#marzia gif | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bemyawakening · 1 year

Text

HAYLOFT; chapter one

fandom: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Original Female Character short summary: Marzia Moretti, known as Siren, is one of the secret agents of the CIA, meant to deal with missions quietly and gather information. Not only did she work on her biggest mission for seven years, digging for information about the Sicilian Mafia which was running the most secretive human trafficking business, but she also did this to get revenge. Recently, she gets assigned to Task Force 141 in order to finish the mission once and for all.

translations of Italian can be found at the end word count: 3076 credits to the gif owner

warnings: strong language, descriptive violence and gore, 18+

The male gaze has affected the movie industry far too much, in her opinion. Jumping and squatting down in tight jumpsuits was uncomfortable, loose hair in a fight most likely would give you the disadvantage and not the opponent, and the seducing part? Lord…

Her job was to seduce and kill and she mostly worked with a psychology based on men and women. Bringing back their survival instincts was the most important if she needed to wrap someone’s head around her. It was about showing enough cleavage to peak interest and not look suspicious and it was all about the way you present yourself.

And she already had her target in sight.

Well, the target was sitting on the chair, tied up not in the way he expected with a towel stuffed in the mouth so that he wouldn’t scream and be heard. It took her about ten minutes to interest him by the bar with the help of the pheromones that she got from the CIA, which were working fucking wonders and the man was glad to bring her back to his hotel room.

So infatuated, he completely ignored that her Italian accent slightly slipped out while catching him, that she was slightly nervous, but that only proves that the rational mind will always lose against senses.

“Allora,” Siren exhaled, placing herself on the table that was right in front of where the man was sitting. He was panicking, he wasn’t whimpering like a dog and begging for mercy – he was a fighter, only a really stupid one. “I know you won’t tell me where he is, since you all are sworn to protect his identity, but I’d like you to answer some questions about yourself.”

The only reason she wasn’t speaking Italian was that Laswell was listening to that conversation in the earpiece since Laswell has openly refused to learn Italian since it was far too complicated and fast-paced.

Siren could see that if the man would be without the towel in his mouth, he would be smirking and not screaming. That’s why she grasped the other end of the towel and pushed it out of his mouth, receiving a whine from him.

“Testa di minchia!” The man groaned out and it only made her chuckle.

“Just a few minutes ago you were calling me amore mia, what happened, huh?” The smile on her face was humiliating him since she knew how much men loathed to see women being better than them. She knew that with his eyes he was strangling the poor soul out of her body, but knowing in which business he is involved, he would much rather sell her for someone to humiliate her until her body can’t take it.

The man in front of her was involved in the biggest human trafficking business in Europe and South America. All they knew, was that a Sicilian gang or mafia as they call themselves, named Torro were deeply involved in this. Their connections and little traces were splattered all around the world and the CIA was following all of them without any visible ending.

Torro was playing with them and they were doing it precisely. Every day that was lost meant a woman or two kidnapped in half of the world. They were choosing their targets carefully, not wanting to strike chaos and too much attention on themselves, but by the information that the CIA has gathered the number of abducted women from ages 14 to 35 could be over thousands.

Their boss was unknown going by the name of Luca Torro. The name was fake, he was basically non-existent. All of the captured members of the gang, just like the man in front of her didn’t utter a single word about him, taking a bullet into their brain was met with more love than saying who it was. It was admirable, really, she knew well that all of the mafias had little rituals and games that brainwashed their members.

The man sat silently in front of her, smirking at her, watching the slit of her dress that revealed her bare thigh. The pheromones were still raging a war inside him with hormones, and she was barely close to him. She didn’t even know what was in that stuff that the CIA gave her and why it worked so well, but it definitely wasn’t one of those shitty perfume bottles from eBay, who claimed it was going to make men crazy about you.

“Where are you from?” She asked, slightly twisting the towel in her hands while watching him.

“Di Italia,” he replied, unbothered that she can inflict pain on him anytime, but she wasn’t even planning to.

Knowing that Laswell will start complaining, she sighed, “In English, my love. Be a good boy and I’ll let you run off to your boss with your nose intact to your face.”

“Look at you,” he scoffed, watching her as if she was a disgrace. “Working for the CIA like their little lap dog. With a face like yours, you could be doing so much more.” His accent was heavy, not trained like hers and it was making her slightly chuckle.

Straightening her back, she gazed at the covered window before flicking her eyes back on him: “Dai,” she smirked, her breath getting stuck in her throat for a second, “do you seriously think a compliment will get me running to your boss and asking for his mercy so he could throat fuck me every night?” She shook her head, their brown eyes meeting together. “You think I’m an idiot?”

“Yes,” he answered, the tanned skin of his was almost glowing in the dimmed light. “You’re an idiot for chasing us in the first place. How long have you been after us, huh?”

