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charliemwrites · 4 months

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Before charmed slasher Simon revealed his true identity, what were movie nights like? I’d kill for a lil section on them almost cuddling on the couch while watching a scary movie and Simon absolutely adoring when you jump and scooch closer to him on instinct 🥹🥹 please charlie I beg you 😭

*Checks notes, chats with The Council* Yeah okay... we can do that.

CW for a bit of somnophilia and Simon being a creep!!

You open the door looking like some kind of pastry with too-big eyes. Soft, cream-colored pair of joggers and a thin pink jumper, so fuzzy he just knows he'll find fluff on him after this. You look so cozy and sweet; he wants to put a pretty belled collar on you. Maybe watch you curl up in a nest of blankets, safe behind the bars of a cage.

But maybe not, he muses as you chirp a greeting, taking his hand to tug him into your apartment. A lamb inviting a wolf to the pen. He likes you best like this, all loose limbed and free to roam. Thinks maybe you'd lose some of that mischievous glint if he locked you up.

The collar though... he'd like to hear it ring as you bounce around him.

"I am the bestest friend ever," you declare, squeezing calloused fingers so much bigger and crueler and blood-stained than your own. "You know why?"

He arches an eyebrow. Your impish smile widens with delight. "Why's that, luv?"

"Well, you know that one place you wanted last week, but they were closed?"

He grunts and nods. Last week was your choice to pick the movie, which mean he was in charge of dinner.

"Well... they're still closed for repairs but! I talked to the owner, who talked to his mum, and she gave me the recipe for that dish you like. So guess what I did!"

He stares at you for a moment, teeth aching his jaw with the urge to sink them into soft flesh. Mark you as his. How the hell are you real? How the hell are you here?

When he's silent a beat to long, you click your tongue.

"You're no fun - I tried to make it," you explain.

Only then does he become aware of the scent in your apartment. Garlic and red meat and savory spices. His mouth fills with saliva as he focuses his attention on you again.

"Smells great, luv," he says, flicking the corner of his mouth up.

You beam. "Hopefully it's good! I tried it first and it seems alright, but I'm not sure it's as good as the restaurant."

It's almost not a conscious thought to snap his arm out and scoop you up, dragging you in against his chest. You yelp initially, but it devolves into a little giggle as you flatten your palms against his chest.

"Thank you, luv."

Every time he comes into your home, it's a struggle not to keep you. Not to take this place for himself, keep you for his own among all your pretty, soft things. Blood washes out; he'd show you how.

"Rileyyyy!" you mock-whine, pushing at him. "C'mon, before it gets cold."

He wants to make a comment about eating you. Simon thinks he could survive a winter on your taste alone. Instead he lets you on your feet, eases his snake-like grip around your waist. You cast him one last, warm look and skip off to the kitchen to fill bowls with food.

"So what movie are we watching?" you call.

"You ever seen Sinister?" he asks.

You make an annoyed noise. "You know I haven't!"

"Well, that's what we're watching."

You appear with a full, steaming bowl and a beer, shoo him to the couch with a little kick to his ankles. "Get it set up while I finish serving."

"Bossy thing," he tuts, voice a little too low for teasing.

The bridge of your nose darkens with a flush, but you make a cheeky little face in return. "Someone's gotta keep you in line!"

You're gone before you can hear the rumble in his chest. Some days he could swear you know what you're doing; that you know just what sort of animal you're poking at. That you're seeing just how much you can prod before he springs.

He tries not to imagine that cheeky, smug little smirk going all wet-eyed and desperate with lust. Sits to hide the bulge forming in his pants and sets up the movie.

You saunter out with your own, less-filled bowl and a glass of white wine. Take one look at the screen and shoot him an exasperated look.

"I should have known," you complain.

"Literally called Sinister, luv."

"Yeah, I know," you lament.

As soon as the movie starts you're curling into his side, eyes huge. Meal forgotten in your lap.

"Oh, no," you whisper, tilting your face to give him a pleading look. "I can't eat like this!"

"Eat quick, luv. You'll have a break after this first part.”

You do as you’re told; take a big sip of wine when you’re done - just in time for the first jumpscare. You save the wine but quickly put it away, shrinking down against the cushions.

