#inspired by mr. and mrs. smith

[sematarygirls]

you and rafe had met, dated, and gotten married, all while hiding your secret identities as spies from each other, but when it came to light that you both were not only spies but spies from rival agencies, it became clear that one of you had to die by the other's hand.

after a tense shootout that destroyed the home you two lovingly shared for so long, a symbol of your relationship that was once perfect and now in shambles, you realized that you couldn't kill him. you loved him. in this business, attachments were lethal. you put aside that rule for rafe, sparks flying the moment you met the handsome, charming man, and now, that would be the very thing that would become your undoing.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ resolution ] | sylus

— summary: he tells you to take a load off—clear your head. it would be a nice gesture if the center of your torment didn’t accompany you (or the one where sylus is tired of waiting for you to want him, too). — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, misunderstandings, self-deprecating thoughts, mutual pining, sexual content, more self-indulgence, alcohol, language, mentions of violence, implied naughty things done in public, sylus is probably ooc, i struggled with this but i hope someone likes it, mdni — tracklist: mystery survivor - brown eyed girls bonnie & clyde - dean heaven & back - chase atlantic pon pón - khruangbin lago azúl - jamila velazquez efecto - bad bunny lights up - harry styles

You’re halfway through a glass of something acrid when heavy leather plops on the bar counter beside you. 

Its brass buckles gleam ominously beneath the foggy, red glaze of Lux. You arch a brow. Tilt your head. The ice in your glass shifts, and your jaw slackens.

You don’t have to turn around to know who the source of the commotion is. Feel him before you see him, a solid mass of shifting muscle pressed up between your shoulder blades. The heat he exudes permeates through layers of skin and flesh. His cologne surfs above that of alcohol and tobacco, curling around your senses in a steady creep. 

He leans closer, and the static from his proximity prickles your skin. He perches loose fists on the counter’s edge, bracketing you between sinewy arms, just barely brushing yours. Just barely. 

You smirk. Try to hide that shiver when his lip grazes the outskirts of your ear, purposeful, slow, breath disturbing the delicate baby hairs framing your face.

“Up for a joyride?” he asks, his voice gritty, steeped low between the rock of the music and your pulse wild in your throat. It pools hot in the chasm in your chest, a slow trickle to your belly. 

You set your glass down. Peer over your shoulder. His face is so close, that pretty nose, those grey-fringed lashes, you can almost kiss it. 

“Can I change first?”

It’s a solid question; you’re still wearing your costume. Body glitter. Makeup. Limbs still hum with the adrenaline from your show. From the attention. From his eyes sweeping over you from the second floor’s rail as you swiveled your hips in rhythm with the music.

He noses along your cheek, siphoning the breath from your lungs in a sticky gasp. That mouth again—it moves along your ear, murmuring so hot and fevered, you wonder if you’re dizzy because of it or the alcohol coloring your veins.

“Later.”

You suppress a frown as he draws back, taking that overwhelming pressure with him. You watch him retreat into the crowd of club goers, eyes burning like two feverish flames before he makes for the door. 

You’re surprised by his easy command over your body, but you don’t have to be told twice. Don’t think twice.

Downing what’s left in your glass, the sting eases the ache of your nerves. You slip a fistful of crumpled-up bills onto the counter for the bartender before snatching up the leather jacket and sliding off the barstool faster than she can thank you for the tip.

“Have fun!” she calls at your back.

You miss the knowing smile kissing the bartender’s lips as you follow behind your boss’s afterimage, wending through the sea of pulsing bodies with all the purpose of the world. 

—

It’s chilly out.

The night air nips at your exposed skin, salted with the scent of exhaust fumes and evergreens and fried food. 

You had shrugged into his coat on your way out of Lux. 

It's too big for you, the sleeves’ hems brushing past your fingertips. But it smells like him, like drive-in movies and fresh cut grass and safety. And it’s warm like him. Warm like the blissful sweep of sun rays. Like a campfire amid the first crack of winter. You’ll bear the jacket’s weight if it means being closer to him. Carrying a piece of him over your shoulders, distributing his load so he doesn’t have to bear it all himself.

He’s waiting for you. Propped all cool against his bike like the love interest of some dark romance novel, silhouetted by the winking city lights behind him. He’s a behemoth of black leather and white hair, and he smirks at you over crossed arms when he sees you. He reaches into his saddlebag to procure a helmet with cat ears mounted on its front, thrusting it towards you.

You lift a brow. Snort. Your lips crook as your heels click over asphalt. He’s so sure you’ll come with him. You’ll come to him. 

But you’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked.

You take the helmet, your skin tingling when your fingers brush over matte kevlar. For a moment, the art of breathing eludes you. You excuse it as a consequence of the air, of the alcohol bubbling beneath your skin, of your hair tickling your neck. 

You mount the bike behind him after sliding the helmet onto your head. It purrs to life between your thighs, shaky like a slumbering beast, smoke crawling from the exhaust. You put as much space between your bodies as possible, hips pushed back, still wanting to maintain a modicum of decency. He peers at you over a broad shoulder, and you know he’s nothing short of amused behind the dark wash of his visor. 

You gasp, your helmet fogging with condensation, when he tugs you closer by the wrist. His back is deliciously rigid pressed up against your breasts. He taps your hands crossed over his navel, ensuring they’re secure, ensuring you’re holding tight before kicking the kickstand back. You lay your cheek between his shoulder blades once the tension abates. Brush off his brazenness as him wanting to keep you safe.

You cling to him for dear life with a yip in your throat as the motorcycle peels off. And he chuckles something smoky, adrenaline spuming all hot through your veins.

The pair of you cut a sleek outline of black as you whip through the quieted streets. Your destination’s unknown, but you’re just thrilled to be out. To be at his side like the universe isn’t conspiring against you. The wind is brisk and welcoming, licking your exposed thighs and legs, prickly through your stockings. 