“Hit him, Siren, he has gotten too cocky,” Laswell’s voice in her ear made her slightly roll her eyes.

Violence didn’t mean shit to these guys and she wasn’t really an expert on torturing someone like some Special Forces. Her job was to seduce and kill, trying to get the information out. She didn’t have the time to leave him here for days until he pisses himself with a swollen face from her punches, begging for her to just kill him already.

She got bits and pieces of information from their behaviour and their answers. How? By realising that all of the assholes with their ego through the roof had many flaws they were unaware of. The use of pheromones slightly took their guard down enough for them to relax and her calm tactic of interrogating would make them slip a word or two, unimportant to them, but valuable to her.

It did take her long to catch all of these trails left by the Torro and it was a sensitive topic to her. But showing your enemy that you are flustered was the worst thing you could do. At this point, you should retire and get back to normal life. She wished.

“When did you get accepted into the mafia?” She asked, ignoring the order of the Laswell.

“Always been one,” he replied, nudging his head down, his nostrils flaring – he could still smell her on his clothes.

It was always the same answer, whenever she interrogated them. Where are you from? Di Italia. When did you get accepted into the mafia? Always been one. What’s your favourite food? My mother’s lasagne. Where’s your mother? Dead. Always had the same answers and she knew them by heart, yet she was still hopefully going one after another, getting a small lead, getting stuck in the same circle.

“Your interrogation skills are stupid,” he cocked his head to the side and now she wanted to hit him. “I got nothing you need from me.”

“Perhaps,” she hummed, leaning slightly forwards. “Or maybe I don’t work for the CIA and I just enjoy killing men after I get my fill watching them tied on the chair, bad-mouthing me.”

That possibility seemed to shut him up for a few seconds before he grinned like an idiot. God, this Italian mafia was getting on her nerves and she was one step from closing herself in a psych ward in order to have some rest.

“We know the CIA is on us,” he stated.

“We are not hiding that,” she deadpanned. “It’s a shame he is such a coward not to go out in the open to talk with me.”

“He has no business with you.”

Siren’s eyes slightly squinted, “He forgot me?” Her voice raised in displeasure.

The look on his face was worth taking a picture of. She finally kicked the confidence out of him and replaced it with confusion.

“Chi sei?”

Of course, they didn’t know who she is. No one lived the tale long enough to tell the others who was she. A clean slit on the throat or a bullet in the brain was all that met them. That kind of job could be put on many organisations and from all of them, there was quite a number who were doing the job as she did.

“Where are you from in Italy?” Siren asked, not answering his question as it didn’t matter to her.

“Calabria.”

“That’s why your accent bothers me,” she scrunched her nose.

“There are incoming cars to the hotel from the backside. They were expecting us,” Laswell’s voice informed her, but she didn’t budge one bit. She still had time.

“Sent for your friends?” Siren asked.

“He never leaves us completely alone,” he said softly, almost proudly and it made her sick to the stomach.

Moving to him, she positioned herself on his lap, feeling the way his body tensed underneath her, his chest rising heavily. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she straddled him and kept the eye contact that was making him slowly go nuts. Simple eye contact could make people go crazy. Once they start turning their eyes away from you, it means you succeeded in making them feel nervous. One quality about humans that really fascinates her is that they always want to be on top of what’s going on.

Yes, the Torros seemed to be trained like a bunch of puppies to give the same answers and be unbothered, dying for a better cause. But no person could be trained to stay in the dark because human curiosity always takes the bigger part.

The second thing humans, especially horrible people despised, was when the other didn’t react to danger. It made them feel like they finally met their equal – another sociopath. Clearly, the tied man didn’t understand why she was wasting time sitting on his lap instead of killing him and running away before she will get caught.

“Do you find me pretty?” She murmured, not too far from his face.

“W-what?” He stuttered, taken aback, his pupils moving down from her eyes to her lips.

“I asked you a question.

“Bedda Matri,” he almost whimpered, his eyes moving even lower, reaching her collarbone. “Sì! Sì!”

“You’d drink Chianti with me? Go to the beach with me? Solo – tu ed io,” she was so close to him, watching the way his pupils dilated, watching her as if she was the finest meal.

“Yes, I’d go with you,” he nodded, almost like a lost puppy and she put a smile on her face, reaching down into the cleavage of hers that made him gasp for air. But with a swift move, she grasped the towel and stuffed it into his mouth as she grasped the little knife, stored in her cleavage and she slit his throat with a very precise move, moving away so the blood won’t get on her dress.

“It’s done,” she replied, wiping the knife into the towel in his mouth as the blood kept on coming, his eyes frozen in spot, little choked sounds leaving his mouth. “Approximate time?”

“Thirty seconds. You know where to go. Use the back entrance. There are two at the door outside. You know what to do. Over and out.”

Laswell’s orders were clear and she took off her heels, holding them in her hand as she left the room, hearing the distant footsteps by the stairs, so she turned to the other direction, moving into the lift and pressing to the floor one below.

