#and is so much deadlier for it
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
my brain is bouncing around pre-tea, so on the subject of Tighnari, Collei, and sex ed, he of course covers consent, tells her she can and should use force if that's what necessary to escape a non-consensual situation (I assume the Forest Rangers have a force escalation scale they've already covered), and adds that she should come immediately to him, Cyno, or another trusted senior to help her handle the situation.
Collei: And Cyno will arrest them, right?
Tighnari, who knows at least a dozen ways for a body to never be found in Avidya Forest, presuming he can't mulch it stealthily enough into fertilizer for Pardis Dhyai: Cyno will arrest them.
#i'm sorry tighnari just reads REALLY strongly to me as someone who would do no-compunctions murder for a loved one#so does lisa and someday i'll figure out the logistics of the setup for the fic where one of dottore's ex-subordinates kidnaps collei and#they're the first two responders. collei learns SO much about the deadlier applications of quicken that day
51 notes
·
View notes
Text
So, there I was one late evening minding my own damn business and living a relatively quiet life when I scrolled yt and suddenly a vision came up in the form of this short clip and I was like, "HOLD UP WTF THAT GUY LOOKS SO HOT AND COOL" so I scrolled back and HOLY SH!T IS THAT MILES TELLER??? WHAT??? HOW???? WHY DOES HE LOOK SO HOT ALL OF A SUDDEN????
And that's the story of how I spiraled into my new obsession with Miles Teller in the year of our lord 2025.
This is the vision that passed me, by the way:


#I'm not sure what happened#all I knew was that I saw a more mature Miles Teller in manly clothes and shoes sporting beard and mustache and all and then boom!!!#ovaries exploded#like I knew Miles from his previous roles most specially whiplash which gave me emotional trauma tbh and Divergent series#but he was such a baby boy and looked so lanky and not so handsome#but goddamn holy fvck I began to notice him in Top Gun#and not because he bulked up and got abs but yes those helped let's be fvcking real now#however his maturity is what really got me like I wanna lick those laugh lines wrinkles and tousled hair so damn much#suddenly Miles is the hottest man in my eyes I'm so fvcked#also The Gorge is such an epic movie Idgaf if some y'all don't like it#The Gorge is EXACTLY up my alley my gosh what more do you want it has everything#Levi was such a pathetic lovesick puppy he will literally cheat death to be with her I am so weak for that romantic trope fvvvvccckkkk#like if Levi STARED at me like that I'd collapse on the spot and then end up pregnant the next second don't ask how it happened#ALSO DID MILES' VOICE JUST BECOME DEEPER AS HE AGED??? LIKE HELLO???? ALSO HE'S SO TALL I WANNA CLIMB HIM LIKE A DAMN TREE#I AM FERAL FOR LEVI KANE OK???#this is Bradley Bradshaw btw just way cooler and deadlier#WE NEED LEVI KANE FANFICS!!!!!!#miles teller#the gorge#top gun maverick#the gorge 2025
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
If I had a nickel for every D20 campaign that had a deadly episode 3 that caught everyone by surprise and totally changed the tone of the campaign, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice
#dropout#dimension 20#neverafter#misfits and magic#d20#mismag#mismag 2#and by weird i mean 😭😭😭#“get episode three'd” wasn't it?#my posts#maybe a tpk is more serious than just one character dying but still#neverafter already seemed much more deadlier than mismag from the jump so i think it's equally as surprising#proportionally
43 notes
·
View notes
Note
i would kill a man for you
...Thanks.
[*...Hes a little green in the face, trying to hide it by looking down at his clipboard.]
#any of my other characters would question this very hard#but deltafellas dont really question it#much deadlier around here. so yeah that makes sense#its a little sweet to say#UNLUCKY SEVEN
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
he definitely does not seem like the type of guy, but Shepard's narrative is all about love actually.. not necessarily romantic but just Love in all forms, familial and platonic and love with all the lines blurred (I'm talking insane queerplatonic dynamics with crewmates. rships that border on excessive codependency if ppl let him in and let him push the dynamic to that point). about being changed by love and made Stronger by it, love being what gives him his power and sharpens his teeth and makes him a better and a much deadlier weapon than he would be without it...
for all his sharp edges (and his long trek from being no one's son, no culture's child, no one's anything... to finding the littlest niche in the little community of the Normandy, and what it means to care for said community, to slowly branching that learnt compassion outwards on a larger scale), Shepard is more About love than anything else
#i love love! ill always stand by this! i dont care if its platonic or romantic etc. and for shepard its hard at times to Explore love#bcuz hes so absolutely deranged and insane and obsessive about it. he is intense in his love. but it rly Makes him who he is#like. shep pre me1 to me is like. distrusting wounded animal prone to preemptively lashing out in a panic and frenzy to protect itself.#vs shep post late me1 is the guard dog thats healed and found itself smth to trust and bond to and to protect with its very life#its choosier about its bite but it is stronger and deadlier than ever. thats what love does for shep babeyyyyyy#to be deleted.#i slept all day but anyway thats my little thought for the day!#hey jude what brought about these thoughts? r.evan k.otor. lmao.#also got agars jane s.hepard swirling around in my thoughts .... ugugh eurgh im dyin here scoob (too much love in sheps and my heart)#another day in yappersville ☀️ \` * file: OOC.
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Really curious as to why cops are so scared of people with knives when they themselves have guns and tasers. If you’re so scared of violence then maybe you shouldn’t be in a profession that frequently deals with violent situations!
#if you’re scared of a knife or someone being violent you shouldn’t be a cop!!#like why do you need to shoot someone seven times because you were scared that they had a knife?#one of those weapons is far deadlier than the other#and if your first reaction to people moving is to shoot then you shouldn’t be a cop#give all of the funding that cops get to EMTS and firefighters the people that actually save lives instead of taking them#hate cops so much it’s not an effective service all you hear about is how they fuck up constantly#like dv cases are the most dangerous situations cops get and they suck at handling them
0 notes
Text
Spongebob Episode Idea: Mr. Krabs gives a gift to Spongebob and Squidward, a self-help book that he himself wrote. The book is actually designed to make them into more obedient employees whose life goal is to make Mr. Krabs money.
Cynical Squidward obviously sees through it and doesn't read the book, but Spongebob is very much into it and follows it religiously. And surprisingly enough, it works, helping Spongebob get out of thorny situations, and bringing him good fortune. Squidward is envious of Spongebob's success so he tries to read the book as well, but his attempts at copying the vague affirmations and techniques all fail.