Your lips ache with a smile, and once you’ve grown accustomed to the speed, you unwind an arm from around his middle to hold it out behind you. Lean slightly back. Wind eases through the spaces between your fingers. You feel like you’re flying. Free. 

It’s a rush, whatever hair you didn’t squeeze into your helmet whipping wildly around you. As street lights glaze over your visor, you feel like you’re in a dream. And the music playing in the built-in headset is transcendental, aiding that out-of-body experience. 

It’s been too long since he’s taken you out for a ride on the back of his bike. Hardly had time for it, what with the missions and deals and a pretty, infectious damsel soaking up the space between you. 

She’s off in Skyhaven on leave. 

You thought it strange she’d vacation there of all places, but you didn’t argue when you dropped her off at the station, shrugging her somberness off as anxiety for the trip.

Your boss has been surprisingly bold in her absence. Grew more purposeful with the brush of his fingers, with his staring, more concise with his words. You know it’s just his way of filling the crater Ms. Hunter left in his chest. You’re something of a placeholder. Someone to pass the time. But you’ve been taking advantage of it. Flirting back for old time’s sake, teasing him, manipulating him with the flutter of your lashes, knowing he could never be yours deep down. 

Something pulls in your chest. A steady tug like ivy through a lattice fence. A pull on your conscience. Your smile falters the slightest bit. You shove down those gut-wrenching feelings, trying to enjoy the night. The airiness between you. The familiarity. It’s just a joyride. No harm, no foul. You’re not betraying anyone by enjoying yourself a little. Besides…

You never know when it’ll be snatched away like a rug from beneath your feet.

—

You don’t expect an airfield to slide into view, the steel grate of a barbed fence, a stretch of grass painted with dew. The familiar outline of a jet catches your sight, the sleek metal gleaming in the coppery blink of the moon. You wonder what bossman’s up to as he cuts the bike into a hangar, its rumble echoing off thick metal walls whilst you ease to a stop. 

He cuts the engine. You watch the muscles in his back swim as he tugs off his helmet, shaking out those wispy tendrils of white. So cool, you think with pursed lips. You follow suit when you remember yourself, dismounting the motorcycle after him, throat thick with questions.

You wordlessly trail behind him, the click of your heels reverberating throughout the hangar, traded for that of muted clops against the asphalt on the airstrip. Crickets. Wind. Engines humming in the distance. He’s nearly twice your size, yet you’re practically his shadow. Always have been, a silent presence at his back, a viper ready to strike at his command. Loyal thing you are, through and through. 

“What’s this about?” you finally ask when you near his private jet. You’ve had enough ambiguity for the night. 

He’s halfway up the stairs, massive hands swallowing the rails. He studies you from his shoulder, a roguish crease around his eyes. 

“Do you trust me?”

You snort. Has he ever given you a reason not to? He’s always had your back. Always a sturdy palm on your shoulder, squeezing. Antiseptic and gauze to dress your wounds. The comforting burn of whiskey in your throat. A voice to lull you into a fitful sleep when the nightmares bare themselves. 

Your voice is husky, low, a smile tugging at your lips, a thrill coiling around your spine.

“Of course.” 

You take the hand he offers you, guided up the steps into the jet’s cabin like something delicate. 

The crew greets you, all knowing smiles and quick bows beneath the sepia-toned cabin lights. Sylus’ hand falls to the small of your back, searing through the heavy fibers of his jacket, possessive yet respectful, burning down to bone as he leads you down the aisle.

“Wait a sec,” you muse, a quizzical glance cast over your shoulder, aimed at him. “I didn’t pack anything.”

He quirks a brow. Smirks. “Well, it’s a good thing I know your measurements.”

You try not to linger on what that means. On the tight coil in your stomach, the way he looked at you as if only you exist in his world.

—

He’s as cryptic as ever. Then again, you haven’t pressured him for answers. Figure he’s keeping to himself for a reason, the blue light of the tablet in his hand ominously shadowing his face. 

Another mission, perhaps? An undercover gig where you play a glittering, docile doll on his arm until he gets what he’s after? He’ll fill you in on the intricacies later, you’re sure. You trust him so much, it’s sickening. 

It’s been a while since you’ve been on a night fight. You’ve long since traded the distant gleam of the city below for the dark brew of clouds outside the window. And despite the luxury flanking you, you grow antsy. 

You’d slipped off your heels. Fidgeted with the buckles of his jacket in the face of his silence before tearing yourself from the seat to grab something to drink. Something to take the edge off. To dispel the slew of questions in your mind, the curl of your tongue, the gnarl in your stomach, a voice far-off telling you something was amiss.

Your hips sway something dangerous as you near your seat. Two crisp glasses of bubbly fizzle in your palms, a sly little smile on your face. He doesn’t look up when you plop down, still thoroughly engrossed in whatever’s on his screen until you thrust a champagne flute towards him. He accepts it with a quirk of lips, fingers purposeful in their excursion over yours on the stem, eyes drinking you in.

You shudder, feeling like he’s stripping you down to the marrow with that devastating gaze. Clearing your throat, you take a sip. Hide your anxiety behind the rim, opting for cool, calm, collected. It’s a good burn. A good fizz, loosening the restraints of your inhibitions. Maybe you can badger him now.

“Are you kidnapping me?” you joke, crossing your legs. Innocently drag your toes up his tibia for added effect, luring a chuckle that bleeds sin from his throat.

He sets the tablet down on the side table with his champagne flute. Leans slightly forward, fingers wrapping around your foot to drag it into his lap. “Would you like me to?”

A thrill shoots through you. Spools hot in your stomach. You’re insane, because you think being kidnapped by him wouldn’t be so bad. 