“You’re mean, awful, terrible,” you mumble, fumbling a blanket off the back of the couch.

“‘S not very nice,” he snorts, licking his fork clean. You’d made it quite well for a first time. Not necessarily as good as the restaurant’s but better for you having made it special for him.

“You’re not very nice,” you reply, going stiff with fear as the “home movies” start playing. “No no no, fuck all of that.”

As soon as he’s set his bowl aside, you’re clinging in his arm. Bicep squished against your breasts, little fingers curling hard into flesh. He hopes you’ll leave cute little bruises. Your eyes are huge trained on the tv, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Holy shit,” you squeak, hiding your face.

Chuckling, he nudges at you. “Uh uh, no hiding. C’mon, I’m right here.”

You whimper and snuggle in even closer, wedged up against his ribs, leaning into him. Nearly climb into his lap when the creature starts moving on the screen, hands flapping.

“Fuuuuuck that,” you whine, “he’s so fucked oh my god.”

Simon chuckles, setting his other hand on your thigh. Indulges in stroking his thumb over the inseam of your joggers. You barely even seem to notice, engrossed in fear.

By the end, you’re fanning yourself of the panic, shooting him a look that’s meant to be accusing but mostly just owlish.

“You have to make it up to me,” you declare.

Oh, he could think of a dozen ways to do that.

“Yeah?” he rumbles. “What do you need?”

“We’re watching something else. My pick this time.” You pause, shoot him a worried look. “Can you stay for another?”

He smirks. “Couldn’t kick me out if you tried, luv.”

You really couldn’t. Because you’re adorable when you’re scared. Look like something to ruin. But the aftermath is almost better. When your body melts into warmth and (false) safety. The anxiety drains away, leaving you sleepy and pliable. You’ll fall asleep within the hour.

And you do. Clue playing (subtitles on) you’re snoozing against his shoulder before long. He waits until the movie ends for plausible deniability, then takes you to bed. You hardly stir, save to press your nose against his collar with a little hum.

He eases you out of your joggers, eyes flickering at the pretty lace clinging to your hips. Tiny little bows at the sides.

Snuffs out the bedside lamp and fishes his fully-hard cock from his pants. He teases his free hand along your inner thigh, over the lace front of your panties. Scrapes his nail a bit where your clit is hidden. Nearly purrs when you moan softly, wiggling on the mattress to open your thighs wider, still out cold.

Fucks his other hand vicious and brutal, relishing the slight dry pain. Fast and hard, already worked up from having you trembling against him for over an hour. It doesn’t take long to fall over that edge, the memory of your squeaks and cries finishing him off.

He covers the sensitive, angry tip as he cums, no matter how much he wants to paint you with his spend. He takes a deep breath as the pleasure courses through him, twitching through aftershocks. Cracks his neck as he peeks your peaceful expression.

Can’t help himself. Smears his wet thumb over the front of your panties. Nothing you’ll notice in the morning, but you’ll spend all night with him marking your cunt. Maybe even all day tomorrow.

He should go.

Ends up gently, carefully, glossing your bitten bottom lip with a drop of cum as well. Gets rock hard all over again when your tongue flicks out at the sensation, tasting. Still unconscious. You roll over with a sleepy sigh and curl up.

Simon pulls the blankets over you and returns to the living room to clean up from dinner. He’s not yet willing to slink back to his den.

#asks #cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #charmed slasher ghost #final girl reader

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ma1dita · 3 months

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if you need to be mean (be mean to me)

a ‘partners in crime’ installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 1.5k

summary: (established relationship) The one where he leaves before you wake up. You and Luke both can't ignore what's in front of you—and both of you feel guilty leading up to that night (Luke Castellan x dionysus!reader)

warnings: suggestive mdni if you’re uncomfortable – nondescript mentions of sex

a/n: someones gotta take mitski away from the pjo editors for fucks sake. yes, this is based off of ‘i don’t smoke’ (audiotree live) don’t look at me.

