestured for her to come with him.

“Can I trust you?”

“Aye, I did save your life after all.” A smirk curled his lips before walking away while pulling out a case of cigarettes out of his leather jacket pocket.

"My mama had warned me about men like you," she said playfully as she slid into the booth underneath the bright lights of the quiet diner. A stark contrast to the night lights in the crowd of the bar.

He clasped his fingers on the top of the dull surface of the table, chuckling slightly, "she told you to stay away from IRA men, eh?” 

She shook her head, “no. Dangerous men.”

“Not dangerous around you,” he murmured causing her to blush. “What made you want to sing?” He was genuinely curious.

She looked at him, eyeing him before she exhaled softly. "It was sort of a dying wish; my life has been filled with death and none of people did what they wanted to do…my life was dull ever since my parents died and I had to do something about it. It's like a bucket list, except there's only one thing on the list to do before my death. So, when I die, at least I did something meaningful with my life.”

It had been during one hot summer day in nineteen seventy-six when he heard her voice for the first time. He could recall her voice sent shivers down his spine when it blasted from the radio in his borrowed vehicle, he didn't know who she was then; However, he knew he had to know her.

It was enticing, her voice. When he went across one of the local record stores, he found what he was looking for, and he had remembered his eyes widened, his jaw slacked, and his fingers were gripping on the cover.

He was a fool when he thought that he was done playing a schoolboy with a crush on some hot girls back in Ireland, but the proof was undeniably on the cover that he's holding.

He was curious about the voice of the music, so he had bought it and had listened to it. It wasn't until over a year later, he heard that Y/N and her band were going to play at a bar which happened to be near where he was staying at.

He was already enraptured by her voice, but until he walked into the sporadic room, she had captured his attention to her beauty that the others did not have. By the time she was done with the show, he knew he had to have her. 

"Thank you," she murmured while fiddling her thumbs.

He tilted his head sideway. "For what?"

"For saving my life." She smiled softly.

He allowed a small smirk to grace upon his face while gazing at her. "You can thank me by telling me how you were introduced to a different world." He said expectantly, ignoring the tension that rose between them. It wasn't the time yet.

She hummed before telling him the story from the very first night she almost died.

A few hours later, he drove her back to his rental place which happened to be a dingy little motel, and now they're in the assigned room of his.

"I...I don't really do this stuff," she stammered, flushing heavily under his heady gaze.

One thing had led to another as soon they walked into the living room. Electricity surged between them with phantom rope tied them together, and they had to give into the feeling. The tension had exploded literally and figuratively. 

It was undeniably inevitable.

He walked closer to her, loosening the jacket, and she forced herself to keep her arms by her side from touching him. She felt the weight of his hand pressed against the lower part of her back as he reached for her. It ascended in a slow line, following the curve of her back from her spine.

"It's okay. I don't do it either," he murmured, and then his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, and her mind quieted.

“I don’t believe you,” she said automatically.

“Well, I don’t, I usually just take them out for dinner, but sometimes it’s tediously boring that we never go that far. You on the other hand…” he trailed off; His other hand drew a trail over the curve of her hip, rising over her waist where he barely grazed over her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat and her gaze averted at his exploration. He dipped his head, his lips hovering over hers. Her lips trembled at the sheer tension as it rose between them.

His fingers caressed her face, tucking strands of hair behind her ears as his tongue slid against hers, and she just pressed her body against his in response, he then gripped her by the waist. It wasn't enough.

It was heaven and hell being close to his presence.

She nipped at his neck, and he gasped. She finally opened his shirt and yanked it from his pants rather unceremoniously, her fingers touching the fabric.

She sucked in a gasp at the sudden pressure of two digits sliding over the underwear.

He held her gaze, her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks utterly entrancing. She felt his fingers hooked into the elastic of her underwear and tugged down, allowing them to drop onto the floor. She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers trail up her thighs.

His breath was hot in her ear as he murmured her name, her hips bucked forward as he slid his fingers into her.

His eyes trailed over her bare breasts after she reached around her back to unclasp the hooks and dropped her bra to the floor. The light pressure made her knees shake as he cupped her breasts with his fingers, blue eyes gazing as her back helplessly arched.

She lowered herself to the floor, the thick carpet was soft under her knees.