His fingers are magical. Give you a glimpse of a night two months back. You still taste him. Still feel him, the texture of his shirt between your fingers burned into your mind. The sounds he poured into your mouth, the dangerous press of his body against yours…

Shifting gears, you swipe a finger over your bottom lip in contemplation. His digits knead through tension and pressure. You bite back a sound. Swallow. Don that playful mask.

“Dunno. Think I’d be fine with it if it were you holding me hostage.”

His smirk deepens, a dimple cratering his cheek, lashes dancing as he watches his hands at work. You want to ask why—why he’s being so attentive, so disarming, so god damn irresistible when he smiles like that. When he laughs like that. When he does that, that thing where he makes you feel like he could throw it all away for you. 

But, you settle for letting the steady hum of the jet engines saturate the air between you. Don’t want to disrupt the moment, the spell falling like a gauzy shawl over your shoulders. The burn of his gaze on your cheek as you peer out the window.

He’s an enigma and could put back up that aloof front at the snap of your fingers. And you might just remember that you’re dropping your defenses too low. Growing too close with a man who couldn’t be farther away. 

—

You land somewhere remote. 

Somewhere off-grid where the sun always shines and tropical birds sing in the trees overhead. Someplace where the ocean glitters a clear blue, and sand gets stuck between your toes, gritty, trapped against the soles of your feet by your sandals. 

It’s humid, the kind of damp that pastes your blouse—yes, you finally had time to change, to freshen up—to your torso like snakeskin. But you bear with the mild discomfort because you don’t think you’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful. 

It’s like a best kept secret. A treasure Sylus has hoarded from you like a crow’s nest, though you can understand why. 

It’s an island untainted by city life. Sleepy, save for the calming crash of waves along the shoreline. The air smells of sea salt and greenery. Of memories of a distant youth, all splotchy in your mind. You can’t recall much of your past up to a certain age—brainwashing—but it conjures something deep-rooted and nostalgic. Something that makes you all warm and fuzzy inside, and your lips ache with a smile.

You were greeted by locals upon your arrival. Men in linen shirts, skin kissed by the sun. Women with pretty freckles, wavy hair, and hugs as welcoming as a summer’s day. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Sylus so at ease—or as calm as someone like him can appear. He was boyish in a way. Infectious, gazing at you with eyes that glittered like the sun refracted off the ocean in the distance.

You pretended your voice wasn’t lodged in your throat at the sight. Like your body wasn’t humming with a pleasant sensation when he laced your fingers together, tugging you down the shore. Confusing you more than the jet lag, than the dizzying weight of the sun.

Dirt roads branch and twist through this tropical oasis. You take a Jeep to a tucked-away bungalow, sunlight dappling your bodies through the leaves as you ease out of the SUV. It’s so very him, isolated and distant. And despite how modest and unassuming it looks outside, the bungalow’s inside is something to whistle at. 

It’s luxurious. Two stories. Hardwood floors, ceiling-high windows, posh furniture, beach motifs, elegant coastal decor. Of course, you don’t expect anything less from your enigma of a boss. He’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?

“I take it you’re enjoying the view,” he asks from behind as you study the beach not too far from the veranda. The lazy back and forth crawl of the waves. Seabirds pecking at the sand. Palm trees scraping a sky so blue. 

“It’s gorgeous,” you say, awestruck. Not really thinking, leaning into your hands pressed against the glass. You’re childlike. It’s magical. You feel like you’re witnessing something intimate. Somewhere you have no business being, territory that’s off-limits.

You turn suspicious eyes on him, crossing your arms, drumming your fingers against your bicep. “What are we doing here?” Straight to the point. You’d been burning to get to it. 

You didn’t prod him much during the jet ride. Assume that you’re here to uncover some elusive protocores. Here to take out a big baddie and end his nefarious dealings. Maybe negotiate with the local military for some state-of-the-art weaponry. Not to let your guard down like the atmosphere suggests. 

Sylus grabs a peach from the fruit bowl settled on the kitchen island’s center. Tosses it up before catching it with practiced ease, and his fingers swallow the damn thing whole. You watch with bated breath as he brings it to his mouth. His eyes narrow behind it, unreadable half-moons, a sly smile stretching past it. 

“House-sitting,” he replies before taking a bite. The sound is juicy, overwhelming, pristine teeth tearing through peachy pink skin. Your mouth waters. You’re hungry, stomach flipping, but you don’t think it’s food you crave. 

“House-sitting,” you parrot, testing the weight of those words in your mouth, distracting yourself. You round the island to stand across from him. “For who?”

“An old colleague,” he answers as if it’s as easy as night’s transition into day. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, looking off to the side. Sylus associating himself with anyone long-term is a foreign concept. Anyone other than you, the twins, Mephisto, Ms. Hunter…

But, you’ll bite. 

“Then why’d you bring me here?”

You stiffen when he moves. When he props his hands on either edge of the granite countertop after setting his peach down, and the span of his arms is so ridiculously wide. He pitches himself forward, spilling like liquid fire over the island, and the heat of his body is tangible. So close, static builds, his breath stirring the baby hairs matted to your skin by sweat.

A veil drops. Anticipation wells in your chest. His gaze flicks from between your eyes down to your lips that part and quiver with the effort of breathing. With an attempt to form words. 

His jaw slackens in kind, contemplative. Like he’s at odds with himself, mulling over something deep in his mind. For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you. Selfishly hope he kisses you. 

Instead, he crooks a finger beneath your chin. Tilts your head slightly back, and you’re watching his eyes gleam like gems held to the sun from down the bridge of your nose. 

His fingers curl around your neck. Tangle in the fine hairs at your nape. Grip loose enough for you to pull back if you deem the pressure too intense, but firm enough to anchor you to the spot. Your pulse thrums something frenetic beneath his fingers. He swipes a worn thumb pad over the corner of your mouth, and you widen it without realizing. 