(posted 1/30/24 thanks to my betas ellie and lari @lixzey & @mrsaluado )

'lovers, or partners in crime' comes directly after

___

[ you come down and tell me, “i was meant for you”, baby || being with you makes the flame burn good ]

Your father once told you when you were younger that you were a divining rod for mayhem; you attract it, cause it, and in very few instances, you are the cure. It’s why your roles and responsibilities at camp hid you away from your full potential, and Luke knew you could achieve greatness if you left with him. He understood your madness more than you’ll ever know, and saw you for what you are–his cure. But he made his choice long before he recognized his devotion to you, distancing himself in order to fulfill his plans of waging war against the gods. Sweet and sultry words slip from his lips to distract you from the growing distance of his heart from yours. A distraction is what he’s always been, and he’s good at playing the part. After all, everything he’s learned about deception and acting, he’s picked up from you.

The guilt still sits heavy in his heart as he watches you walk around your bedroom the night before he leaves. Luke’s wondered if there’s any way he can convince you to come with him, but he knows your heart is softer than his, more forgiving. He thinks his damnation is past forgiveness anyway.

You trod over to meet him on your bed, hands full of moisturizer as you climb onto his lap and you look so willing and pliant to whatever he’ll say next. Luke knows you’ve been extra gentle with him lately, and it makes him sigh. This would be easier if you hated each other. But that’s the farthest thing from the truth.

Soft hands rub the moisturizer into his skin, delicately caressing his scar, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re smiling and looking how he wants to remember you. His lovely girl, who holds his rage like someone should’ve held his 9-year-old self running away from home. His hands settle around your hips, holding onto you until he can’t anymore and Luke wonders if there was any prophecy out there that could’ve told him that he’d always be running home to you. He just has to take the long way home this time.

By morning, you might not look at him with this much love, and he’s not even sure you’ll forgive him, so he pulls you into a kiss so deep that even Kronos’s attacks on his mind can’t pull him away.

“Mmmm,” you moan, gasping for air as he continues the assault down your neck, marking you with his lips so you have something to remember him by, “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s gotten into you, angelface?” If only you knew.

“Can’t help it baby, you’ve got a face I’d go to war for,” he mutters, pressing another kiss to your lips, “and a heart I’d die for.” He’s smiling into your cheek, but his expression falters for a moment when you look into his golden-flecked eyes.

Maybe you know more than you let on, awareness cognizant in your features. The jig is up, and he’s ready for you to call him out on it—but a half smile falls upon your face instead, and for some reason, this feels like the inevitable goodbye. There was never much you two could hide from each other after all.

“I know it’s been hard lately, Luke. But let me take your pain away. Please,” and it sounds almost like you’re begging.

The both of you are a little guilty tonight, hearts heavy and conscious of what this means for the both of you, hoping that your actions will suffice as the coercion, the explanation, the apology— instead of the unspoken truth that will come to light when you wake.

___

[ if you need to be mean, be mean to me || i can take it and put it inside of me ]

Both of you are more desperate tonight, bodies moving languidly like you have all the time in the world. It’s a conversation in itself as he ruts into you, trying to stuff you to the brim so you won’t forget what it’s like to feel him in your bones.

‘Promise you’ll remember me.’

Here, in the confines of cabin 12, you are his alone, and there are no gods or monsters that can take away the feeling of you from under his fingertips. Yours are grasping onto his arms, leaving crescent-shaped indents as you will away whatever’s eating at his brain, and through the golden glint of his irises, for a moment he looks like himself again, unburdened and soft.

‘Is there any other way?’

He’s convinced your wanton moans are his salvation, legs thrown over his shoulders, and his name in your mouth. You’re hanging onto him for dear life as he melts into you, and you wonder if you hold on any tighter, maybe this won’t have to end. But the both of you are chasing an inescapable conclusion, obstructing any thoughts or words with another tangle of your lips.

‘I don’t know how to be without you.’

Tongues clashing like swords for one last battle, and there’s no winner at the end of this one, no matter how good it feels.

“Luke, p-please!”

The scream rattles your throat and his fingers graze your pulsepoint as he moans lowly, watching your eyes roll back. It’s undetermined what you’re asking for, but the both of you bask in what comes after, him falling into your embrace as you writhe at the thought of wondering if this is the only glory you can offer him and if it’s enough to satiate his inherent need for revenge.

‘How do you expect me to forget you?’