When she looked up at him, she saw his head was thrown back, his eyes closed. He groaned and tightened his grip in her hair, making her eyes roll back.

She felt a flash of arousal clenching her abdomen. That she could easily make him lose control as easy as he could keep a façade. She then swirled her tongue around his cock, taking him deeper with glitter in her eyes.

His body was flushed against her, hovering over her frame, all around her in so many ways in one. She quietly begged him to move. As if he could read her mind, he began to slowly move in and out of her with a swirl of his hips, pushing back in all the way with each thrust.

Her body rocked helplessly against the mattress each time, her breasts bounced slightly with each thrust, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to match her heartbeat. His hips thrusted so roughly that she'd be sore. Her hips would ache, she'd feel him for the rest of the night and in the morning.

His breath came in shallow pants, he whispered against her damp skin that he will make her breakfast in the morning.

That thought made her feel warmer than she had ever been.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

DINE & DASH ───

chris o’doyle 𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “Deep in my enemy I find the lover.” — ‘The Cid’, Pierre Corneille

pairing. chris o’doyle x waitress!reader

summary. you meet chris o’doyle 3 times. the 1st, he’s got a gun pointed at you. the 2nd, you learn his name. the 3rd, you’ve got a gun pointed at him.

warnings. swearing, guns, mention of death, robbery, shooting

word count. 4k

a/n. i recognize this fic doesn’t actually have any romance in it, so considering the reception i might make a part 2😄 (perhaps with an emotional love confession and fluffy smut :o)

i.

Now, here’s the thing about living in Boston, circa 1978, working at a diner: you’ve gotta buy a gun.

Especially because the shitty diner you work at is downtown. Downtown is utterly fucked at night, where all the doped up creeps, gangsters & prostitutes come out to play.

It’s by an off-chance (off-chance being that your boss was a day drinker who couldn’t handle the diner at night without throwing up) that you work the night shift. 

So, the gun. You don’t know how to use one, buy one, hell, you don’t even know what you’re looking for; you just know you need to buy a fucking gun, because you cannot take any more attempted robberies at the diner. 

(There have been several, at this point, and the only way you’ve avoided having the diner robbed blind is by pretending to be one of those rough-‘round-the-edges folk who could kill someone with a broom if properly motivated. 

Think, the kind of person, who, if faced with a gun in a robbery, would laugh at the colour of your gun and smash your head in with a napkin dispenser.)

One night, you’re coming back to the cashier after refilling all the coffee pots, and a man you’ve never seen before is sitting at the front counter. 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” you say, retying your alabaster apron, smoothing down the wrinkles. 

The man - who looked exactly like those rough-‘round-the-edges folk - shakes his head. “No fault to you, girl.” He says, Irish accent curling around his words like a snake. 

“So, what’re you havin’?” You say, lighting a cigarette, reveling in the nicotine-filled rush it sends right up to your brain. 

The man inhales his own cigarette, staring at you intently for a moment. His gaze makes you squirm, running all over your body. It's nothing out of the ordinary for you, to be eye-fucked by a shady creep in the late night, but his attention is laser-focussed, like he could see through you.

“Mmm,” the man broke his silence, and his gaze drifted elsewhere, “d’you got red ale?” 

Your eyebrows lift at the request, but you complied, grabbing a pint and filling it to the brim with the man’s choice of drink. When you hand it to him, he looks as surprised as you do: “What kind of Boston diner sells red ale?”

“You ask, darlin’, you receive.” The pet name is a conscious decision on your part; there’s something about the man that sets alarm bells off in your head, but you can’t place any context, so you try to appease him.

The man looks at you, then the beer, and then shrugs. “Fuck it,” he murmurs under his breath, and downs the whole thing in one. 

You put out your cigarette, resisting the urge to roll your eyes; now, you’d have to fumble around, wait to see if he’d pay & leave or order something else. 

However, he does neither, pulling out a shiny Colt Python from his leather jacket pocket, pointing it at you and cocking off the safety. 

Your heart jumps in your throat, constricting your breathing, and your hands immediately come up. Everything happens so fast, and you can’t really process anything but your fear. 

You consider doing your act, your confident, no-nonsense, rough skank farse, but something tells you he won’t believe it, just shoot you point blank. Those eyes of his, crystalline blue with little to no emotion tinting them, sends shivers down your spine.