You unconsciously lean into his palm. Eyes shroud with something dark and unmistakable.  A quiet yearning to mirror his. An unspoken plea, your defenses slowly burying themselves beneath the wooden panels of the floor. 

You’re closing both your hands around his wrist, tender. Cautious. Holding his hand to your cheek like you’ll fall if he lets go. You turn your face towards his thumb, its roughened callus easing over your bottom lip, lightly pulling it down, delightful tingles echoing through your body as you absently nuzzle into his palm. 

“So you can’t run away from me this time,” he rasps, entranced by your mouth. By the suppleness of your skin, the warmth bleeding from your face into his palm. 

Run away? Why would you—

Who would want to—

You’re out of your mind. So deliciously delirious. Whether from the jungle heat or the molten pressure of his presence, you’re unsure. You just want to live in this moment forever. Preserve it like a snapshot from an old, disposable film camera. Your inhibitions don’t live here, your conscience. Only you and this man who pilfers the air from your lungs, who stirs the earth beneath your feet.

You blink drunkenly, your stare dropping to his mouth. Back to those eyes leaking a mysterious shade of ruby. Pupils blown wide. “What do you mean?”

“Is it so wrong to want you all to myself?” he husks, voice abrasive. Disarming. You feel it in your toes. Feel it embedding itself into your psyche. “No distractions, no misunderstandings?”

You laugh. Swallow against the grit of your throat. Lick your lips. “What do you mean by that?” 

You know what he means. The weight his words carry. Yet you play coy. It’s easier to deflect. Easier to deny than to call it what it is—a weekend getaway. A chance to pick up where things left off. An opportunity to stir whatever mess swells between you. Some time to play until his precious little hunter is back in his arms.

He draws you closer. So close, your foreheads touch. You’re standing on tippy-toe, palms flat against the granite, watching his lashes flutter as he studies your mouth. Breaths hot and dizzying against your skin. He’s massive. Could cover you like a blanket, swallow you whole like a riptide dragging you out to sea. 

“Still playing oblivious.” He sounds forlorn. Voice cracks as it peters, and it simmers in your stomach. “No matter. You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, trading his despondent smile for a smirk.

His thumb cruises along your cheek. And for a moment, it looks like he’ll kiss you. Steal the taste of your lips. But he’s a conniving little shit. He releases you from his spell, hand falling from your neck, fingers grazing your shoulder. He draws back, snatching up his peach for another bite.

You blink away the bleariness. Tamp down a pout. Watch as he moves towards the door, a hand stuffed in his pocket.

“Where are you off to?” you call at his back. Chew your lip, brows knit. Only he could make you this petulant—this lovesick. 

“To visit an old friend. Try to enjoy yourself while I’m away. Take a load off. Enjoy the sights.”

He disappears through the desk-speckled doorframe before you can get another word out, swallowed by the sun. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart. To bask in the heady scent he leaves—the molten ache spooling between your legs.

You cross your arms. Huff like a bratty child. He’s doing this on purpose, you’re sure. Punishment for you leaving him hanging, much like you did him that night. 

Hard to relax when you want to throw yourself against the floor. Kick and scream. When you want him to kiss you like the world will end tomorrow. 

You’ll pay him back when he returns.

—

And you do. 

In the form of a red, floral dress that clings to the devastation of your body. 

Spaghetti straps barely cling to your shoulders. Loose knot tied against your naked back at the swell of your rear. The chiffon hem brushes your ankles, but a dangerous slit reveals enough skin to draw the attention of the bar’s other patrons. Locals. Middle-aged men with sweat beading on their temples and mustaches, drunken smiles on their faces, their tongues swiping over their lips. 

You had enough Spanish in your mouth to stumble through ordering drinks. 

Tequila. Not your go-to, but it’s a good burn. A burn that loosens your reservations, your arms in the air. It’s enough to make your hips sway seductively to match that smile on your face as you move through the hazy film of smoke adorning the bar, guided by the croon of the Reggaeton thumping in the floor. 

The attention’s nice. The staring, the lust coloring the air—you’re good at this, remember? But you’re centered on one man in particular. Dancing just for him. Just to fuck with him. Feel his eyes drilling down to your very being as if only you exist, and it makes your body hum pleasantly alongside the sting of the alcohol. 

He can’t keep his eyes off you, perched at the bar’s counter on a stool, swirling the contents of his whiskey glass. Whether he’s watching you out of a habit of concern—he’s stared down every man who came within an inch of you, trying to guide you into a dance by the hips, by your arm, or a hand at the small of your back, and if looks could kill, everyone here would’ve been burned to cinders—or genuine intrigue, you’re unsure. But you play on your delusions anyway, figuring he’s just as enamored by the swivel of your hips as much as everyone else here.

He bought this dress just for you. Had it tailored to the shape of your body, down to the cinch of your waist, the span of your shoulders. You discovered it when he left you to your own devices earlier, boredom and curiosity leading you to scavenge through the luggage he packed for you after you walked the surf. 

When Sylus returned to the bungalow as the sun crested over the sky, you begged him to take you out. You wanted to dance. Wanted to explore this peaceful, tucked away island he whisked you off to, to have you all to himself. Wanted to make him pine for you as much as you yearned for him. Retribution for how he’d left you mentally reeling. Left your body burning. 

Besides, you couldn’t let such a pretty dress go to waste. 

Your gazes interlock every so often. His lips quirk seductively. He raises a glass to you, brows lifting slightly. He chose to hang back while you took to the dance floor. You’re enjoying yourself. He’s enjoying you, too. And the music’s nice. The atmosphere’s soothing. Sure, the bar’s a little run-down, a hole-in-the wall, half of it opening up into an impromptu patio outside. But it has its charm. 