___

[ if your hands need to break more than trinkets in your room || you can lean on my arm as you break my heart || just don’t leave me alone wondering where you are ]

'You could fix him.'

The thought echoes as loudly as Kronos’ orders recalibrate in his brain the edges blurred from your powers, and he stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling as he lets out a deep breath.

His mind is clearer than it’s been in months, and his gaze turns to see you watching him, messy hair framing your sleepy face. Your eyelids flutter slowly as you both take each other in, immortalizing this moment with both of you hoping the other will change their mind. Luke pulls your hand to his lips, kissing each of your fingertips before holding it over his heart. If there was anything else you could do to extract his madness, you’ve already exhausted all your efforts. And if there was a way to make you see his perspective, he’s run out of words to convince you. Both of you are stubborn and more like your fathers than you care to admit; what a shame that neither of you has the power to prove them wrong. The fear is the only thing keeping you both awake now. If you close your eyes, you might never see him again.

“You need to rest now, baby. Think I’m gonna stay up for a little while longer,” Luke whispers into the dim light.

“Are you gonna stay here tonight?” The words slur from your lips as you fight the weight of your eyelids, desperate for a moment longer with your lover. You hope that even as you lose consciousness you’ll still be able to finish the job for his sake.

“There’s nowhere else I’d be, trouble.”

___

[ i am stronger than you give me credit for ]

As soon as he’s sure you’re asleep, he lifts your hand off his heart and sneaks out from under your covers without a sound. Pulling his clothes on and grabbing his converse, Luke makes sure there’s no trace left of him here. It’ll be easier for you when you wake up, less of his mess to pick up after. He looks around your room and admires how it’s a museum of your relationship—a liberty he was never able to have or fully share with you in cabin 11.

Surely that’s the gods’ fault too, that he’s never had anything to call his own besides you and the space you share with him wholeheartedly. His fingers hover over the photos of you two tacked to your bulletin board, and the flowers he picked from the field sitting in a vase. Luke turns to you, creeping to your sleeping figure, and tucks you in properly under the duvet, hands seamlessly making his side of the bed. He tries to ignore your outstretched hand resting on his pillow.

At the very least, Luke hopes you know that he cares for you so meticulously in this way, knowing that he’s about to lose himself as soon as he walks off the campgrounds. He hovers over the foot of your bed, inhaling the scent of berries and linen for one last time.

“It’s you and me, trouble. I love you.”

Every step he takes towards the door and down the stairs of your loft is a nail in his coffin.

Luke chooses to wage war upon the world so that when you find him again, he’ll be a better man.

A hero.

All for you.

He just hopes that he can see it through.

___

“To make her happy, I would invent God if I had to.” -Marguerite Duras

next part: lovers, or partners in crime

ask to be added to general/luke taglists!

luke taglist (struck out won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x dionysus!reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #pjo imagine #luke castellan angst #made by ma1dita ♥︎#trouble!verse #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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writingoddess1125 · 7 months

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N$FW Alphabet:

Buggy Edition!

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

It's pretty piss poor, He will glad a big ass towel and sort of pat you clean. Unsure how to be properly affectionate and is actually awkward as hell.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

He likes his hair he finds it the only part of his body that is conventionally attractive. He takes very good care of his hair because of this.

For his S/O he is a breast man- Titties are a good day for anyone and he loves them. Big, small, flat or perky. He loves them

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

On your face- It will always be his place of choice. He just loves the messy look on you and often you panting, red faced. The cum just adds to your beauty.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

He wants you to ride his face- he's just too self conscious to admit it. He wants you to use his face like a seat.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

He's experienced with paid sex- (Gotta pay for a ship somehow) But otherwise no. He has no Charaisma so nah-

F= Favorite position

Doggy- Likes to pull your hair and completely wreck you from behind. Watch your body bounce from his wrath.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Surprisingly he isn't thay Goofy. During sex he is quite focused and serious- But afterwards often in the afterglow were he is just feeling good does he will giggle and be really cute.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

Surprisingly well groomed. Finds that his blue curls can be very irritating to deal with if he slacks it will turn into a mess. So he keeps a takes well care for set of blue curls that are as lovely as the hair on his head.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Surprisingly while he likes rough sex and rough play he uses romantic elements- these rough bites, bruises are his way of being romantic

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

A ton- He will sometimes just sit on his throne and rub one out. However now that he has a S/O he will just have sex with you more now.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

He has several-

He loves claiming his S/O with acts of BDSM. Also loves bites, has a massive bite Kink and dominate Kink.