“C’mere,” he gestures to you, “‘round the counter.” He’s chewing on the end of his wet cigarette, not having had the chance to pull it out and inhale.

You do as he asks, taking gentle, tentative steps in front of him. You walk carefully, so as not to startle him; make him shoot you.  

“Where’s yer boss?” The man says, running a calloused hand through his brown hair, gun still trained on you. 

You gulped, focussing on breathing properly. “He’s - he does- he doesn’t work the night shift.” You make out in a painful stutter.

The man raised a brow at this, finally pulling out his cigarette and leaving it on the ashtray. “Well,” he looked as if he was weighing his options, “you lot keep a safe in here?”

You nodded vehemently, your throat still clenched in fear. 

“Go on then. Show me.” He waved the gun haphazardly, and you made quick work of the situation: grabbing the store keys from underneath the desk, and skittering to your boss’s office. 

You pushed open the loud, creaky door then you immediately dropped to your knees and unlocked the safe. Inside was a jaw-dropping amount of cash, an amount your boss had conveniently failed to mention was being kept in the store — as well as a cute little Smith & Wesson .38. 

Before either of you could tell what the other was doing, you’d gone in for the kill: he grabbed the cash, you grabbed the pistol. 

Sure, your boss was an absent-minded fuck who always did you dirty by giving you the night-shift, but he was your boss, and a good one at that; he paid you on time, usually never said no to your vacation requests, and was generally well-mannered and kind. To top it off, you knew he had a real large family to feed. 

“Sweetheart, I jus’ want the cash. Yer boss owes us a great deal of debt, alright?” The man said, his own hands in the air now. He had slipped his gun back into the holster that hung by his belt, and he knew just as well as you did that the slightest movement toward that area would have you shooting bullets like a fucking madman. 

Never underestimate someone who was jumpy and holding a gun: they were trigger happy. 

You inhaled and exhaled shakily, your fingers hesitantly brushing past the safety lever. “All of it?” you said helplessly, trying to erase the mental image of how your boss would look later, absolutely crushed that the store, his prized possession, had been robbed. Under your “watchful” eye. 

The stranger considered this, his mustache curling as his face contorted around the idea. “…Most of it,” he settled on, cornflower blue eyes peering past the gun and instead landing on you. 

“Why,” he continued, shifting the weight between his feet, “you wanna dip your toes in the water, doll?”

You recoiled, both at the pet name and the connotation you also wanted to rob your boss, but you knew that if he knew you were just going to give your cut back to your boss, the stranger would come back and rob the store all over again. 

Instead, you nodded curtly. You figured you could finally buy a gun with a portion of the money, so if this stranger ever came knocking ‘round your place, you could satiate his suspicion by pointing a piece at him. 

The man let out a sigh of relief at the compromise reached. “Guns down,” he said, and you dropped your hand to the floor. He didn’t reach for his Colt Python, so you visibly relaxed as well. 

After a few moments of mumbling under his breath and thumbing through the bills, he shoved two thirds of the cash into his leather jacket pockets, then tossed the rest into your trembling hands. 

“Spend it wisely, darlin’. Don’t go buying all the pretty dresses money can afford - you’ll get caught.” With that, the stranger stuffed his pockets with his hands and exited promptly. 

You gulped, beads of sweat trailing down your back and making you squirm — there was no way that just fucking happened, right?

Right? You thought. Jesus fucking christ, you really had to get a better job. A better place to live now, too; the stranger knew your face and your name — seriously, screw the diner waitress name tags meant to make you look approachable — so if you were, at any point in time, considered a loose end, they’d be coming for you next. 

It’s only then, you realize, he never paid for the ale. 

ii. 

The second time you see the stranger is not even two weeks after the diner-robbery incident. 

Following the robbery, your boss gave you time off so he could sort the mess out — as well as his debts, after you told him what the robber told you — and you found yourself with the small bit of cash you portioned off from the safe to buy a gun. 

You followed word of mouth on where exactly to purchase a gun for days, keenly listening in on loose-lipped men who came in too late at night or too early in the morning to even consider the possibility that the sweet waitress who kept butting in to give them a refill could be listening. 