You’ve never seen your boss dance before, but you figure a man like him has some rhythm. He’s cultured. Clearly been here before if the way the natives acknowledge him is anything to go by. Like someone to be respected or feared. 

You contemplate sidling over to him. Grabbing his hand, pushing your breasts up against his bicep, that pretty little beseeching smile crooking your lips. Think about dragging him out for a dance. Having that calamitous body pushing against yours, his hands at your waist, lips imprinting themselves on the hollow of your neck, voice murky in his throat.

But before you can bring the thought to life, someone plops on the barstool beside him. A man who looks like he could be Sylus’ age, though his stubble ages him. Dark hair, bushy brows, ill-fitting suit. He’s clearly inebriated by the slouch of his body. A carefree contrast to the regal set of Sylus’ shoulders. He knows him. Sylus looks annoyed when said man claps him on his back, his raucous laughter cutting through the music. His glass poised at his mouth, he leans closer to Sylus, murmuring something near his ear. 

Something esoteric by the looks of it. Something that you can’t catch, but it probably concerns you. Because when you turn in the midst of your dancing, you don’t miss both sets of eyes tuned to you—one set playful and knowing and adorned with crow’s feet, the other somber and far-off beneath furrowed brows, above tight lips.

You wonder what they’re on about. You’re about to sashay over before a stoutly, older man draws you close to salsa, pulling a laugh from your throat. And you’re so pretty and carefree as you move, your eyes occasionally flitting back to your boss and his company as they talk.

— 

The rain doesn’t detract from the island’s mugginess. In fact, it becomes even more humid, with bodies huddled together beneath the bar’s half-roof, trying to keep from getting wet. It’s fruitless, the rain puddling at your feet, making the concrete floors nothing short of slippery.

You don’t contest, laughing something unhindered when Sylus takes your hand, drawing out of the crowd. He flashes a smile over his shoulder before you jog after him, engulfed by the downpour and the gray haze cast by the heavy clouds overhead. You’re surprisingly fast for the towering heels you wear, strapped to your feet. And you’re both acting like two mischievous youths by the time Sylus pulls you under the awning of a nearby cafe, figuring the weather’s too tumultuous to make for your bungalow on foot.

It is there where your mirth simmers. Where you realize you’re soaked to the bone, your dress molded to you like a second skin. You’re incredibly close. So close, his overpowering warmth permeates through layers of flesh, and you’re spinning. Your nipples knot beneath the drag of the fabric. Sylus takes the opportunity to lure you closer, his back colliding with the stone wall behind him when you careen into his chest.

He’s so very handsome, white locks pasted to his sculpted face. So pleasantly solid against your palms pressed against his chest. His hands burn something fierce through your skin, fastened to your back. Time slows to a crawl, the rain an afterthought as you slowly look up, lost in the heady, love-drunk stir of his eyes. It wouldn’t take much to stand on tippy-toe to kiss him, to taste the rain intermingled with the saccharine flavor of his mouth.

So, you do.

Your fingers clasp around his biceps. And he doesn’t fight you, instead urging you forward, leaning down to meet you halfway. You come together like the moon drawn to the earth, and twin, relieved sounds leave your chests when your mouths collide. 

He takes your breath away, sucking it into his lungs like it’s his own. Cups your cheek in his palm, greedy, greedy as he anchors you to him. Your arms intuitively snake around his shoulders, wrists cross behind his neck. It’s like kissing fire, and the sounds he pours into you make your toes tingle, your center pulse.

Without warning, his fingers mold around your thighs, the thick flesh cratering between them before he rucks you up to encircle his waist with your legs.

You’re a mess of gnashing teeth and hair and desire as he turns your body, walking you into an alcove devoid of light, hidden from the street. And as your alarm bells sound in your mind—wait, stop, no—as your spine crashes into a textured, brick wall, you allow him to ravage you. To flood your body with every bit of emotion he’s held back for God knows how long via his mouth. Via his hands bunching your dress around your hips. His teeth scrawling down your neck before seeking refuge in your shoulder. 

You throw your head back, sighing hot and wanton, mouth curved into a smile. He’s hard and thick pressed to the apex of your thighs. All for you. Just for you.

This isn’t right. Isn’t how you envisioned things culminating between you, but you think, fuck it.

What happens here can stay here, the echo of your voices painting every crevice of the alleyway.  

— tags: @melonssoup, @dana-nite, @allura-miss, @l1ttlebabyapple, @asakiyu, @loliesaregreat, @theloveofnagiseishiroslife, @mentaltrouble2201, @jupitersays, @animecrazy76, @wowunreal, @jaeminsbuckethat, @darkeskye, @lookingforlia, @aishasylus, @t4naiis, @everywherenothere, @unknown-ends, @blessdunrest, @lunebulous, @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake, @ceronnica, @sillyfreakfanparty, @midiplier, @abbylee0710, @hanaluxx, @nicohii, @beewilko, @viqlume, @snowfall-jess (sorry if i missed anyone).

falling action | masterlist

[firstelevens]

Dealer's choice, 🃏⚔️🌹 if you'd like!

⚔️ - Hidden Weapons

Just before Jack actually started speaking, he’d figured out that if he touched his hand to something and made an inquisitive little noise, Sam or Bucky would identify it for him. Mornings for the next few days were just a litany of nouns, and it only got more expansive once they started carrying him around the house for the express purpose of reaching more things. Every time they named something for him, Jack's eyes would light up and he would bob his head in a little nod like he'd just been testing them.

Sam is pretty sure that all those educational breakfasts are why Jack's first word (dada) was followed almost immediately by his second through fourth words (cado-poon-papa), the last of which had been growled in frustration because Bucky had been so sidetracked by his delight at Jack’s first word that the spoonful of mashed avocado in his hand hadn’t made it to Jack’s mouth.