It almost felt like a game to her at this point. The adrenaline rushing in her veins was slightly blurring her vision, but it helped her to go faster. Going out on the third floor, she walked to the door leading to the staircase, hearing the footsteps moving above her. It was her sign to go.

Quietly opening and closing the door, she moved downstairs to the ground floor, opening the door where the laundry was kept and walking straight, not looking back once. The few people passing her wanted to show their anger with her presence, but she had no time to spare them. Moving into the kitchen, walking through the slightly sticky floor with her bare feet made her nose scrunch, but she quickly flowed through the white cloud of uniforms opening the back door.

The two men quickly looked at her and as they reached for their pistols to interrogate her, but she threw her little knife at one man hitting him straight in his throat as she lunged for the other, stabbing the heel into his eye as she covered his mouth that he wouldn’t scream. What a good day to not be wearing platforms.

The breath got stuck in her throat as she felt her back ache – those two men were huge. But luckily one of them fell right by the dumpster and the other one, she took the knife out of his throat, watching the way his muscles were still spasming, hitting him with a heel right at his temple so he could shut down quicker.

The rough pavement under her feet was making her wince, but she grabbed the man’s legs and huffed out as she pushed him closer to the dumpster, making a mental note to herself that she should work out on her arms more because this was getting too hard for her.

Taking out a few trash bags, she put them all over them and she placed her heels back on her feet, making her way away as if she wasn’t hiding a bloody knife in her palm.

To her luck, it was already dark and around the hotel, there were too many little alleys for her to disappear into. As she was getting near the meetup point, about five hundred meters from the hotel where Laswell should pick her up, with her peripheral vision, she noticed a figure behind her.

Fuck.

Walking faster, she made a sharp turn to the right into a dead-end alley, she moved beside a dumpster, hiding her figure as she heard heavy footsteps. Sounded like military footwear and not the gang. What the fuck was going on? Her missions were not interrupted by the Special Forces. They had no right.

As the footsteps came closer, she suddenly stood up and extended her knife to a man that raised his hands in defeat.

“Jesus Christ, kid! Thought I’d be getting a hug, not a knife to my throat,” the man wheezed in surprise, but his face was content with her action.

Siren’s lips curled into a smile and she rolled her eyes: “Dio mio, Price!” She slightly laughed, pulling the knife away. “The hell are you doing in here?”

The woman wrapped her hands around his neck and they shared their warmth for a few seconds before moving away.

“Laswell told me I’d find you here,” he admitted.

“In the middle of a mission?”

“She said you’re late,” he stated, slightly raising his hands in defeat.

“I still have time,” she shrugged her shoulders, not really knowing what the time was and that dragging that dead body to the dumpster took quite some time. “Don’t come up at me like that again,” she slightly pointed the knife at him.

“Wanted to see if you still got it,” he admitted, his rough voice slightly playful.

“Piss off,” she rolled her eyes at him, but the smile didn’t fade away. “You don’t see me if it’s not necessary. What’s going on?”

“What about that football game?” Price disagreed, brushing his hand through his beard.

“Manchester United versus Aston Villa?” Siren deadpanned. “No offence, John, but I couldn’t care less about England playing football. And even after that game, you told me you needed me for a mission. So what is it now? Are you taking me somewhere fancy?”

“See right through me, kid. Where did the time go?” He mumbled.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

“You up for Italian cuisine?”

Her eyes lit up, only then realising that she was ravenous. “I’m choosing the place and you’re paying.” She turned away, slightly squinting her eyes: “And Laswell?”

“She knows. Your evening is free.”

“I’m all yours, John,” she hooked her hand through his elbow and he chuckled.

The man chuckled as they made their way out of the dark alleys. “I got an offer.”

“I’m on a mission.”

The man walked silently for a bit, before speaking up: “We’ve been assigned to your mission.”

Blood left her face and she stopped in her tracks before turning to him: “What?!”

Price was already expecting this reaction, so he slightly shook his head: “Orders from above. They want us to take action.”

“I’m not fucking ready yet—this… This took so long to prepare and I still need time!”

“We got a lead from another source. We can finally put this down.”

Staring at him, she almost felt betrayed that no one told her apart when the time came. Staying silent, trying to calm down and ignore how much time she has invested in this, she needed to know what information to have and if it was trustworthy. They couldn’t ruin this.

“I need a fucking drink,” she mumbled, walking away from him.

“I’ll take it as a yes.”

“You are still buying it!”

Price chuckled, “I thought it’d take you longer to convince.”

If she wouldn’t say yes, she would be taken off the mission. That’s the least thing she would aim to do. Seven years working on his case in order to get even with them. Seven years in order to get revenge. She won’t give this up.