Meanwhile, Spongebob's personality begins to change. He becomes more aggressive and more cynical, and also more greedy. A bit like a more mean version of Mr. Krabs. Squidward is annoyed by Spongebob's success and behavior, so he reads ahead to try and surpass him, and he finds something concerning. A lot of advice akin to Sun Tzu's Art of War, about being a good general and warrior. So he goes to confront Mr. Krabs about it.
Turns out Mr. Krabs plagiarized much of the book from an ancient tome he found on how to make the perfect rebel soldier, and he didn't read through it before inserting it into his own book. Squidward tells him that Spongebob has gotten too much into the book, but it's too late. The now fully-brainwashed Warrior Spongebob has come to the Krusty Krab to attack and overthrow his old master.
Mr. Krabs and Squidward are under siege in Mr Krabs' office, not knowing what to do. Squidward tries to look through the original tome for answers but Mr. Krabs think he means to use the book as a weapon, throwing it at Spongebob, who reads the entire thing within seconds, and becomes even deadlier.
This gives Squidward an idea. He takes Mr. Krabs' typewriter and begins rapidly typing. Ultimate Warrior Spongebob breaks into the office, destroying it completely. He walks into the ruins and picks up the paper Squidward was typing and then begins reading it. Suddenly he transforms into his old self. The paper reads: "But the real advice a true soldier must follow is this: never follow the advice of self-help books".
Spongebob laughs out loud and says "Good thing you added this last page, Mr. Krabs, or I could've really hurt somebody! hahahaha!"
Mr. Krabs and Squidward respond with a pained groan from under the debris of the office.
The end.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
We don't talk enough about how absolutely devastating and romantic and hot the idea is that Astarion would know the scent of your blood anywhere.
How quickly he would notice when you've even the slightest of nics? When, no matter how focused on anything else he might be at the time, he always comes to check it out?
You'll be peeling a piece of apple with your pocket knife when it slips in your grip. The sharp edge of the blade slices a shallow cut into the meat of your thumb, and you inhale sharply through your nose even though it barely hurts at all. Instinct has you sucking your injured digit into your mouth with a soft curse– the sweet juice of the fruit you were snacking on quickly overpowered by the metallic twang of blood.
You nearly jump out of your skin when he appears over you not a moment later. He makes some offhand comment about how careless you are. Takes hold of your injured hand and tuts like he intends to tease, but he isn't fooling anyone.
He stands so close, jaw ticking as he clenches his teeth, a tension in his shoulders that tells you he's doing everything in his power to keep composure. Your blood calls to him like a moth to a flame, and as funny as you find it in the moment, you don't have the heart to tease him for it. It's actually kind of endearing.
He'd only get quicker in noticing as time passes.
Especially after you've been traveling together for a few years, and he's come to know your scent better than his own. Which only makes sense considering how often he's got his nose pressed to some part of you. (He thinks you smell good.)
At this point, when you get injured in battle, he often catches the fragrance before you've even processed that you've been hit.
He'd suck in a sharp breath through his teeth– a hiss so loud that it catches your attention just enough for you to spare him a glance as you fight.
It's all you need to see just how blown his pupils are from where you're standing, mostly because his gaze is laser locked onto you to second you search for him. His movements turn faster. Deadlier, as he scans the field before you. Determined. Hungry. Angry. He's searching for the sorry wretch that dared to get the best of you– that dared spill even a drop of his beloved's precious blood upon the soil.
You've already taken them down, of course. Poor sap might have gotten a good dig in at your shoulder, but ultimately didn't stand a chance once he properly pissed you off.
Astarion's eyes go heavy.
Half-lidded in that special way of his and only darkening further as he appraises you. You can practically feel it as he follows the line of your throat, zeroes in on your pulse point for a moment, before settling to watch the warm crimson that's beginning to soak into the sleeve of your tunic.
You see a bit of concern in those eyes, but then he sees your smile and– A flash of hot, honeyed desire catches you by surprise.
You suddenly can't tell if it's just the blood loss making you woozy or if he's about to make you swoon like a maiden from an old romance novel. You try (and fail) to keep a straight face when he sinks his dagger into his final opponent's neck without so much as a glance their way.
There's a splash of red against pale white skin, and a lifeless body dropping to the grass by his feet. Your heart stutters in your chest, and he all but moans in response to the sound of it. A mere four paces and he's on you– hands and teeth and tongue exploring every inch of your exposed skin, ripping open parts of your armor to gain better access, like you're not stood in a field of gore and ruin and freshly spilled blood.
You cling to him like a lifeline.
Before he drags you away to camp– to a warm tent and a soft bedroll where he can have his way with you for as long as you and your mortal body will allow him– he has you down a potion of healing or two.
And it's a good thing one of you has a Lesser Restoration spell handy somehow, cause you're most definitely gonna need it.
#bg3#astarion ancunin#baldurs gate 3#astarion#astarion x tav#astarion x reader#bg3 tav#astarion headcanons
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
Sanemi doesn’t think masturbation is a worthwhile use of his time.
For one, it’s a distraction. There’s a million things he’d rather do, most of which center around killing every damn demon he can get his hands on, and he can’t do that if he’s wasting time keeping his hand down his pants. Besides, the few seconds of watery pleasure is never worth the cleanup that comes after. Rarely is he ever left satisfied.
But, Sanemi is a man, and unfortunately, his cock sometimes has a mind of its own. Particularly when he’s frustrated and pent up, and left without much in the way of options to deal with it.
When the mood strikes him, he approaches it with the same utilitarianism as he does with everything else. So, today, when his frustration is tightly coiled in his stomach like an asp waiting to strike, and he finds he can’t focus on anything — not his training, not the handful of missions he probably could take, not even the battered practice dummy in his garden, begging to have his fist shatter its face — Sanemi knows there’s only one way to relieve his tension. Fast and quick.
Oh, he grumbles about it all the way into his Manor, though no one is around to hear or care. But bitch he does, all the way down the hall and to his bedroom, his hands jerking irritably at his belt.
The blankets on his futon are rumpled and unmade, but Sanemi doesn’t care. Probably for the best, given that he’ll have to wash everything once he’s done, anyways.
Belt loose and pants unfastened, Sanemi flops down into his bed. He’s half-hard already, which means he’s really on his last thread. All the more incentive to get this the fuck over with.