He's a quick learner, their son. He masters most of the toys he gets within a few days of getting them, goes from crawling to walking to full on running much faster than either of them is prepared for. He learns Bucky's scowl and the rhythm of Sam's laugh, picks up tunes from songs he's only heard once and hums them to Alpine while she supervises his time in the playpen. Sam didn't realize just how much Jack was observing and absorbing until one night after bath time, when Jack wriggled out of Sam's arms and proceeded to make a round of the front room, tapping each door and the wall below each window after stopping in front of them for a moment, a perfect imitation of Bucky's regular nighttime lock and alarm check.

Still, as observant as Jack is, he's always got about twelve different things in the room that fascinate him, so if a little bit of the spy life does occasionally bleed into Sam and Bucky's domestic life, it's hardly the end of the world. When Bucky busts a knife out of the pocket of his unnecessarily tight jeans just so he can jimmy open the lid of a coffee can at breakfast, Sam gives a cursory glance in Jack's direction, but he's pretty focused on his Cheerios, so Sam doesn't give it a second thought.

Sam doesn't give it a second thought the next day at lunchtime, either, when he hears Bucky say, "Sorry, Jitterbug; I thought I already gave you a spoon." He doesn't think about it it when Jack manages to unlatch the top of one of his toys after he's fit all the shapes through the right holes, or when he plays with his big, safe-for-babies Legos for an hour and sticks a bunch of them together but somehow never asks for help pulling them apart.

He doesn't think about it at all, really, until one day Sam is sprawled out on the couch, his head in Bucky's lap while Bucky reads aloud from the most boring recon report of all time. On the carpet in front of them, Jack plays some kind of game that involves him and Boo the sheep and lots of colorful blocks being jammed into a tiny bucket.

Whatever the game is supposed to be, Jack has worked tirelessly at fitting the blocks into his bucket. When it comes time to empty it, he raises the bucket and turns it upside down like he usually does, but it's too packed and nothing comes out. He shakes the bucket a few times, too, but nothing changes. Sam has to bite his lip to avoid intervening, but he gives Bucky's knee a little poke to catch his attention so neither one of them misses it.

Jack tries to go in with his fingers next, but the blocks are slippery and he can't get a grip on any of them. His little face is starting to look more frustrated now, and Sam is on the verge of asking whether he'd like some help when Jack lets out a classic Bucky Barnes Exasperated Sigh and reaches into the bib of his extremely cute overalls. Sam is prepared to write it off as weird baby behavior, and then he watches Jack extract his favorite Blues Clues spoon from inside his clothes.

("Guess I didn't lose it at the park after all," mutters Bucky, and Sam elbows him quiet, although now he does feel bad for suggesting that that had been the case.)

With a look of concentration on his face, Jack wiggles the spoon between the wall of the bucket and one of the blocks. He works it back and forth a few times, and the block finally springs free, skittering across the floor and landing right in front of the couch. Looking delighted, Jack claps his chubby hands together and lifts the bucket again, turning it inside out and laughing gleefully as all the rest of the blocks fall out.

Then he reaches for his spoon, very carefully turns it over once in his hands--almost like he was imitating someone in his life who always flips his knives before tucking them back into his belt--and then pops the spoon back into his overall bib.

Sam rolls onto his back so that Bucky can see his raised eyebrows more clearly. "This one's your fault," he says. "Hidden weapons and subterfuge are your thing."

Bucky snorts, looking more than a little bit proud as he glances back in Jack's direction. "You say that now, but that makes climbing onto unnecessarily high shit your fault, and I foresee that coming up a lot."

"You're by far the worst husband I've ever had," mumbles Sam, pulling a face at Bucky.

In response, Bucky just boops his nose. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

Sam blows a raspberry at Bucky, mostly because he can, and pushes off the couch, joining Jack on the floor instead. Without hesitation, Bucky follows.

[fancyschmancyopinions]

MAYA ERSKINE at the premiere of “Mr and Mrs Smith” on January 18th 2024 in London wearing SCHIAPARELLI

[echoingvoids]

Mr. & Mrs. Johnson (Jetra AU!)

so my awesome friend @jetra-artz has had this Jetra AU based on the movie "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" and I finally got to watch the movie.

I GET IT!

So I decided to write a fanfic for it! The first chapter "Everything Has a Beginning" is up now on Wattpad and AO3! Enjoy a snippet below the cut

Jesse leaned against the counter of the restaurant, twirling his drink idly in his hand. The loud buzz of the convention was all around him, the sounds produced by excited speaking and piqued interest. The noises weren't unusual for such an event.

Until it suddenly was disrupted by the restaurant doors banging open, a set of event security barging in. Jesse frowned, leaning over to get the attention of the restaurant owner. "What's got them so worked up?"

"Ah, you didn't get the alert? Someone shot Gabriel. The event security is searching for anyone who's alone."

Jesse nodded slowly, turning and scanning the room. One of the event security noticed him looking, striding a few steps forward. "Are you alone, sir?"

[aurora-van-vana]

Vicenté: I’ve wanted to be a trophy wife since I was a little boy

Bobby: Really?

Vicenté: No

[jeremykillswitch]

Mrs Lenore Smith Core

Fly high, angel. I know you'd be proud of me. The baby's middle name is Mrs Smith in ur honour.