Translations: "Testa di minchia" - cunt in Italian "Allora" - well in Italian "Amore mia" - my love in Italian "Di Italia" - from Italy in Italian "Dai" - come on in Italian "Chi sei?" - who are you in Italian "Bedda Matri" - Oh my God/beautiful mother in Italian "Solo - tu ed io" - Alone - you and I in Italian "Dio mio" - oh my God in Italian

#simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x oc #simon riley ghost #simon riley #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #john soap mactavish #john price #alejandro vargas #marzia siren moretti

171 notes · View notes

dimitrinicolescu · 11 months

Text

Person: Raffle Ticket @raffaelexfiore Location: Acheron There are better things to do with his time, and yet he often finds himself bothering the witch on account of he seems to be the one most talkative at the place. Or maybe he’s just indulging an old man who stands around the coffins in the showroom nodding and muttering about the quality of mahogany not being what it used to be. “I heard the other day that people are starting to want these glitter encrusted.” He’s moreso thinking out loud than starting a conversation as he walks the length of the showroom between the caskets. “I take it that the person who started it was one of my kind.” Why put so much glitter on something that was going into the ground? “Or perhaps the Mayor.”

#raffaele 01.#//marzia said these gays theyre trying to bury me

9 notes · View notes

vibecheckcr · 1 year

Text

Location: Near a tent pick a tent Person: Bloody Chan @bloodyrhiannon “Rhia, right?” The marshal who turned the druid senator, the one who was one of the eldest vampire’s serving the Juno senator, Theo’s sire, she had a lot of titles and that made her interesting enough in her own right. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” Which sounds ominous even if he’s speaking plainly, so he tucks his hands in his pockets and nods towards the street. They could go for a walk, there was fuck else to do with The Eye out and about patrolling. It was a choice, and yet Romulus had never once denied Marzia Bianchi anything, years later and she was just as radiant as ever. “I’ve heard you’ve lived a rather long and colorful life, I’d love to hear about it firsthand instead of just from the mouths of other people.”

#rhia 01.#mercuralia.#//marzia bianchi stan number one

5 notes · View notes

citrinie · 1 year

Text

seeing everybody happy abt the toddler face glitch being fixed and here you have me not noticing there being such a glitch bc i have not played with toddlers in almost a year 😃

#happy for everybody tho hehe #but i have literally not had a toddler in my main household since marzia was a toddler #which is according to my nsb2 posts is 11 months ago haha #idek if i would have notice that glitch playing if i had played with households with toddlers

17 notes · View notes

prettymvgic · 13 days

Text

closed starter for @grav3encovnters

"okay, hear me out," marzia begins bursting through his office door and closing it behind her. "let's get away, you and me - no one else, no work, no nothing, just us."

#❏❜ ⋮ muse : marzia vadala #thread : marzia + nate #or anyone else of your choosing #ft. grav3encovnters

1 note · View note

xwanheda · 2 months

Text

«Homemade Dynamite» — Solvers.

#Darien Creepingbear #Alice D. Wright #Orson H. Golder #William M. Harrington #Marzia St. Andrews #Solvers #Thoru #Neftis #Rembrandt #Sieben

1 note · View note

supremecryloren · 9 months

Text

🦋 modern!kailuke prompt: kaia ha'ko and luke walker decided to visit japan for their first anniversary as gf and bf. but of course, luke eventually falls in love to japan and then became a tradition to visit japan every year 💫

(and also maybe thinking on getting married and having a family with kaia in shibuya?) 👀

#kailuke #modern au #luke skywalker #kaileen ha'ko #still soft mfs in the modern au #it's giving pewdiepie and marzia vibes

1 note · View note

hollywoodfamerp · 2 years

Note

hi! can you please reserve marzia bisognin for plum? ty!!!

Sure thing, Plum. Marzia's reserved for you for 24 hours!

#reserve #reservation #marzia bisognin

0 notes

cygninae · 3 months

Text

So this is really random, and no one asked for this, but have my nationality headcanons for a whole load of asoue/atwq characters.?? No real explanation for these hcs, it's just how I imagine the characters ! :) (might throw in some extra hcs along the way because why not.)

P.S I'm quite fascinated by the history of the colonisation of America and the patterns of immigration that occurred thereafter, which is partially why I'm making this post. However, I'm not American and have never received actual American education so I'm sorry if I am miseducated in any regard.

Sugar bowl gen

Esmé Squalor is British/Syrian

HC: she is a first generation immigrant to the USA when the events of the books take place. Her mother was Syrian and her father British. She has a twin brother who disagreed with her involvement in VFD and left the USA to go back to England once they were of age. She hasn't seen him since they were teenagers.

Jerome Squalor is British-American

HC: His parents immigrated to the USA from England before he was born.

Bertrand Baudelaire is French

HC: He is a first-generation immigrant and went to the USA on his own after the death of his parents.

Beatrice Baudelaire is American

HC: By the time she was born, her family had been in the USA for many generations. Some British and Irish ancestry.