Except. He can’t fucking focus; not on this, not on anything. He’s too strung out, yet he’s unable to concentrate enough on this base need of his, and that only pisses him off more. His touch is too rough, his fingers, too calloused to be enjoyable.
Groaning, Sanemi throws an arm over his eyes and tries to let his limited imagination run. He pictures a faceless woman, shrouded in shadow, but her touch is softer than his, more certain. Fingers slide up the burgeoning length of him, turning over his head before trailing back down to take him in hand and slowly, Sanemi begins to pump at himself. Steady, even strokes, quick and efficient, like everything else he does. He will work through this frustration and then he will go back out and train until his limbs give out and he has to drag himself back inside.
Behind his eyelids, Sanemi tries to give the woman a face. He always does, and he always comes up woefully empty, even when his spend is smeared across his lower abdomen. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like he’s never seen a beautiful woman. He just didn’t notice them. Not enough to remember them, it seems. Not enough to make it count during these shameful moments of weakness.
Exhaling forcefully through his nose, Sanemi pumps harder at himself. If he could just peel back the curtain in his mind, see a face that looked at him not with fear or disgust, but want, sensual and heady. Then, he could finally finish this salacious act and get back to what mattered. Training; becoming stronger, faster, deadlier —
A familiar scent creeps in from the recesses of his conscience, sudden and unbidden. A memory of flowers and honey, first smelled on a distant training yard only a few weeks before. At first, this association confuses him; he knows that faint perfume — it belongs to a certain, pain-in-the-ass Kinoe whose sole mission in life has been to drive him up a fucking wall. He hasn’t seen you since that last training, so he sure as fuck doesn’t know why you’re trying to invade his thoughts — his bed — now.
But, does he stop?
No. No he doesn’t.
A few, hesitant strokes along his shaft helps the picture in his head grow clearer. He sees familiar hair tickling his cheek; hands smaller than his roaming his chest. Those immaculate nails raking across his skin, over his nipples and down his abdomen.
A feeble moan escapes past his lips and Sanemi’s hand tightens around his cock, now stiff and aching. His fantasy runs wild faster than he can reel it back in, and he finds himself unwilling to try. Because now, now he pictures silky skin against his own and one of your shapely legs curled around his hips, rocking him against you. Reflexively, his own hips buck up into empty air, desperately chasing the friction you withhold from him in his dreams. Teasing; taunting. Daring him to follow you down, down into the futon with that challenging tilt of your brow, the very one that always set his stomach twisting with anticipation.
He’s close, now; dangerously close, and the knot behind his navel is tighter than ever. Whatever it is mounting inside him is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s precarious and frightening, yet he still cannot stop chasing it. Cannot stop chasing you and those lips, those gorgeous, plump lips that part with a breathy moan that is not his. It’s yours, and your voice a siren’s song that he is too happy to drown to.
The coil in his stomach seizes as your face blooms in his mind, sharper than any photograph. Your eyes glisten with the same need burning in his chest, and there’s a flush in your cheeks that deepens when he bucks again. Somewhere, over the broken moan that vibrates in his throat as he spills fast and hot over his fist, Sanemi swears he hears you sigh his name. His true name, whispered like a prayer rather than a curse.
Every muscle in his body tenses, his body tauter than a live wire. Your face whites out under the punishing force of his high as it ricochets through him, starting low in his navel. His fist turns sticky and the grip he has on himself becomes sloppy. But he only comes harder, and he’ll be mortified in a few seconds when he realizes he can’t tell whether he’s coming to you or for you.
Sanemi gives himself a last, few languid pumps before he collapses against his futon. Spent yet not sated, and scowling at the mess he’s made of himself and his bedding.
Part of him scowls too at you; at the way you so easily invaded his secret space. But his annoyance is quickly tempered by the guilt that wells up inside him, creeping up his throat. Who is he, to think of you in that way? Sanemi Shinazugawa has a better chance of getting ripped apart by some low rank, bastard demon than ever touching you the way his dreams demanded. Not to mention hell itself would freeze over before a woman like you ever wanted him, stripped and bare and vulnerable.
Sanemi doesn’t know how to be a lover, and no one would be stupid enough to ask him to try. He knows this.
Yet, he cannot get the memory of your perfume out of his head any more than he can silence that alluring call of his name reverberating around his skull. And he finds himself hardening again, as he imagines what you might look like bent over or — fucking hell — on top of him, and Sanemi realizes he’s not going back to training. Not any time soon.
divider credit to @strangergraphics !
#demon slayer#kimetsu no yaiba#sanemi shinazugawa#kny#kny x reader#kny fanfic#kny sanemi#sanemi x reader#demon slayer x reader#demon slayer x you#kny x you#sanemi smut#demon slayer smut#kny smut
715 notes
·
View notes
Text
DP x DC prompt [6]
Weapon design always came easy to Jack Fenton. He grew up with it, all the way back in Atlantis, when he was just a little guppy.
What he wasn’t aware of at the time was that his parents were from a long and prestigious line of scientists and weapon manufacturers in Atlantean society. But things had been getting dangerous.
The King at the time cast them out when they refused his demands of greater, stronger, deadlier weapons. The kind of weapons they knew would not only destroy their enemies, but themselves as well.
They fled and went where they thought they would never be found, the surface.
Jack had the easiest time adapting, being as young as he was getting used to breathing air was a lot less of a struggle.
He adopted one of the most generic male names he could, and adapted the family name of Fenestratus into Fenton. And then it was just living as a human, as humanly as possible, nothing to see here.
By now Jack basically doesn’t know any better. but this piece of heritage is coming back now all these years later, when his son is looking to him for help from the government.
But first he holds his boy close and apologizes, because he sees the fear, and he understands a little too well, and he doesn’t like the picture he’s seeing now that all the puzzle pieces are falling into place.
“I almost became the thing I hate the most. I’m so sorry Danny, I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe in your own home”
The hug is long and warm and tight and Danny isn’t ashamed to admit he might have clung a little bit.
Then Jack holds Danny tightly by his shoulders and gives him a big grin, “Good news though, you’re only half ghost, the other half is not only human but also Atlantean, and there are laws protecting us now” Jack mutters to himself, “I wonder if the whole ghost stuff would actually be put under the meta protection thing… hmm”
Danny blinks for a moment, Jazz gapes, Maddie is suddenly no longer spiraling about how her baby boy got in a terrible accident in their lab and she didn’t know.
“I’m also what?”
“Dad!?”