[casualhedonists]

What mbti is the mc? I think she’s the epitome of an intj/entj, her strategic nature, the games, her class, her ego. And Coriolanus an obvious xntj as well

ok COOL question, i actually know vv little about personality types and stuff but!! i’ll def take your word for it nonnie! that’s a v cool analysis, i love love love that reader is getting the appreciation she deserves!! <3

they’re def veryyy similar that’s for sure, and it fuels a lot of their dynamic being so push and pull all the time. like almost too alike if ykwim.

in terms of general character analysis i put a lot of diff inspirations into her, a few different movie characters i admire (notably angelina jolie in mr and mrs smith my beloved) as well as the general themes, like i have quite a few elements in certain scenes that are from media i like! if anyone ever wants me to do a longer post on that id be so so down btw

[autistic-rizz-king]

a piece of flash fiction I wrote for my eng class :)

The middle school called me after no one had come to pick up Sage after school. It was Ron’s turn to get him and he’s always quite punctual. Though right now he’s not even answering his phone. I found Mrs. Brownstein by the front door waiting with Sage who was quite upset with me.

“I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes!!! Where’s Dad?? Isn’t it his turn to get me??? Did something happen???”

“I’m sorry sweetheart! Something came up at work and Dad just got the chance to called me 10 minutes ago.”

I could tell he was unsatisfied with my answer. We both know that Ron always prioritizes us knowing where he is over “something that came up at work,” but my answer seemed plausible enough for Mrs. Brownstein. In the car, Sage asked me,

“What’s really happening, Mom?” I replied, 

“That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

We’ve been so careful up to this point. We cut all ties to our past lives, spent a lot of cash to have all records of us erased, faked our deaths, changed our names 4 times, changed citizenship even more, and made a point to look nothing like we used to. We’ve been so careful. All to give Sage a normal life. But now something has happened to Ron and I need to figure out what before it happens to me too.

When we got to our street, I told Sage to wait at his friend Chase’s house until I came and got him. We had a very secure panic room in the backyard where he could wait, but I had to assume that the whole house was compromised.

“Mom, you’re starting to scare me…” I took a breath to try to compose myself.

“I’m sorry sweetie. I just want to make sure you’re safe,” I tried to smile for him, but he could see through me by now.

“Just promise you’ll be safe too, ok?”

“Ok, I promise.”

I checked the whole house for any signs of forced entry or tampering. If our cover’s been blown, I can’t rule out any possibilities. We made a lot of enemies in our old life, and even more after we left. It could be a contractor hired by someone whose life we ruined, or an agent from a rival corptation who wants to get intel on our old company, or even worse, our old company coming to make sure we won't be able to give out any intel. Theres no signs that anyone was in our house, so I now pivot my focus to Ron. I put on my bulletproof vest and started grabbing every weapon I could carry. I’ll call his work and find out when he left, if he left with anyone, and which direction he went in. However, I’ll need to use a well-placed bribe or well placed bullet to get any real leads. I should contact The Nanny to take care of Sage incase this takes longer than expected. I just need to remember where I put my flash-

“Donna? What’s happening?? Is everything ok??”

“Ron?? Where where you?! I thought you were taken!!”

“What are you talking about?? Some punk stole my phone and wallet during lunch. I told Shelly to call you!”

‘Oh… Shelly never called me…”

“Clearly,” my husband snickered.

“Shut up! You know I get jumpy.”

“I know!” he chuckled, “I’m sorry I scared you. Where’s SSage?”

“At the Winstons house. We should probaby get him. I’m sure he’s worried sick.”

“Poor guy. So… What’s for dinner?”

[gothgoblinbabe]

The Art Of Make-believe Matrimony

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Summary: You can’t stand each other, so it’s a mystery to you and Logan why you’re sent out together on an assignment. To make it worse, you’d have to act much closer than you really were.

Warnings:  mutant!reader (no specific power mentioned, though), fem!reader, enemies to lovers, swearing,  fake dating (technically fake marriage), mentions of violence, a little bit of suggestive stuff, a little bit of fluff i guess, and mild alcohol consumption. I think that's all but if i missed any, please let me know! also this is def loosely inspired by the movies 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' and '10 Things I Hate About You'

Word Count: 5K

part 2

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ .

You hate the way he dresses.

You hate his stupid hair.

You hate the pet names he calls you.

You hate his voice.

You hate his hazel eyes.

You hate his smile.

You hate Logan Howlett.

It was no secret and neither was the fact that he couldn’t stand you either. You bickered like a married couple, constantly fought till you bled when you were training and couldn’t go a day without one of you insulting the other. Truthfully, it was probably because you were too alike - fire versus fire - and knew exactly how to press each other's buttons.

That’s why you were both confused when you stood in Charles’ office - dumbfounded expression on your faces - as he told you that he assigned you to a mission together.

“Oh, no way,” you nearly laughed, thinking it was a joke.

“Yeah, not happening,” Logan agreed. It may have been the only thing you’ve ever agreed on.

“That’s unfortunate for both of you, as I am sending you anyway. You are the only capable people that aren’t already out on an assignment or teaching a class full time.”

“How do you expect us to do it without killing each other?” you raised your eyebrows.

“You are adults. I trust you will navigate that on your own.”

Logan scoffed beside you, his arms crossed over his chest.

You sighed, closing your eyes in frustration and biting the bullet, “what do we have to do?”

“There is a safe hidden in the home of a very wealthy socialite who’s been involved in orchestrating attacks on mutants - injecting them with a serum that replaces their mutation gene with that of a normal human,” Charles began to explain.

Your chest felt heavy. It always made you anxious and a little ill when you’d hear the stories of people who hated you so much that they’d go as far as to harm or violate you in some way, all in the name of trying to rid the earth of you completely or turn you into one of them.

“The only known sample of the serum is locked in that safe,” he continued, “and I will need you to retrieve it. You are to infiltrate a gathering being held in her home, obtain the contents of the safe and return promptly.”

“So, we’re…going to a party?” Logan asked with one eyebrow raised.

“A dinner party,” Charles replied, “and another thing - you must not attend as yourselves. You’ve been invited on the good word of another guest - someone we trust - but you’ve been invited as a married couple to avoid arousing suspicion.”