- secret sub kink but thats down the line-

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

Anywhere- But loves his throne the most. Will fully fuck his S/O on his throne for all to see.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

Nice cleavage of any type

But the biggest turn on for him is acts of care. If you're genuinely nice to him he will be turned on the most.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Degradation, he hates it... Biggest way to turn him off and get him mad.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

On he loves receiving but wants to give, he desperately wants to be a giver but feels self conscious.

After a while will bring it up and will suddently be the biggest giver ever.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

Relatively he has a fast pace but can last a while. Maybe it's the years of hopelessly beating his meat but he he can last a while.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

His favorite form of sex! He loves Quickies all throughout the ship.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

They are hesitant. So 50/50 on new things

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

Around 15 minute rounds for the most part, But

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

He is a Toy! He is a living sex toy. Any and everything can be detached and that's a fun toy for you! If you add

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Buggy is sometimes a tease- Usually in public he will tease. Either by having his hands on very sensitive goods or straight up using his detached dick to be rested inside of them in a form of cockm

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Surprise Surprise Buggy is quite loud and vocal- He loves to give out praise and loud moans. He wants everyone to hear him!

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

Buggy will sometimes bottom for his S/O while not often he will defienly will let his softer whine come out. Letting out whimpers and sweet moans of bliss.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

Buggy is surprisingly well endowed. A solid 9inches and very girthy. Neatly trimmed blue pubes and a creamy tan color with hints of pink.

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

He has very high sex drive. May it be that he was deprived for physical affection for so long that now he has a incredibly high sex drive.

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Buggy is farily last falling asleep afterwards. Cuddling against you and acts awkwardly. May try to give some awkward jokes.

#x reader #one peice x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy one piece #one peice live action #one piece

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edscuntyeyeshadow · 6 months

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reminder that they DELIBERATELY put stede’s rings on the windowsill and had ed keep his rings on. they made a conscious choice to add this tiny ass detail. someone had to be like “oh shit the gays will be wanting confirmation that ed is a bottom. gotta give those freaks what they want” god I love this show

#ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #gentlebeard #ofmd #our flag means death #our flag means gay #gay pirates #ofmd season 2 #stede bonnet #edward teach #ed teach #blackbonnet #blackbeard #ed x stede #loving edward teach hours

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lcandothisallday · 11 months

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Jeremy concepts: Jeremy sees you at a pickup game and shows off to flirt

A Shot Worth Taking - Jeremy (WMCJ) x f!reader

Part 1 - Meet Cute

note: this started as a concept (that’s why the writing is very unprofessional lol) but the idea has sparked an idea for a series

warnings: none

series masterlist!

no because imagine you and your girl friends are there because your friend vanessa is supporting her man while he plays a different game, and you're just sitting there on the bench slightly bored and scrolling through your phone.

but then jeremy sees you and his breath gets caught in his throat--your beauty just stopping him in his tracks completely. and he glances down at his outfit--specifically at his wacky sandals and its the first time he feels a bit self-conscious so he KNEW he had to step up his ball game if he wanted to impress you even an ounce.

kamal notices jeremy's internal conflict and he follows his line of sight and sees you sitting there which causes him to smirk. "finally considering your god awful outfit choices?" he teases the curly haired man. Jeremy scoffs and shrugs him off nonchalantly. "fuck off" he mutters. "we gotta win this pick up," jeremy mumbled.

kamal begins laughing before he smirked, his intrusive thought winning. "AYO!!!" he yelled out towards you, causing you and your home girls to look up and pay attention to the group. immediately Jeremy's eyes widened and he smacked kamal. "man what the fuck are you doing?!" he exclaimed.

"getting her to pay attention," kamal responded. "now pull up and work your magic," he mused, moving towards the middle of the half-court to begin the game.

jeremy groaned and sluggishly followed, hoping you didn't catch on. but the thing is--you did catch on. after kamal had shouted for your guys' attention, you were intrigued, a playful smile on your lips.