The Snicket siblings are Chinese-American

HC: the Snicket siblings are second-generation immigrants to the USA. Both of their parents were Chinese.

Mrs (headcanoned first name Marzia) Quagmire is Italian-American

HC: she is a second generation immigrant. She grew up in a household that primarily spoke Italian.

Mr (headcanoned first name William) Quagmire is American

HC: like Bea, his family had been in the USA for many generations before his birth. British and Dutch ancestry.

Count Olaf is German-American

HC: Olaf is a second or third generation immigrant. His family were very wealthy but went to ruin and ran away to the USA. He still insists on keeping his ancestral title despite this.

Montgomery Montgomery is Pakistani-American

HC: Monty is a second-gen immigrant. He had three siblings who all moved across the USA once of age, but he made an effort to keep in touch with them and their extended family in Pakistan.

Ellington Feint is Chinese-American

HC: Ellington is a second-gen immigrant. Her father was American with British ancestry and her mother was a first-gen Chinese immigrant.

Captain (headcanoned first name Rory) Widdershins is Irish-American

HC: a third-gen immigrant who grew up very disconnected from his heritage due to being in the foster system.

Fernald "Widdershins" is Moroccan/American

HC: him and his sister Fiona (and theorised sister Friday) had an American mother and Moroccan father. Their father left before they were born and mother left when Fiona was young, so they were raised by Widdershins. They know very little about their heritage.

Moxie Mallahan is American

HC: her family had been in the USA for many generations before her birth. Distant British and Dutch ancestry.

Arthur Poe is American

HC: Poe and his wife both had generations of family in the USA. He has some Dutch ancestry.

Josephine Anwhistle is American

HC: her family had also been in the USA for many generations. She had distant Irish ancestry. She made effort to reconnect with her ancestry in some regards.

Ike Anwhistle is American

HC: Ike, too, had family for generations in the USA. Canonically in the books, he is the second cousin of one of the Baudelaire parents (I hc him on Bea's side of the family) so in my headcanon, his ancestry is British/Irish. His brother, Gregor, is obviously the same.

The Denouement triplets are American

HC: the triplets are third-generation immigrants with British and Dutch ancestry. Mother's side British and father's side Dutch. There had been plans to raise the triplets in England, but a mysterious friend of their mother convinced them to stay in the USA for reasons unknown...

Unfortunate Gen

The Baudelaire children are French-American

HC: Bea is American and Bertrand French, as stated above. They grew up speaking both languages fluently.

The Quagmire triplets are Italian-American

HC: their mother is Italian and their father American. Their mother and her parents made sure they grew up speaking Italian.

Fiona Widdershins is American/Moroccan

HC: As stated with Fernald above, her biological father was Moroccan, although her and Fernald never knew him nor that they were Moroccan.

Carmelita Spats is Dutch-American

HC: Carmelita is a fourth-generation immigrant and she has little connection to her ancestry due to not being in contact with her family anymore.

Beatrice Baudelaire II is Chinese-American

HC: as Kit is her mother, she has her ancestry, of course. I am personally a fan of the theory that Olaf is her father, not Dewey, so in this post, we'll say that his ancestry plays here too...

Ben (Violet's friend) is American

HC: Ben is American with British and Native American ancestry.

Well, I've probably missed about a million characters, but there it is ! This is a super random post but I just felt like I might as well post some headcanons for the hell of it. Always love to hear other people's headcanons for Snicketverse characters. Thanks if you read all the way to the end, I love you

#asoue #lemony snicket #a series of unfortunate events #vfd #atwq #unfortunate gen #sugar bowl gen #headcanons #my headcanons #hcs

19 notes · View notes

theseshipsshallsail · 5 months

Text

Summary:

To allow himself joy, his father explains, is what takes the most effort, so Elio pretends he isn’t hollowed out by grief. Assumes the mantle of a dedicated scholar. Fakes it in the hope that one day illusion will become reality.

It’s a bitter confession - and one he’s loath to admit out loud - but as Elio watches the Alder leaves turn yellow in those last, drawn-out weeks of summer, he starts to find the good days outnumbering the bad.

He misses Oliver dreadfully, of course; his ghost spots a cruel reminder of the larger than life presence that ought to fill them. And he still lies awake at night, fighting back tears as he wonders how a single bed can feel so vastly empty. Yet as the ocean breeze turns biting, necessitating a sweater over Billowy’s thin cotton, Elio realises he’s slowly adjusting to a life without him.

He throws himself into the Hayden; transcribing the Seven Last Words Of Christ with all his redirected zeal.

Apologises to Marzia; though he’s not entirely sure he’s deserving of her pardon.

Spends hours in his father’s study; the no-pressure companionship working wonders on his mood as he pores over the thick stack of prospetti universitari he’d applied for last spring.