Finally, you entered a bar in anticipation: one of the loose-lipped men mentioned a man who dealt out small revolvers that you thought would do just perfectly for space in your purse, right in that very bar. 

Time was dripping drearily toward midnight, and the wad of cash wedged within the waistband of your flare jeans burned guiltily against you as you searched for the man selling — it wasn’t your money, after all. 

You shook yourself mentally, however, reminding yourself to consider it hush money, or trauma money, for the ordeal you experienced. Then, you spotted the seller who’d been described: average height, lanky, wild brown hair. He was speaking animatedly at the bar counter, silver rings on his fingers gleaming in the dull bar light. 

You slid onto the black, faux leather stool beside him, quietly informing the idle bartender you wanted a rum & coke, before leaning into the ear of the seller. 

“Smith & Wesson, model 36.” you whispered huskily, then promptly preoccupying yourself with smiling at the barkeep and thanking him for the drink. You were a little nervous, getting involved in Boston’s underground crime world, even if it were just for a simple gun purchase. 

The man stopped his storytelling to down his drink — red ale, you noted, brows furrowing at the unexpected nostalgia of last time — and speak to you without turning completely. 

“Straight to business, are we?” He said silkily, and you froze, parsing through your memories to correctly match this voice with that voice— “Name’s Chris O’Doyle, and yes, thank you for “asking”, I can provide you wit’ a beautiful little S&W model 36.”

When you didn’t respond eagerly, in stark contrast to your previous behavior, the stranger from the robbery — Chris O’Doyle, you now knew — turned to face you completely.

“…Well, this is jus’ grand, isn’t it, doll?” Chris said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

“Fuck’s sake,” you blurted out, pinching your nose bridge. “I didn’t— why the fuck are you here?”

Chris raised a tentative brow, “I’ve got my fingers in all kinds of pies, darlin’. Can’t expect a smart Irish man not to, eh?”

“Jesus christ,” you murmured under your breath. You thought you wouldn’t have to see this man ever-fucking again, but as fate turned out, you just did. 

You steeled your nerves: you’d buy the gun. It was just as well to buy it from him, so he could see you weren’t to be messed with. That, and so he wouldn’t go sniffing around for the money you gave back to your boss. 

“I need a —“ You began, but were irritatingly cut off by Chris.

“—Smith & Wesson, model 36. I know, darlin’, I heard ya the first time. Now, let’s get out of here, I can’t just hand the thing over in here,” he said, before pressing himself flush against you and whispering in your ear. “Plus, it’s best you leave: some of the shitstains in here are gettin’ ideas, seein’ a pretty lady like you, all alone.”

Suddenly, Chris got up, and snaked an arm around your waist. “Darlin’!” He exclaimed, sounding drunk out of his mind, “I don’t- don’t wan’ go feckin’ home!” 

“Play along, unless you wanna use that new gun of yer’s on one of the creeps in here later,” He continued sneakily under his breath. 

Begrudgingly, you did as asked, and supported him up, trying to look like a tired wife dragging her dumbass husband back home. “I told you to quit fucking drinking!” you shouted, smacking him upside the head and dragging him by the arm. 

“Christ, woman! Can’t a man jus’ have a wee drink?” 

“Shut the fuck up, you damn headache!” You screeched back at him. 

Okay, you admit: it was kind of fun to shout insulting names at the man who’d been haunting your dreams since that night.

You hadn’t been having the… best sleep, as of late. Always heaving, waking up at ungodly hours after the dream ended with the cold tip of Chris’s gun pressed neatly at your temple, always unable to get back to sleep for fear the dream would continue and you’d be shot dead in it. 

When you and Chris had successfully averted all public eye, exiting the bar and stumbling to a street a couple blocks away where a car was parked, he let up the drunken husband act. 

“Smart of you, y’know,” he informed you absently, leaning into the open window of his car. He continued by rummaging through the vehicle, trying to find the trunk key in his storage compartment.

“Smart of me to what?” you echoed back, looking up and down the street in case someone was walking past or driving by to witness your incredibly shady and conspicuous arms deal. 

“To buy a gun,” said Chris, a certain lilt to his tone that made you know he thought it was the obvious answer. 

“Yeah, well, you made sure of that.” you said with an eye roll. If you sounded comfortable, it’s because you were, at least a little bit. 