"oh my god," Vanessa exclaimed. "what the hell is the white boy wearing?!" she laughed. you cringe playfully but you can't help your giggle.

"its not...that bad" you laughed. "I wonder if he's any good."

your other friend destiny scoffed. "looks like he was dragged from an organic smoothie shop to play in the pick up...aint no way this white man can jump."

as the game starts, you lean forward, resting your elbows against your knees as you and your girls watch intently. jeremy nervously glances you once more before he laser focuses on the game.

you observe as he runs around the court, effectively working with kamal before he approaches the 3-point line for the first time and easily sinking the ball into the basket. your friends gasp in shock and all you can do is grin. jeremy had a proud and cocky grin evident on his face, before he turned, made direct eye contact with you, and confidently winking your way, causing you to blush madly.

destiny instantly caught on and playfully shoved you in disbelief. “the white boy is into you!” she laughed. you go to deny and she scoffs. “don’t try to deny that shit! own it babes!”

“i cant lie…he’s really cute,” you breath out, feeling your face get hot at the confession. you all continue watching as jeremy puts on a record show. he was unbelievably good and extremely funny just from what you overheard him say to the other team.

“oh he’s definitely showing off to get your attention,” vanessa points out after a while with a smirk. “i say you shoot your shot after the game…maybe you need a white guy after the shit show you experienced with that lebanese guy that did you dirty.”

“ugh don’t remind me,” you shutter.

jeremy and kamal were huffing as they stood in front of the other two guys, effectively waiting for the pay out with smirks on their faces.

“pay up bitch,” jeremy mused cockily, his right hand held out while the other held onto the basketball.

the guy whined as he pulled out the bills and handed them over. “you’re gonna get beat up one day with that strategy,” he muttered sourly.

jeremy could only grin. “pleasure doing business.”

“nice game,” he hears someone say, causing him to swing around to face the person, coming face to face with you. he grinned even wider if possible.

“hey,” he breathed out.

“hi,” you smile. “you were really impressive…i cant lie—me and my girls didn’t think you’d play that good,” you admit shyly.

jeremy licked his lips and looked at you with amusement. how the fuck did you manage to be even prettier up close? “i played at gonzaga—”

“yeah i figured with your knees,” you replied, causing him to smirk. “so you paying attention huh?”

you scoff playfully. “how can i not when you’re so obviously trying to impress me,” you flirt back confidently.

Jeremy grinned. “how can i not when such a pretty girl is in the stands watching me?” his comment makes you blush. “im jeremy by the way.”

“im y/n…”

“would you maybe wanna grab dinner sometime?”

#jack harlow #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow imagines #jeremy x reader #jeremy wmcj #white man can’t jump #wmcj #wmcj fics

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captainofthetidesbreath · 4 months

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What classes do you think the mighty nein would play, were they to play dnd? Bonus round would they be good at dnd.

I had a post about this like back in 2020 or something that I cannot find, so I don't know if my opinions have changed since then. I don't have anyone down as DMing because I assume that even their forever DM has a preferred class.

Fjord - Cleric I don't think Fjord would like tanking that much because getting attacked makes him nervous, but he doesn't want to be a glass cannon either. I think that he would initially go for cleric because he simply wants to be useful and helpful, but he didn't necessarily realize how big of a job being the cleric is. He starts out as a just Cure Wounds dispenser, but quickly flourishes into a Holy Terror Wrath Of The Righteous Divine cleric. He loves doing that. His mechanics are solid and efficient and he's tactically astute, but he's a timid roleplayer who struggles to initiate scenes. He's solid if drawn into scenes and forgets to be self-conscious because he's got a better character sense than he thinks. Literally do not ask him what the overall plot of the campaign is because he cannot remember no matter how hard he tries; he remembers individual PC arcs though. I think he'd also like paladins, bards, and druids, and I do think he'd be willing to play some of the more involved fighters like the Knights subclasses and the cooler rangers.