It’s a work in progress, but Elio tells himself he should be happy about the opportunities ahead of him, and by the time they’re back in Milan for the start of September he almost believes it. Pastes on a smile. Acts like this is where he wants to be. That there isn’t a gaping hole beneath his ribs where his heart once resided before it was ripped out and crushed beneath the thundering wheels of a departing regionale.

And it does.

In a way.

By November his smiles grow more frequent - more genuine - and his

laughter no longer holds the painful echo of loss.

He applies to colleges in the States. Auditions at conservatoires de musique in Paris, London, and Rome.

There’s still an emptiness inside his chest. A coldness that steals over him when he hears Love My Way on the hit parade. When he catches the boisterous laughter of American tourists as they cycle through the piazzetta.

But he’s doing better.

He is.

And it’s on one of those good days that Elio spends the morning traipsing about the villa’s gardens as snow falls thick and fast around him.

Returns with numb fingers and toes to the delicious scent of Mafalda’s Hanukkah latkes.

Picks up the hallway phone without expectation, and hears Oliver’s voice for the first time in months.

Gets knocked back to square one.

“But you never said anything,” he whispers, regret rising like bile in his throat, and when Oliver calls him by his name one last time, it feels like he’ll never have another good day again.

#cmbyn fanfic #elio x oliver #angst #call me by your name #canon compliant

11 notes · View notes

bemyawakening · 1 year

Text

HAYLOFT; chapter three

fandom: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Original Female Character

short summary: Marzia Moretti, known as Siren, is one of the secret agents of the CIA, meant to deal with missions quietly and gather information. Not only did she work on her biggest mission for seven years, digging for information about the Sicilian Mafia which was running the most secretive human trafficking business, but she also did this to get revenge. Recently, she gets assigned to Task Force 141 in order to finish the mission once and for all.

translation of Italian can be found at the end. You can also read this book on ao3

previous chapters: chapter 1 chapter 2

warnings: curse words, mentions of trauma and death

“What?!” Siren’s voice raised as she was looking at the cackling figure of the Scottish Sergeant, who couldn’t properly breathe in from how much he was laughing. Tiny tears were welling in the corner of his eyes as he was wheezing for air. “You did not just say that!”

Gaz was barely holding the cup of tea in his hand, trying to not have such a horrible laughter attack as Soap was having. Siren, on the other hand, took her attention away from the stove for one second and she felt the burning smell of coffee enter her lungs, making her quickly turn the stove off, taking off the Moka pot with a grunt.

“Vaffanculo, what the fuck,” she grumbled in pure annoyance, placing the Moka pot in the sink as she took a towel, moving it so the burnt smell would fade away faster. “This-” she turned to Soap, “is your fault.”

The man was laughing even louder after seeing the coffee spill over the stove. The look on her face—he was going to cherish this moment until the day he dies. Now, the whole reason why he was basically on the floor from laughing, was that he shared his thoughts about her alias Siren. In his opinion, he believes that she is called Siren because she has a loud voice and attracts everyone as a passing ambulance.

With the sharp turn of her head, he understood that he was way off and that he just compared her to an ambulance.

“What’s that smell?” A sudden voice appeared in the little kitchen as she almost hit herself with the towel from the fear, feeling like a kid who got busted by someone older.

The masked man was standing in the kitchen, leaning to the doorway, hands crossed over his chest, giving not them, but her the stare that was giving her the chills. After the first conversation yesterday, both of them didn’t interact more apart from being in the same group and reviewing the information they knew.

“Did you just burn coffee?” Lieutenant gazed at the dirty stove and she gifted him her famous glare as well.

“I’d like to hear a little bit less resentment in your voice, Lieutenant,” she placed the towel on the counter, taking some paper towels. “Because of that man,” she gave a weird look to Soap, who was biting the inside of his cheeks trying to not laugh, “I won’t have my morning coffee.”

Ghost didn’t budge in his place, watching every of her move. “There is coffee on the countertop.”

Wiping the hot liquid around the stone of the stove, she slightly hissed from the heat: “I don’t drink that coffee. Sono Italiana, Tenente.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Soap asked, his cheeks still slightly flustered from the laughter.

Throwing the paper towels in the bin, she gave him a look: “Want to guess again? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d say a negative number.”

Soap snorted grabbing his cup with coffee in it, “That’s rude, lass. Breakin’ my heart over here.” He hit his chest with his free hand.

“You made me spill my espresso. Expect wrath,” she threatened with a smooth tone, her expression calm.

“Alright, enough of this,” Ghost reminded them all about his presence even if it was hard to miss the figure blocking the entrance. “All of you, with me.”

Puckering her lips, she wanted to say no to him because she wasn’t used to getting orders from someone else than Laswell or Shepherd. In here, she was with a lower rank than Ghost was, so she shut her lips tight and without saying anything, followed him out of the kitchen.