“oh did I forget to mention that? I thought I did, I know for certain that I had been meaning to”
“Jack sweetie, are you-”
“oh yes, and I remember now, I decided to tell you after our big breakthrough because I didn’t want to distract you, and-” Jack looks sheepish, “I hope you aren’t too mad at me Maddiecakes”
“mad? oh I would never be mad at you about this but we could have- I don’t know, accommodated- Atlanteans are aquatic, well I guess that explains how you could always put away so much water, and when you gave me your umbrella and I thought you were just making an excuse when you told me you didn’t mind and in fact loved getting pelted by the rain-”
Maddie goes on, and Jack thinks to himself that this is exactly the reason why he kept it to himself at the time, Maddie never half asses anything, he’s sure a lot of things are going to change in the house now, it honestly only makes him fall in love with her even more.
Meanwhile Jazz had filled up a bucket of water and then dunked her head in, then came back out not even slightly gasping for breath, just saying “oh my god” over and over.
Danny timed it, “yeah okay, I guess that proves it. now I’m starting to wonder if my weird relationship with air is ghost related at all”
#dpxdc#dcxdp#danny fenton#danny phantom#jazz fenton#jack fenton#madeline fenton#good parents jack and maddie#Atlantean Jack#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc prompt#I like how Atlantean heritage explains a lot of the enhanced super human abilities the Fentons seem to have#also history repeating itself yadda yadda#Danny is actually a triple hybrid#Danny eventually becoming friends with Garth because of all this would be really sweet I think#savwrites
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
When I say there aren’t consequences this campaign and it’s frustrating, I don’t mean for the world, the fundamental world changes are actually interesting to think about if/when they ever actually get explored, I mean on a character level. No choice any character made this campaign seems to have been allowed to have any weight or change things for them. It has been a campaign of pulled punches. And it’s made the characters less interesting, because they’ve never really had to deal with negative outcomes!
Orym’s Nana Mori reveal was the icing on the cake. Took the wind out of Orym’s choices being interesting instantly because there was never actually any risk. What do you mean that entire emotional thread and the mechanics change that accompanied it that went on for months didn’t matter.
And it really was a Bells Hells problem because it was wild to watch Matt give consequences to the M9 for something BH did in real time. We got more emotional beats and threats of consequences for Essek getting revealed during the Save Ashton bit than we did for Ashton, to the point where Liam stopped Matt to make sure it got addressed during the denouement but the repercussions of Ashton’s choice did nothing to fundamentally change their story.
I’m so curious why he got so gun-shy about having anything BHs chose matter or have stakes after pitching this as a “deadlier” campaign.
Shoutout to FCG for surprising Matt so much he managed to be the only character who avoided this.
418 notes
·
View notes
Text
the lamb experiment
a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.
pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.
cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold
You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.
This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.
This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.
She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.
You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.
"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.
"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."
Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.
When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.
MacTavish.
You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.
The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.
Kyle. It's fitting.
You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.
He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.
John. That is the one that has to matter most.
"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."
Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.
Simon Riley.
"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."
"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.
"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.
"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"
"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."
The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.
And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.
You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.
And you know, really, what she expects you to do.
It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.
That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.
They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.
But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.
Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.
Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.
She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.
Men.
And men are fickle.
You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.
It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.
They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.
Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.
They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.
But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.
The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.
She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.
Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.
You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."
Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.
You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.
When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.
It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.
And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.
And then--fuck--it is so easy.
Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.
They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.
He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.
You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.
Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.
You are not sure if you are pretending that day.
They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.
He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.
He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.
When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.
You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.
They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.
Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.
Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.
You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--
Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.
They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.
A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.
Ghost.
He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.
You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.
This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.
A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.
One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.
He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.
He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.
"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."
You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.
"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."
You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.
Not until you get everything you need.
"Excuse me?"
"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."
You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.
"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"
You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"
"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"
"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"
"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"
"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.
Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.
To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.
To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.
He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.
One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.
Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.
Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--
"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.
Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.
"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."
"You're a lamb."
"I don't wanna be a lamb."
"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."
You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.
And to not tell my handler how much I like it.
"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."
"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."
You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.
You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.
"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"
He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.
And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.
Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.
Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.
"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."
"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"
And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--
He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.
His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.
He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.
There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.
You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.
He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.
"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."
"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--
And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.
You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.
You've severed the bond. You've made your own.
When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.
You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.
You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.
You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.
Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.
You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"
And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."
You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.
This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.
Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.
When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.
You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.
He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.
Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.
It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.
To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.
He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--
You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.
>> we have joy.
You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.
When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.
You smile back this time.
Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.
"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.
Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.
A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.
"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley smut#dark!simon#dark!soap
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
୨୧ INTRODUCING ━━━ SECRETAGENT!CHRIS X SECRETAGENT!READER
✉️ NEW AGENT FILES AVAILABLE . . . SCROLL TO OPEN!

“careful, sunshine. you keep lookin’ at me like that and i might think you like me or something.”
➤ SECRETAGENT!CHRIS . . . code name is “shadow.” he’s fast, reckless, and too charming for his own good. most skilled agent in the agency. loves calling you by your code name even when you guys aren’t in a mission. likes working alone, he thinks he doesn’t need a partner. wears rings. always in a suit and tie. goofs off on missions but somehow still gets the job done. dior cologne. always two steps ahead. impressive photographic memory. hides the fact that he enjoys working with you. black sunglasses. loves to tease you. extremely wealthy. owns a motorcycle and a black lamborghini.

“i don’t like you. i just don’t want you getting killed before i can say ‘i told you so.’ that’s it. that’s all.”
➤ SECRETAGENT!READER . . . code name is “sunshine.” (chris chose it.) a literal badass. will always have a comeback. isn’t afraid to voice her opinions. silk black dresses. cherry flavored and scented things. always has weapons strapped to her thigh. laced sets. long sleek gloves. good at hiding emotions. always annoyed with chris. loves saying “i told you so.” dark red lipstick. lana del rey. rude sarcasm. loves leaving lipstick marks on everything. hates getting attached. can hack into literally anything. unmatched precision with knives.
SYNOPSIS ── you’re a top secret agent. cold, precise, and better off alone. but, when you’re assigned a partner to complete missions with, things start to go south. you’re forced to partner with your worst nightmare: chris sturniolo, the agency’s most reckless (and annoyingly charming) operative. you clash instantly. too much tension, too much history, too many almosts. but as missions get deadlier and secrets unravel, the line between enemies and something more begins to blur. and trusting him might be your only chance at staying alive.