In the small timeframe you’d known and spoken to Chris O’Doyle, you figured out three things about him: he was a penchant for the theatrical, if not a little bit of a procrastinator, was plenty lofty, and probably treated customers and friends like pure gold. You knew that if you were buying, he would be on his best behavior, and do all in his power to keep that happening, be it moving the sun, moon and stars — or kill someone. 

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” Chris questioned, brow raised as he slipped out of his car window with the key in his hand. 

You thinned your eyes. “Hm, I don’t know, maybe the fact you threatened me with a gun and robbed me blind has me worried for my safety?

He rounded the vehicle, unlocking the trunk and pulling the heavy metal lid up. “I didn’t rob you blind, sweetheart. I robbed your boss blind. And, the gun’s standard business practice. Protect the messenger, threaten the target, all that.”

You sighed exasperatedly, but ignored him, instead opting to pull the wedge of cash out of your pants. You handed the entire wad to him, then opened up your other hand to receive the revolver.

 “You can count, right? Otherwise, your boss’s been robbed blind for a while.” Chris mocked, a sly grin spreading on his lips while his hand hovered above the trunk full of guns for the weapon of your choice. 

Once he found the gun, you snatched the piece out of his hand impatiently, discreetly tucking it away where your bills had been. “I don’t want any more dirty money on me. Enough to buy this damn gun is all I need.” 

“And a few cigarette packs it seems,” he shot back, clearly noticing the cash you handed him was short of the amount he originally gave you. 

“S’not any of your business what I buy.” You said tersely, then quickly walked off and left him without so much as a goodbye. 

After a second thought: “Now stay the fuck out of my life!” you shouted down the street, turning and not looking back.  

iii. 

The thing about living in Boston, circa 1978, working at a diner is that you’ve gotta buy a gun.

Now, you had gone ahead and bought a gun, but it was only ever supposed to be a precaution. Something you brought to work, or when you went out late at night. 

And, of course you never had to use it: you did have normal, functioning common sense, so you never found yourself in situations where your gun became more than just something taking up space in your purse. 

But with Chris O’Doyle, you found, you threw your common sense — as well as your precaution — straight to the wind. 

It’s late at night, quite similar to all the other times you’d encountered the man, like a certain time of night had him summoned like a fucking demon, and he appears. Right in the middle of the diner, sitting in that same spot he’d pulled out his pistol and robbed you. 

After a while, the incident stopped bothering you - as well as the fact you now owned a fucking gun - but you never did get Chris’s face out of your head, those piercing blue eyes. Said eyes were now staring at you straight, before trailing off, like the fucking criminal was embarrassed. 

You don’t know what exactly was running through your head, but, again, Chris O’Doyle and you equaled common sense and precautions funeral, and you immediately dragged yourself to the breakroom, where you kept your stuff during a shift — including your purse — and you came back out with your shiny, unused Smith & Wesson model 36 gleaming in your hands. 

“Fucking—“ Chris cursed, when he saw you come out with the gun, which was trained on him shakily. “Put the damn gun down! Jesus, d’you even know how to use that thing?”

You bit your lip, deciding not to answer his very valid, very biting question, for you did not know how to use a gun properly. “Just - what the fuck are you doing here, Chris?”

Deep in your mind, a more unbothered part of you wondered why you kept saying that when Chris appeared, like the mustached man was some creep ex who was stalking you. 

“I’m just fucking peckish, girl. This is a diner, is it not?” He exclaimed, like what you were doing was manic and unexpected. 

You stared at him incredulously, reluctantly putting down the hand that held the gun. You’d told him to, paraphrasing, “completely and totally fuck off”. What part of that did he not get?

“The part you don’t get, darlin’, is that I don’t care.” Chris shook his head, and you were so distraught you didn’t register you’d actually said what you were thinking out loud. 

“God forbid you do!” You said, an infuriated laugh coiling around your words. “Order, then please grant me the blessing of never seeing you, ever again. Like I already fucking asked.”

Chris puffed up his cheeks, then blew the air out of them. “Red ale.” he said simply, looking like that was it, before continuing and making you freeze midway between quickly running to the kitchen to grab and fill the glass. 

“And, eh…” he scanned through the plastic menu the diner offered, “a slice of Boston cream pie.”