Beau - Wizard She wants to be the person in the game who gets all the information, and that's usually a wizard. She wants to put her little hands all over all the lore, and also she loves having a spell list that's a billion miles long. She does not want you to know that she feels so smugly satisfied playing a character who can do the research and have the connections and know the information. She absolutely hates that this means she's made of tissue paper, so she tends toward Con wizard. Her mechanics and exploration work are really good, and she is stellar at engaging in the world in a way that's highly informed by her character class. She struggles with the roleplaying part of things a lot. She has a decent grasp of character, it's the actual RPing part that she has trouble with. If you can convince her to play a charisma caster, which she is afraid of doing, she'd also enjoy bard a lot. Also monks and artificers.

Caleb - Wizard This is self-explanatory. Caleb is a guy who plays a wizard or the full damage caster in every single game. This is who he is. He is great mechanically until you gotta discuss non-spell stuff. He did, in fact, read that portion of the rules, but it was never relevant to him, so he deleted it from his head. His spell choices and use are phenomenal though. He min-maxes but specifically for the weirdest, most niche element that is useful one time, but it is extremely clutch that one time it's relevant. He is also great at the storytelling portion, though his roleplaying can be a little dense or dry. If you can make him play something that's not a wizard, druid or bard. He will not play a healer druid or bard though.

Veth - Warlock She wants to make bad decisions in her games, and she loves that a warlock comes prepackaged with bad decisions. She has a solid grasp of her spellcasting mechanics, but also finds full casting intimidating. She loves the concept of being a wizard in theory but actually playing one stresses her out. She is a very loud and excitable player, which can be a lot of fun if, uh, loud. She fucking supports you and is into whatever it is you're doing, especially if it's so dumb to do. She is inventing the weirdest and most ambiguously intense patron relationship of all time. She also would enjoy paladins, rangers, artificers, and the fancier fighters (again, the Knights subclasses). She could be eased into cleric if a niche in the party is clear and her mechanical role is structured. She can totally handle full casting, including wizards, she just psyches / stresses herself out.

Jester - Bard I feel like people are going to be like "what about barbarian," but I think that Jester tried it once and the comparative lack of options made her really frustrated. She loves the idea of hitting things, but she hates it when 80% of her options is just hitting it. She is attracted to the charisma casters though, because she really likes the charisma skillset, and she really wants to cast a lot of spells. Out of the charisma caster options, she likes bards best because she loves being a little good at everything. She tends to be a little over-competitive about it and gets sulky when she doesn't feel useful enough. She is actually iffy on mechanical nitty-gritty, but her basics and groundwork is solid so it's fine, but she's a really great if melodramatic roleplayer and her social encounter work is great. She is deeply engaged in the narrative and is intensely invested in every NPC. Buys so fucking hard into the suspension of disbelief. She would like the fancier fighters and paladins better than a barbarian.

Molly - Bard He is playing the stereotype bard of everyone's nightmares. I will not further elaborate.

Caduceus - Ranger He does like to ask the plants and animals question in-game as well, and rangers let him do that and have a bit of magic too without being overwhelming as a class. He isn't super interested in doing complex characters; this is not being bad at D&D, to be clear, it's just a preference. He's your friend who is here to play a simple character because he just wants to hang out with you, which I think is always very sweet. That said, he is not very good mechanically. It's a lot of stuff to keep track of even with 5e being a little simpler. I think he would also like playing paladins or the straightforward fighters, or a cleric if he can decide what his niche is and stick to that specifically. He doesn't vibe with barbarians.

Yasha - Druid She is initially drawn to the class for the vibes (always a valid reason to be drawn to a class), but I think she enjoys having spellcasting options and options that aren't "hit it". She is a timid and awkward roleplayer who has a lot of trouble there, even though she has a lot of fun making up backstory and engaging with the lore and story. Her spellcasting is creative and experimental because she loves weird. She is one of the button pushers of the table and is giggling when she does it. (She and Veth are menaces, lmao, it's great.) I think she'd also enjoy bards, maybe clerics and warlocks, and the fancier fighters and rangers.

#RIP their nonexistent tankline #Critical Role things #long post for ts

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 9 months

Text

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)

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.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #chris o’doyle #chris o’doyle x reader #chris free fire #chris free fire x reader #cillian murphy fluff #chris o doyle #free fire

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