𓂃 secretagent!reader can be a self insert, but you can imagine yourself or anyone you would like to. pleaseee send asks and let me know if anyone has done this au before so i can give proper credit! :)
© delilahsturniolo
#⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝜗ৎ secretagent!chris au#chris sturniolo#the sturniolo triplets#sturniolo#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo x you#sturniolo triplets x you#sturniolo triplets x reader#chris sturniolo x reader#chris x y/n#chris x reader#sturniolo au#alternate universe#chris sturniolo au#christopher sturniolo#chris sturniolo angst#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo imagine#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo triplets imagines#sturniolo angst#sturniolo triplets angst#spy au#sturniolo triplets fandom#sturniolo fandom#sturniolo tumblr#sturniolo triplets fanfic#sturniolo x you
230 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 15: Jealousy
— How does Sylus handle jealousy?
[ 🌸 ] idk why the idea of Sylus being jealous it’s funny
characters: Sylus
warnings: none, hdc—oneshot(?)
More? Here
…
..
.
Night had wrapped itself around the city streets, and yet, that darkness never reached the exclusive nightclub in Zone N109. Inside, among the scent of expensive liquor and the low murmur of conversations, Sylus watched.
His sharp gaze was fixed on you—the only woman who had stolen more than his breath a long time ago. You weren’t doing anything unusual: smiling, talking, laughing. And yet, the shadow on his face deepened with every little gesture, with every stranger’s gaze that lingered on you. Especially when the guy in front of you—a man with too much enthusiasm and far too little awareness of his own insignificance—leaned in just a bit closer than acceptable.
Luke and Kieran, by his side, exchanged a knowing look, feeling the tension in their leader like static in the air.
“Poor bastard,” Luke muttered, sipping his drink.
“Dead in three, two…” Kieran whispered, not even bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.
But Sylus didn’t move right away. Oh no. He wasn’t that impulsive. Instead, he raised his glass with the kind of calm only someone who has absolute control over every situation could muster… Until he saw that idiot touch your delicate, pristine arm in what passed as a polite gesture.
The soft clink of glass on the table was all it took for his men to sit up straight.
“Luke, Kieran.” Sylus spoke in a tone as cold and sharp as a well-kept blade.
“Yes, boss.” Luke and Kieran were already moving, no further instructions needed.
The poor fool barely had time to blink before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, interrupting his attempt at flirting.
“Hey, buddy,” Luke said with a smile that held zero actual friendliness beneath the mask. “You don’t wanna be here right now.”
You raised an eyebrow, then turned your head just in time to see Sylus approaching with that usual predatory stride. He didn’t have to say a word. His presence alone was enough to stake a claim, to remind everyone who he was.
“Enjoying the conversation, kitten?” his voice was velvety, a sharp contrast to the way he stared down the man.
You tilted your head, amused. You knew exactly what was going on. With a barely-there smile, you reached up and subtly played with the edge of Sylus’s jacket—an almost casual gesture, but one intimate enough to make it crystal clear there was a difference between him and every other man in the room.
“Oh, we were just chatting… But I think the conversation’s over now, isn’t it?” you said, glancing at the guy who was now sweating bullets under Sylus’s gaze.
Without losing that calm expression, Sylus let his fingers brush your cheek with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for someone like him.
“Good. I don’t want anyone wasting your time with nonsense.”
His tone was sweet. His words, however, were a death sentence to anyone who dared cross the line again.
You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Are you jealous, Sylus?”
The leader of Onychinus looked at you for a moment, then let a small, barely visible smirk curve his lips.
“You tell me, kitten. Am I?”
.
.
.
(He was. That lying bastard.)
—As you’ve probably noticed:
—He’s not the kind to make a scene. He doesn’t need to shout or get immediately aggressive. Instead, his presence becomes more dominant, his gaze colder, and his voice deadlier. People in Zone N109 have learned real fast not to test his patience.
—When you’re alone with him after something like that, he won’t outright say he was jealous. But his tone softens more than usual, he holds you a little tighter, brushes your cheek with his thumb and murmurs in that low, velvety voice:
“You know I don’t like sharing what’s mine, kitten.”
(look at him, so possessive—omg girl, ay—)
—He’s not the type to passionately kiss you in public just to prove a point. His way is more discreet: a hand on your waist, a deliberate brush against your neck, calling you kitten or sweetie in a slightly sweeter tone—right when the other guy is still within earshot. Little details that make his message crystal clear: you’re his, and no one else better dare think otherwise.
—If someone really crosses the line? Oh, poor fool. Sylus doesn’t even need to lift a finger. A simple order to Luke or Kieran is more than enough to ensure the guy “learns his lesson.” Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to say it—his men already know what to do the moment their boss gets that predator look.
—If you confront him and ask if he was jealous, his reaction is usually the same:
“Jealous? Me? Kitten…” Sylus smirks, steps in dangerously close, and gently corners you against the wall. “You really think anyone else could even come close to what we have?”
Spoiler: Yes. He was jealous. But Sylus will never fully admit it… at least not with words. Lmfao.

#iidiliowrites#sylus fluff#sylus love and deepspace#sylus x you#sylus qin#sylus x mc#l&ds sylus#sylus smut#sylus x reader#lnds sylus#sylus#love and deepspace sylus#lads sylus
276 notes
·
View notes
Text
Little angst to sprinkle, but Helldiver!Reader who are tired.
God, you are so fucking tired. None of this matters, none of this makes any fucking sense at this point.
You climbed the ranks and you did your due and you paid in blood and flesh and chips of your own sanity. You gave and you gave and you gave.
You trained new cadets, explaining the terminals and heavy nests and fortresses. You have been everywhere command allows space jumps to.
Your ship a big menacing thing, a blade forever suspended in the vast cosmic nothing. Weightless and creaking whenever you have to engage orbital thrusters, chief engineer muttering something under their breath. You never ask what. Engineers can have their superstitions.
You can’t afford to have any.
You can’t afford much at all nowadays, prices biting harder than they ever did, missions deadlier.
You have less and less divers with each year — numbers of your branch diminishing quickly. Frankly, you don’t blame them.
Average age of Helldivers is 18 to 22 years old.
Average survival time out in the field — less than half a minute.
Even with all the propaganda and enlistment perks command simply cannot supply new meat to the frontlines. There is simply no more new meat.