You smiled at him tensely, hoping he knew it was fake as hell and meant to make him uncomfortable. “Coming right up,” you ground out through gritted teeth. 

You thus disappeared into the diner kitchen - though not without first expertly hiding your pistol back in your purse - busying yourself with warming up the slice of pie in the ancient microwave your boss believed to be a holy grail heirloom as it was from his mother. It was loud, took too long, and always made the food too hot — but now, you were reveling in its flaws.

Loud means you didn’t have to hear Chris and whatever the hell he was doing, too long meant you could stall (and, pray he’d get bored and leave), and too hot meant that, later, you could privately make fun of him for burning his tongue, then have to blow on it and look like a little kid. 

When it finished, you haphazardly threw it onto a plate, and filled Chris’s ale just half-way. If he wanted service here, fine, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to get good service. 

Then, you handed it to him with a loud clatter on the counter, startling him out of his chain-smoking stupor. He made a face at your antics, but put out his cigarette and picked up the fork on the plate to begin eating anyway. 

Finally, with having served Chris his stupid pie and stupid red ale, you could count down to the second until you never had to see him again, and you could finally erase him from your mind, forget how his gun felt trained on you, icy blue eyes digging into your spine. 

However, much like you, it seemed an entirely different group of people with a grudge against Chris O’Doyle also threw common sense and precaution out the window when they saw him. 

One moment you were pulling a cigarette out of the sleek, metal case sitting in the pocket of your apron, the next, Chris was jumping over the counter and shouting at you to duck. 

You did as told almost immediately - his tone of voice had grown serious, cold, something you’d only heard briefly the night he robbed the diner. 

Bullets tore through the diner, completely shattering and destroying the glass windows. The shots ricocheted against the walls, making the whole diner shake and feel like it was going to collapse. After a few more minutes of rapid gunfire eating at the building, something flew in from the same direction of the bullets. 

“Good fucking riddance, Chris O’Doyle!” A voice called from outside, Several vehicles could be heard driving away as quick as they came, not even bothering to check if Chris was dead or alive. 

You guessed that they — whoever “they” were — were a confident bunch, but unfortunately for them, Chris was still alive following that clownish display of gunfire. 

Hidden beneath the diner counter, you laid against Chris’s bandy chest, his arms holding him close to you, like he was a kid and you were his prized balloon. One of his hands petted at the crown of your head, almost soothingly, while the other hand fumbled with his signature Colt Python. 

Then, an ear shattering boom exploded from the “something” that was thrown into the building. You supposed it also set fire to quite a few things, for the water sprinklers set off and soaked the entire building. 

For a long moment, it was just you and Chris, laying on the floor beneath the diner counter, sprinkler water soaking you both. Your hands were clenched impeccably tight on his leather jacket sleeve, and his hand had, like on autopilot, begun carding through your locks comfortingly. It seemed to comfort him more than you however, his breathing sounding stilted, and, with your pressed right up against his chest, you knew the situation had shocked him. 

“That happen to you often?” you said, disregarding all questions that were clambering around your head for this softer, more considerate one. 

Sure, the man maddened you to no end, and you still had dreams of him shooting you in the diner or jumping you in the street, but you were human, and he was too. Chris seemed like the kind of man who was inured to all sorts of sick and twisted things, so this event having shocked him surely had to be a large one. 

And so, you knew it was empathy that needed to be used here; you recognized the struggle of a human vulnerable. 

“More than I’d like,” Chris whispered back, his eyes shutting closed, surely replaying the entire situation behind his eyelids. 

You could digest this all later, and he could talk about it later - if he wanted - but for now, it was just you and him in the diner, your voice gentle, his touch shaky. 

[whatelsecanwedonow]

FREE FIRE (2017) dir. Ben Wheatley

[shujubeelamoglia]

Brie Larson

Harper’s Bazaar

Photography by Collier Schorr

[fuckiingloser]

cillian murphy as chris in free fire (2016)

[addictivecontradiction]

Free fire, 2016

[lordbettany]

@aneurinallday them 😇💛

[nero-draco]

Isagi failed his Blue Lock test and has to quit forever from soccer. Now he started his career as a soldier.

[cillmurphyslover]

So hot 😫

[mervynbunter]

FREE FIRE (2016), dir. Ben Wheatley