Futuristic Violence And Fancy Suits Novels & Stories

Complete with explicit content warnings. Sweet Jesus, why does he have to look better now? His jaw could probably cut diamonds, and his shoulders have expanded to roughly the width of a small aircraft carrier. The suit jacket is doing things to his chest that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states, and don’t even get me started on what’s happening below the belt because I’m a professional and professionals don’t mentally undress their clients’ brothers during crisis management meetings. Except I totally am. He starts rolling up his sleeves—slow, deliberate, like he’s performing surgery on my self-control—revealing forearms that belong in a museum dedicated to why women make terribl

But she looked at the empty doorway where Liam had stood. He hadn't tried to fix it for her. He had agreed to do it her way. He was learning. She sat down at her desk. She picked up a pencil. She had a new idea. A suit. Not "armor." Not "wolf." A power suit. Red. Bright, unapologetic, blood red. Because she wasn't hiding the blood anymore. She was wearing it. She began to sketch. The "New Normal" wasn't about peace. It was about fighting back to back. And she was ready for the next round.

That's ironic. His hand on my arm and presence by my side warmed me from the inside out. My body flutters when I see him in a black suit with a sober expression that burns my skin. His good looks are so classic that he could fit seamlessly into any time period. I can't help but hate or worry about what he might do in the future. I'm not going to live my life like that. I just have to take them one at a time and let the inevitable, walk out when it happens.

"The Valderian has to complete the mission on his own free will. You have accomplished nothing." The alpha grinned then opened his desk drawer. In one swift movement, he pulled something out and threw it to the wolf who was restraining Dante. It was an injection, it looked high tech and within seconds, the needle was pushed into Dante's neck. "On the country, Dante now has a bomb in his neck, all I have to do is push a little button, and.... boom!" I stared up at him anger boiling in my blood. "You're a psychopath." "I actually got the idea from suicide squad."

"That's none of your concern, but I'll tell you anyway. He ruined my life and my home. Since Karma won't catch up to him, I'll treat him as poorly as he treated me. He'll beg for mercy until his last breath. It'll serve as a lesson to everyone—never mess with the wrong woman." "You didn't answer my question, so I won't answer yours. Besides, I don't know much about the dude, only that he always wears a cool mask divided into red and dark brown. There's an 'X' in a circle that looks like a ring of fire, and the color line forms a 'Y' above it. If you see that description, you've found him." "He doesn't use guns, only two Japanese long swords—Katanas. And don't even get me started on his suits

Not only the most skilled assassins but also the most skilled psychologists and just about every God damn profession. Vendetta could torture a terrorist without laying a finger on anyone and that was saying a lot in a world where violence was the only language rogues understood. Oh they spoke it beautifully well, they spoke violence in volumes that could blast off the eardrums of anyone that heard it and cause a man to cry blood. Despite the crowd's rowdiness, two men sat quietly, observing the fighters and throwing down serious money that could change an average rich man's life, on silent bets.

It was that dangerous kind of stillness when your brain catches up, but your heart’s too stunned to move. Cassian Draven. Standing in the center of the cage like a god made of blood and violence. Arms raised. Knuckles split. Sweat trickling down the curve of his abs like liquid sin, glinting under the spotlight. He roared into the chaos, and the crowd roared back—drunk on his rage, his beauty, his madness. My ex. The man who once made me forget every rule I ever lived by. The one I never should’ve touched, but couldn’t stop touching.

The expensive carpet beneath our feet grows dark with droplets that mark each exchange of violence like some primitive ritual. This isn't the choreographed combat of movies, all graceful moves and witty one-liners. This is desperate and ugly and exhausting— the kind of fighting that leaves permanent damage to both body and soul. The kind where both men understand that only one is walking away whole. Viktor's training shows in flashes— military combat moves mixed with boxing fundamentals, the expensive education that money can buy. But there's no heart in his violence, no deeper purpose beyond inflicting damage. I fight like a man with his soul on the line. My woman is cowered in the corner,

We're walking on the street while everyone is looking at us like we're a different creature when we just actually look like them and there I realized that we actually dress differently than them. We both are wearing a normal dress on the inside and a steel outfit on the outside as our combat suit which can protect us In case something bad happens in year 3079 which we actually failed to go to. Right. It's not normal for them to see someone wearing this kind of suit so I shouldn't be surprised by that. And besides, they're not doing anything bad to us which is also great. I don't want to involve ourselves in a fight here when we will clearly win for we both are made to be a fighter. And I don

"I'll help you set the table for breakfast." She nodded and handed me a tray of fruit. As we arranged the last plate, I noticed Artemy and his men descending the staircase. Clad in their customary black suits, they resembled esteemed businessmen if not for the guns they carried. The firearms stripped away any semblance of sophistication, making them appear lethal instead.