Conditions get worse for rookies, their chances of survival dropping through the crust of the earth. At least when you were starting out you still had a med bay.
At least you managed to scramble some manuals for proper ammunition assembling.
You drag yourself onto the ship, steps heavy and tired — there are black spots in your vision, your head is swimming and you are pretty sure you no longer have anything in your stomach.
Bloody stims devour any available energy source to power your body through the life-threatening injuries.
No wonder you are still limping. Your mind doesn’t understand why the leg that got torn off is in place again.
You don’t really notice Price chatting up your chief administrator when you drag yourself in — bloody and tired, limbs so heavy it’s a miracle you are still standing.
But you can’t call it a day, there are three more missions. Then you can rest.
There are black spots swimming in your vision, you are lightheaded and nauseous, stomach aching — it clenches around nothing, trying to dissolve the food that isn’t there anymore.
You whip out the stim you didn’t dispose after the last mission, needle sliding in your thigh with practiced ease. Your body filling with energy, your vision brighter.
You can finally fucking think again.
There is a heavy silence you don’t notice immediately, too high on the endorphins stims bring. Pain free for the next two minutes or so.
“Captain?”, Price is hovering just behind your shoulder, your fingers twitching around the base of your secondary weapon — you are jumpy straight out of the mission. Automatons start looking like people after too long.
Down on Chort-Bay is hell likes of which you haven’t seen before.
You are not looking forward to jumping down there again. But duty calls, right? No one else would do that. No one is on the orbit right now but you.
“Captain”, you hum, eyes flickering to him for a moment. You have to wipe the visor of your helmet to properly see him — one of the diver’s got blown up on a landmine, his blood is still on your armour.
You don’t have time to wash it off. Not if you want to finish mission before you will need to be up for the next order.
“I noticed…the syringe.”, Price starts after prolonged silence, brows furrowing as he watches you. Eyes the softest blue you ever saw. The summer sky.
You remember the one you saw back at home. The time before helldiving now feels like a feeble attempt of your imagination to cushion the fall from the height of your exhaustion. The time before helldiving feels nowadays like a fairytale.
“Didn’t know you were sick”, he continues and you chuckle, typing in your coordinates. It’s cute that he worries about your health, though understandable. You are still alive and therefore a valuable asset to the command.
“Not sick. Just fucking tired out of my mind. We get a shit ton of stims with every resupply. Probably the only thing we get for free”, your laugh is a dry static-y thing, distorted from helmet, coming out of dynamics in your helmet feeling wrong and twisted.
But Price looks at you now like you have three heads and you try to explain. Perhaps SAS don’t get any of these. Though not like they need the thing, they got actual medics ready to stitch them up as needed.
They got off days and luxuries you cannot afford.
God, you might consider marrying on one of these days. Purely for tax benefits.
“Stims are used to patch us up on the go. Don’t have a whole lotta time to waste. We use them sometimes as energisers as well. A tired soldier is a sloppy soldier and a sloppy soldier is a dead one”, you say, brain fog finally lifting, god, this is good.
“Wouldn’t that constitute addiction with how often soldiers use it?”, John is a heavy stare and deep frown in the line of his mouth, his eyes the prettiest summer sky. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
You shrug, checking your gear before getting yourself in the pod and locking your ankles in place.
“Command told us they had scientists test drive the things and they aren’t addictive. Honestly I don’t know much, Captain. You might wanna ask someone with actual degree about the stuff”
You salute him for the road and then the pod slides you down, all ready to go.
Down there hell awaits. Down there torn off limb is the least that could happen.
Down there you could use any help you can get.
Price watches you getting launched down the orbit and turns away, tension coiling in his shoulders.
Price whisks away one of the stim vials, hiding the thing in the pocket and walking away. He will need to have someone check the bloody thing.
There is no way godsend ambrosia that cures torn off limbs and massive bleeding is not addictive.
John remembers the way your whole body buzzed with energy from the moment you pushed it in. Like there was no more pain, no more exhaustion, no more fear.
Like you were high.
And that’s for sure that sloppy soldier is a dead one. But so is the drugged out one. So is you, if his suspension is right.
#call of duty#cod mw2#girl.snippets#helldivers au#helldivers 2#helldivers ii#john price x y/n#captain john price x you#john price x you#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#captain john price#price x reader#price cod#john price#captain price#task force 141
319 notes
·
View notes
Text
Part Two
Pretty Little Thing
Remmick x Black Female Reader



⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧
Reuploaded, edited and proofread
Tags and Warnings: Chicago 1930s Au, Mafia Au, Remmick is in an Irish mafia, Remmick is still a vampire, Reader is 22 years old, everyone is up North from the South, Age gaps, slow burn, eventual smut, dub-con, (maybe—non-con), lengthy fanfic
Summary: At the twins' new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the Southside eyes linger a little too long on you.
A/N: ⚠️ Hi, everyone!! Before diving deeper to read this story, I ask that you throughly read the tags and know what you’re about to read. This contains dub-con and maybe non-con. Please be aware of those factors if you’re uncomfortable with that. If not please proceed and enjoy! ⚠️
I put this extra warning because someone on Ao3 felt it had non-con in it in later chapters, I apologize profusely for that because it wasn’t what I thought I was writing and I don’t want anyone else to have the same experience as that person, so please tread carefully and be warned!!
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧
“How much do I owe you?” You squeak, voice stricken with fear.
“Thirteen dollars and fifty cents.”
Your lips part at the way he causally says the price as if smuggled Canadian Whisky doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.
A nervous giggle slips you. “But I’ve only got fifty cents to my name, Sir!”
Remmick rises from the red couch, hands buried deep in his black slacks. “That’s an easy fix.”
Smokes stands dangerously close to Remmick. Eye to eye with him, he shields you from the other man’s view.
“Or we can arrange shit right here, right now and leave my little cousin out of this,” Smoke begins. “Afterall, you came here for business, not my family.” His brown eyes are raging pools of fire.
In rare moments like this everyone including Stack shivers in the presence of Smoke when he gets like this. On the other hand, Remmick casually stands. A bored expression resting on his handsome face.
The younger twin is quick at his brother’s side. “Easy, Smoke.” He graces his older brother’s tensed shoulder, giving a soft squeeze.
“I don’t like repeating myself, Moore. I want the little birdie to pay me what she owes me.” Remmick strolls to the bar where you are.
Too close for your liking. It makes your stomach flip and stir the booze you drank earlier.