“There are some matters to be looked over,” he explained and all of them soon ended up in a small room, where most of the leads about their mission were splattered around.

Captain Price was inside of that room, with crossed hands over his chest and a bored expression: “Prepare yourself, kid,” he mumbled as soon as she stepped it.

“What’s the problem?” Siren asked, leaning to the wall, watching her superior cover the biggest part of the room, his eyes boring into her. She couldn’t stand the way he was able to hold eye contact for so long.

“Your leads in Tuscany. Why there?” Ghost went straight to the point.

“Toscana is famous for Chianti. All of the men I—interrogated, told me they like Chianti.”

Siren was sure that underneath that mask he raised his eyebrows and scoffed silently. Yet his eyes stayed calm, no emotion visible in them. “That’s your lead? Chianti?”

Chianti sounded like a curse word with his accent and she slightly scrunched her nose—yes, she was one of those people who couldn’t handle horrible pronunciation of Italian words.

“All of them lie that they are from Southern Italy. Chianti is made in Toscana.” She shrugged as if it was obvious, coming closer to the map hung on the wall of Italy. Taking a marker, she crossed three places on the map in the region of Toscana. “Biggest Chianti producers. All legitimate business. However, they all have weird transactions with ghost companies or companies that existed. The CIA wasn’t able to track the origin where those transactions were supposed to end up.”

“And you got this information from your intuition?” There was bitterness in his voice that made her chuckle.

“I trust my gut.” She motioned at her stomach.

“I told you,” Price mumbled in the corner, not really paying attention to the conversation.

“You trust your gut?” Ghost repeated as if he has heard the biggest nonsense. “We work with leads. Names. Places. The source has to be clear.”

“There’s a source,” she disagreed.

“Who?”

“Me.”

His fingers twitched and she noticed that. A man of facts as it seemed. Yes, Siren was a little insane to trust her gut, but she has been on this mission for seven years. She has searched all over Europe for obvious dirt on the trafficking business that would lead her to Luca Torro. There are none. She wasn’t getting this Chianti out of anywhere. It made sense for them to put something dirty on a legitimate business which was far enough from Sicily.

“You,” he repeated, his voice dropping. “The source is you.”

“My gut is telling me that you’re sceptical.”

“I am sceptical. I think that’s pretty clear without your gut. ”

“Alright,” she crossed her hands over her chest, coming closer to him. “What would you do?”

“Find a man and get an actual lead.”

“Oh, by torturing? These men would rather die than tell you shit. Chop their dicks off and they won’t tell you anything. You don’t understand the hierarchy in there—those men actually think they owe everything they have to Luca Torro.”

Ghost squinted his eyes as he couldn’t believe that the whole mission depended on her intuition. A fucking intuition. “And everyone’s okay with this?”

Price shifted in his seat, suppressing a yawn, “I think she’s been on this mission longer than us. The last lead Caswell has found out was a transfer from one of those companies to North America where Siren has taken care of one of their men. That’s the only lead we have.”

A victorious smile sat on her lips: “Hey, if I’m wrong – I’ll buy you a drink,” she shrugged. But in reality, she knew that she won’t be buying that drink – she was right about this. She had to be.

“How did you get the whole Chianti stuff from those men?” Soap asked, making her turn around and face.

A small, cheeky smile sat on her lips: “For the exact same reason why I’m called Siren.”

The Sergeant snorted out a laugh, shaking his head, remembering that he called her an ambulance.

“Should’ve seen her file, Sergeant,” Price tapped his shoulder before leaving the room.

“That’s classified,” she mumbled and rolled her eyes, before turning to her Lieutenant. “Did I ease your worries?”

“You’re getting me that drink, Sergeant. I like bourbon.” Ghost informed before he left the room, making Siren and Soap share a look.

“What is on your file?” The Scottish man pried, confused.

Siren puckered her lips: “Different ways to cut someone’s limbs without them screaming—why? Want a demonstration?”

“Wouldn’t want to get on your bad side now,” he chuckled.

“Smart boy. I like that.”

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The distant shot and the blood splattering on her face made her gasp for air. It felt as if an unknown force was trying to choke her, watching the way his stare got stuck in her mind until the day he dies. His body fell, and so did hers. She was screaming, she was shouting for someone to help her, to help him, but the ringing in her ears made it sound as if nothing came out of her mouth.

The gurgling sound of her sobs, the metallic taste of his blood in her mouth—his blood—was making her choke for air. She knew that’s how heartbreak felt like, she knew what it meant for her. Yet she could do nothing more than scream.

Within the same image, she gasped for air, opening her eyes. The cold sweat drenched her body and it felt as if she has been glued to her bunk bed. The snoring from above only soothed her enough that she didn’t wake up screaming.

Her hands were already clutching the dog tags, feeling the cold metal of the ring as she bit her lips. She wouldn’t dare to make a sound. She wouldn’t dare to cry. She wouldn’t dare to get back to the way it was.