He pours himself a drink and gulps it all down, not flinching once. “Not to mention you’re in no position to be callin’ shots. Wasn’t it your boys caught causing trouble on my turf?” He tilts his head like a fox, a mocking smile dancing on his face.
The twins freeze and color drains from their faces before shame settles in. They despise being reminded of that bloody turf dispute. It left people in the masses six feet under in the dirt. And since it was on behalf of their own men it makes their gang look like a circus of fools. Oh, can’t forget how it chains them at the mercy of the Irish gang's feet, like a dog with its tail tucked between its hind legs.
“Don’t rub it in,” Stack murmurs, annoyed.
Remmick throws his hands in the air.
Two shiny golden signet rings decorate each index finger. “No, no! Just a friendly little reminder is all!”
If it wasn’t for your mere presence in the room and now tangled deep in their web of business, Smoke would’ve shot the cocky bastard where he stands. Though, he knows it won’t do much harm. Silver bullets only do so much damage to a freak of nature like Remmick.
The longer you remain in the room the more the air gets deadlier and toxic to inhale.
So, you force yourself to speak up. You want out. Now! “Listen, sir,” you say and their eyes all dart to you. “I don’t have all the money right now, but I’ll have it for you in a week or two, so–”
“No, you see that won’t do, Sweetheart.” He shakes his head.
“What? Why not?”
“Cause I need my dough now and on my terms.”
Smoke’s hands are quick to aim pistols at Remmick. Wild flames burn and dance wildly behind his cinnamon eyes. “Fuck that. Fuck the turfs. I don’t give a shit bout that no more. I ain’t giving up my flesh and blood to the enemy, I know what you’re playing at, fucker.”
Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden flash of guns. Situations involving the twins, you always make sure to stir clear of. But now you’re caged in the deadly crossfire, and hating every minute of it. You don’t want to witness bloodshed.
“S-Stack, he’s not gonna shoot him, is he?” You stammer, eyes anxiously bouncing between Remmick and Smoke.
The question goes unanswered and unheard as Stack pulls his guns out too. They surround the Irish man like sharks in search of human blood. Their faces are made of stone and steel. But, Remmick remains unmoved, plainly leaning on the bar’s table.
In your eyes he’s got a death wish the way he still manages to smile, playing Russian roulette with the grim reaper himself.
“You get on outta the way.” Smoke waves his gun at you. His eyes never wander away from its target.
“We finna blow this motherfucka to pieces,” Stacks adds, finishing his brother’s sentence.
Without any questions doubting their authority, you bolt far behind them. You know better than to disobey two blood thirsty demons like them.
“So, it’s a war you want?” Remmick raises a brow.
Their fingers waver on the triggers. A gang war. It won’t be the first blood bath they’ve seen in Chicago’s hellish underworld. When the twins first arrived in the Windy City, immediately they were sucked into the gut wrenching world of gangs and violence. They saw it all. How innocent souls fell victim to unjust, cruel murder simply because a man controlling a group of men couldn’t get along with another man just like himself puppeteering other men.
They swore to never allow another massacre to occur again. No, not on their watch at least. Yet, here they are, guns aimed at a man with the power to crush their community with one lift of a finger.
Remmick knows it and the twins know too, this won’t end well. No, it will end with streets soaked in blood, lakes of it.
A gunshot, loud and ear splitting pierces the thick veil of silence blanketing the air. Crumpled low on the shiny marble tile, your hands cover your ringing ears. Eyelids fluttering, you inspect your surroundings for fresh blood staining the floor. Instead, there’s only fragments of glass shards from the bottle of Canadian Whisky you drank.
You blink, heart wildly skipping as streams of shaky breaths fall from your lips.
Threads of steam flow from Smoke’s gun. “Fuck!” He growls and flings the pistol. It clatters on the floor. He paces, pinching his nose bridge. “We can’t afford a damn war.”
Stack chest deflates, calm waves of relief flooding his senses. “Damn, Smoke. Why you gotta go makin’ messes and shit?”
The backroom’s door flies open with Sammy and Bo bolting in.
“What the hell’s going on back here?” Bo demands. Brows twisted in confusion. But, his shoulders go slack when he sees the spilled booze mixed with glass. “The fuck y’all got goin’ on back here?”
“Nothin’, just a deal gone south!” Stack shines a smile at Bo and Sammy.
As quick as they came in, Sammy and Bo return back to the front and the thick airless atmosphere clouds the backroom again. You shift heel to heel awkwardly as you wait and ponder what’s next.
“What’s the terms, Irishman?” Smoke exhales. His eyes burn—fury entangled with defeat.
Wait what?
A sinister smile pulls at Remmick’s lips.
—--------------
By the end of the night you end up with an invisible chain of debt locked around your neck. It weighs your shoulders to the fiery pits of hell. In hindsight you found yourself making the best of it.
Saying, at least there wasn’t any blood spilled.
Afterall you just have to sing for the Irish man at his night club—easy peasy. Right?
The Irish nightclub on the other side of town is nothing like the one you performed in on your side town. Here, the eyes of people who look nothing like you stare. It doesn’t take a child to understand the look in their eyes. It’s crystal clear.
Some stare with pure hatred, like you’re the spawn of satan while others look at you like you’re some lost puppy in a world of danger. Regardless of their unsaid thoughts, their eyes make your skin crawl.
You want to go home back where people are welcoming and look exactly like you. If this is a punishment from the Irish man he sure did a splendid job because you hate every bit of this.
In the women’s dressing room, tears burn your eyes, begging to fall, but you refuse to let them. Whatever sick gag this man is pulling, you won’t let get to you. No, at least not in his domain.
“You okay, honey?” A soft voice says nearby.
You look around to only find empty chairs in front of the lit up mirrors with multiple glowy bulbs. Seeing no one in any of the chairs makes you think you’re already going insane until the voice comes again.
“I’m right here, hun.”
Behind you in one of the pale pink couches, is an older lady with chocolate brown locks neatly styled. Makeup without a trace of error coats her face and compliments her sharp features.
“Oh, hello there…” You voice trails off. “Didn’t see y’a there on the way in here.”
“Actually I just came in,” she admits. In seconds she occupies a seat next to you. “Don’t worry, honey, no one here will hurt you.”
You cock a brow at her odd sincerity for a complete stranger—you. Maybe she’s one of the ones who feels bad for your being here? You resist the temptation to roll your eyes at her for it. Of course you somewhat appreciate her, but still it rubs you the wrong way.
The soft smile stops reaching her eyes as she stares. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
You blink, wordless. Being outright rude won’t cut it. Though, what you’d say isn’t meant to cut deep. You’re positive she’d take it that way anyways, your words wounding her fragile pride. The last thing you need is an enemy here in the enemy's home.
So, you just continue staring at her.
She sighs, fingers toying with the pearls draped around her neck. “It’s me, Mary.”
Mary. The name doesn’t ring any bells and your brain steams as you struggle to understand who she is.
You give up trying to figure out who she is. “Who?” You squint.
She sighs again, astonished. “Stacks old lady, Mary! Wait, has he never mentioned me?”
Relief fills you at the mention of Stack. Meaning they haven’t completely thrown you to the sharks afterall.
But, her guess is correct. Stack nor Smoke in fact never mentioned a white passing black woman ever, or at least not to you.
She explains the twins sent her to ensure your safety while you’re paying off your debt until an urgent knock at the door destroys the safe space you built with Mary in a short span of time. It’s time for your performance, in other words humiliation for all non kin skin folk to behold.
A tall man guides you to the destination.
Trailing after him you notice he isn’t heading to the main stage, but somewhere else. Through mazes of halls that turn, twist and a set of stairs, he finally yields at a door.
He knocks. “She’s here, boss.”
Boss? He definitely means that cocky, evil, pale man, Remmick.
The door clicks open swiftly to a room filled with dimly lit warm golden lights. Similar to the twin’s backroom, red and black paints the space. Centering the room is a mini stage inches away from the only sitting area of a round small table encircled by a spiral obsidian leather couch.
There’s no bar or any other areas. Only the stage and couch as if created for the sole purpose of a small audience. Your throat dries and your heart trembles as the man who led you here leaves.
The door clicks behind you, sealing you inside with Remmick. Goosebumps spread like wildfire on your exposed sun-kissed skin as shivering cold shivers sweep your spine.
“Don’t be shy, Sweetheart. Come on in.” Remmick, his voice is silky and so deep it reaches earth’s molten core.
Your eyes dart to where the sound comes—hidden behind cherry red curtains around the circular couch.
You Inhale in. You exhale out.
Perform for him. Get the money. Pay him. Never see him again. You drag your sharp heels on the extravagant carpeted floor.
“Hurry now. I don’t like to be left waiting.” His voice is darkly commanding yet lighthearted as if not to invoke too much fear in you.
You make your way on the stage and reside at its center. Protectively your arms wrap your frame, trying to shield overly exposed skin. Though, it doesn’t matter anyways with what he’s prepared for you to wear tonight.
An embezzled shiny snow bra with baby blue beads merely covering your top. High waist sequin panties matching your top hugs the bottom of your body.
His hungry gaze roams every inch of your body, stringing a bone chilling shiver through you. The sparkling chandelier hanging above him, illuminates his alluring features. Today, unlike yesterday, he dons a dark striped vest, white rolled sleeves and black slacks.
“Well, what’re you waiting for? Give me a show, doll.” His Irish accent is thicker than yesterday. It’s more rough and seductive on the ears.
Sensual music begins flooding the room as Remmick intensely eyes you. He’s itching to do more than simply watch.
He told himself he’ll be patient with you. Take his time peeling every layer you offer. Even if you act up or provoke him to punish you, he’ll find a way around the obstacle. He’s played with plenty of dolls. Some boring, others fun.
You, however, seem like a fun time all around. A cheeky little mouth that goes unchecked, a sprinkle of naivety to the world around you and a rare kind of pureness. Not purity in which the apple is untouched. No, you’re the kind that lacks the touch of a real man like him in every aspect.
True, you’ve only ever had one man you loved in your entire life and you gave him your virginity at the ripe age of twenty. People say it’s important who you give it to and afterwards you’re tainted rotten fruit. Or at least that’s what some old school church folk preach.
You don’t care he was the one who got it nor are you regretful. What you do regret is being naive.
You regret being naive to the point of stupidity for that man. After him you swore to yourself to never love a man that way again. But of course this Irish man doesn’t know that. Yet.
Your body slowly follows the waves of the rhythm, like riding ocean waves. His eyes devour every move you make on stage. White wispy clouds of cigar smoke float around him, adding to his heart drumming presence.
Once the music finally stops, your heart pounds in your ears and the saliva you gulp fails at soothing your dry throat. The music played so long you lost track of time and dancing felt like an eternity.
“That was satisfying,” He purrs. Remmick leans back on the leather cushion and pats his lap. “Won’tcha join me over here, Sweetheart.”
You freeze on stage. Eyes fluttering frantically. “I don’t think I will, Mr. Remmick. That wasn’t part of our deal. I’m here to perform on stage, not entertain you in such a way,” You state, finality in every word.
He shifts on the couch, lips in a small smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Oh, really?” His voice is a blank canvas.
“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking my leave now.” Off stage and at the exit, you twist the handle. The knob fails to budge, setting off alarm sirens in your brain. “Let me out of here!”
He takes one last drag of his cigar before putting it out in a crystalline ashtray. Idly he rises off the couch and saunters to you. His every step thickens the air and steals air from your lungs. Like an animal stalking its prey in the woods, Remmick is calm. He knows you—his prey, isn’t going anywhere because he’s got you trapped in his web right where he wants.
Time seems to drag as he looms closer like a haunting shadow. Each passing second your confidence melts away until his frame hovers you. Goosebumps prickle your skin as his palm slams above your head. Your heart screams in your chest, terror paralyzing you.
“What’s the matter? I thought you were leaving, Sweetheart?”. His voice is colder than arctic waters. “Hmm? You’ve nothing to say?” His head tilts, almost mockingly.
You don’t say anything. Can’t say anything because your mind and body won’t allow it. In one swift blur you’re thrown over his shoulder then on the black leather couch.
He pulls his collar, popping a few buttons open. “It seems no one has taught you lessons about authority.” Remmick runs a hand through ginger locks. “Allow me to be the first, Sweetheart.”
#remmick#remmick sinners#remmick fanfic#remmick x reader#remmick x female reader#remmick x y/n#remmick x you#remmick x black reader#remmick x black!reader#remmick x fem!reader#remmick x black female reader#remmick fic#remmick imagine#sinners movie#sinners 2025#sinners fanfiction#sinners fic#sinners fandom#sinners#female reader x character#jack o’connell x reader#ao3 fanfic
122 notes
·
View notes