However, the familiar void on her chest was always there. The metallic taste of his blood in her mouth seemed so real that she could feel it right now. Forcing herself to stand up, she quickly walked into the bathroom and washed her face with cold water. Didn’t even look into the mirror because she wouldn’t be able to stand to see herself right now. There was a high possibility she would see something that wasn’t real.

The watch on her wrist showed that it was after three. She won’t be able to fall asleep again. Whenever the same nightmare would visit her, she’d know that it was all she will get from the night. Now, it was up to her to find out how to put her mind out of the suffering and do something that wouldn’t lead her into crying.

She silently made her way out of the little room with bunk beds, a little bag squeezed between her ribs and her arm. She strolled her way beside it, where a little table was, near a small kitchen, but there was already someone sitting there.

By the cloud of smoke, she quickly realised that it was Price, so she without any hesitations made her way to the table where he was sitting and took a seat on the other end of the table.

Puffing out the smoke, he gave her a brief look: “Can’t sleep?”

Shaking her head. It felt like all of the horror was haunting her again, not that it has ever left her alone. However, in the morning, they are all leaving for Italy, their mission is beginning and she felt sicker than she expected to. She didn’t like going back to her homeland.

“What about you?” She asked.

“Was up for a smoke,” he admitted, watching the way she took her knives out of the bag and a whetstone, getting ready to sharpen them.

After a few moments of silence and the sharp sounds of her knives being sharpened, he spoke up again: “If it’s too hard for you to come back—“

Siren shook her head, her hands slightly trembling as the taste of the blood was stuck on her tongue. “I can do it. I have to.”

Price looked at her, wanting to offer her comfort, but he knew better, so he did it quietly, without pushing her too much. He knew why this mission was important to her and he knew why she was so determined to finish this once and for all. He knew her nightmares. She has told him what has happened, but after so many years, it was eating her from within.

“You’re torturing yourself, kid.”

A sad chuckle tugged on the corner of her lips and hummed: “That’s what soldiers do, Price. There isn’t anyone in here without a reason that doesn’t let them sleep at night.”

Everyone had their inner demons. There was always a reason why soldiers chose to do this. And the reasons were never pretty.

Siren placed the knife on the table, leaning back on the chair as she watched him. Price noticed her look and he knitted his eyebrows together: “What?”

“The beard is making you look older than you are,” she admitted out of nowhere.

The poor man choked on the smoke he just inhaled and he wheezed out in pain: “Always been the one with the kindest words…”

“I speak the truth, Captain. You look like you’re seventy. Also, what’s with that beard? Why is the chin barely with hair—what are you doing to it?”

“Alright, that’s it,” he grumbled like a wet cat, giving her the look. “I preferred your long hair, but I don’t shove it in your face every time I see you.”

She ran her hand over her short hair. “Long hair was too much of a nuisance for me. Yet you, somehow manage to take care of your beard. Wait till I show everyone the pictures of you without your beard.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he gave her a glare, inhaling the smoke again.

“Remember the Polaroid we took in ’15?” Siren slightly smiled, remembering the excruciating mission Price has recruited her to perform. Not only was it a master plan to take a terrorist organisation down, but it took a good amount of acting skills and Price had to shave off his beard.

The man chuckled, shaking his head: “Still have it?”

“We looked great.”

They did. She remembers holding out the Polaroid in front of him, hearing that man protest. Price wasn’t really a man for taking pictures. But both of them were just about to get on with a plan that took them two months to prepare and they both looked like idiots. Her hair was the longest she has ever had, reaching below her butt. The dress she was wearing was modest, covering the scars on her body well, but the best thing about that picture was Price.

He was wearing a tuxedo. It took so long for her to convince him to let the plan go her way. Without the military vests, without the assault rifles. Heard a lot of whines from him, but she knew it boosted his ego a little bit.

“Took your Polaroid here as well?” Price asked.

Nodding, she leaned back on her chair crossing her arms: “You were the one who told me about making memories. Just using your advice.”

“Well, well,” he pushed the bud of the cigar into the table, “Listening to my advice? Can’t believe what I’m hearin’.”

“Don’t get attached. That was one time.”

Rolling his eyes, he looked in the other direction: “How’s my team?” He changed the topic.

Shrugging, she replied: “They do have brains.”

“They’ll grow on ya,” he promised.

That’s what she was afraid of. Growing attached to them all and then seeing them die. But she said nothing. She knew the risk of her job very well. Death was inevitable, just a matter of time.

Translations:

“Vaffanculo” - what the fuck in Italian

“Sono Italiana, Tenente,” - I’m Italian, Lieutenant in Italian

#sunnywrites!#simon riley #simon riley ghost #marzia siren moretti #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost x oc #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty imagine #call of duty fanfic #ghost x siren

48 notes · View notes