He must’ve been getting some sick enjoyment from this.

“Married couple,” you repeated, your eyes narrowed, “Us. You want us to pretend to be a couple.”

“What, do I have to like - touch her? I’m not doing that,” Logan piped up.

“Oh, i’m so disappointed,” you rolled your eyes, sarcasm clear in your voice, “Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off.”

“No, you.”

“I said it first!”

“Enough,” Charles interrupted, “you will be attending as Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“Huh,” Logan hummed, “that’s creative.”

“Its inconspicuous,” he replied.

“What are our first names, then?”

“You have creative liberty. I trust you will come up with something just as unremarkable.”

“How about Sid and Nancy?” you scoffed, chuckling a little in disbelief. 

“Does that mean I get to stab you?”

“You’d miss.”

Charles had his head in his hands.

“How about Jack and Jill?”

You both turned your heads to him when he spoke, pausing the back and forth between you that you were sure to continue later. You glanced at Logan and shrugged, indifferent to the names.

“That’ll work,” Logan mirrored your actions.

“Lovely. Tomorrow evening at five. I will have the address ready. In the meantime, here,” he opened his palm and placed two rings on the table, “these are your wedding bands.”

You huffed and took the smaller of the two, Logan picking up the plain silver band. Yours was simple - a false diamond in the middle and two smaller ones on each side.

“What, you couldn’t get me anything bigger?” you joked to Logan, holding up the ring. 

“Oh, you want somethin’ big?”

Your eyes went wide and you elbowed him in the arm, groaning in disgust, “Gross.”

—----------------

Five o’clock came fast, your nerves seemingly increasing the speed of time. You’d made a mess of your wardrobe looking for something to wear that was comfortable, but not too ‘you’. What would a rich person wear to a dinner party? How the hell were you supposed to know?

Some nice pants, a blouse and complimenting shoes would have to do - it was the only thing you had that looked relatively formal. Adding some jewelry made it just a little more convincing. 

You went down the stairs to meet Logan at the front door, dreading the coming hours. You turned the corner and finally saw him, leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He wore a white t-shirt tucked into his jeans, his boots, and he’d traded his usual leather jacket for a suit jacket. He actually cleaned up pretty nice, but you weren’t gonna tell him that.

He heard your footsteps and turned towards the sound. He could feel the sweat starting to form at the back of his neck. 

He’d never seen you in anything nice like that - you never really had any occasions to dress up for - and he hated how much he liked it. Your pants hugged you perfectly, your blouse was buttoned low and you even had on a little bit of makeup. 

“You don’t look too bad,” he managed to comment, opening the door for you.

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you realized aloud, the both of you heading towards Logan’s truck, “You look alright.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Smith.”

He opened the car door for you, uncharacteristically gentlemen-like.

You shot him an odd look and got in anyway.

“I’m practicing,” He explained, shutting your door and walking around to slide into his seat, “can’t have anyone thinkin’ I’m a shit husband.”

“Good luck.”

“Uh-oh,” Logan had an amused expression, his eyes glued to the road as you began moving, “that’s not wife behavior, sunshine.”

“Bite Me.”

He clicked his tongue, “Feisty. Oh - I can use that when people ask about us! I’ll say it's one of your absolute worst qualities that any man would be repulsed by, but that our love is blind.”

You scoffed, “Great, and I’ll get to tell them you spend sixteen hours brushing your hair into cat ears and shed all over the bathroom like an animal.”

“See - now, that one seems a little personal.”

“It is.”

“Just pretend for a night that I’m the man of your dreams, okay?” he asked, “pretend I’m, uh - I don’t know, some celebrity guy you have a crush on.”

You were silent for a second, engrossed in thought, “you look nothing like Hugh Jackman.”

“Who? You know what - sure, pretend I'm him, alright? Just squint.”

Truthfully - and you’d rather be stabbed than admit it - Logan wasn’t far off from who you could picture yourself with. Strong, kind of handsome, good with kids. He was humble, most of the time. He was just terribly annoying and way too cocky.

It wasn’t long before he was shifting the truck into park and yanking the keys from the ignition. You let him open your door and walked beside him up the front steps.

“You ready, Jack?” you teased.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Jill.”

He rang the doorbell and you stood awkwardly, eyes scanning your surroundings. The house was huge - probably only a bit smaller than the mansion - and modern, something probably built in the last ten years. The front lawn was impeccable, as were the marble statues strategically placed between foliage and flora. 

The door opened and you inhaled sharply, trying to prepare yourself to lie your ass off.

“Hello! You must be Mr. and Mrs. Smith! So lovely to meet you, please - come in,” a woman ushered you in, her neck and ears decorated in pearls. You recognized her immediately, Charles having shown you both a picture of the hostess beforehand. You politely greeted her and introduced yourselves, already scanning the room for an emergency exit in case things went sour.

“So,” she continued talking, leading you to sit in the living room with the other mingling guests,”tell me a little about yourselves! John wasn’t very descriptive when he mentioned you. What do you do for work?”

Whoever John was, you silently thanked him.

“Uh, well,” you began, nervously glancing at Logan, “I’m a bank teller.”

Plain, boring, inconspicuous, 

She then looked to Logan expectantly, awaiting his answer. 

“Cage fighter.”

Jesus Christ. You were glaring daggers into the side of his smiling face and he pretended not to notice.

“Really?” the woman in front of you inquired, a hand on her chest. You watched her eyes scan him up and down, landing on the pecs prominent through his shirt. You scoffed out of instinct, faking a cough to cover it up.

��Oh, yeah. Undefeated MMA champ.”

You looked away to hide the scowl on your face when your eyes locked on the vodka bottle sitting on the table a few feet away with a collection of other booze. Bingo.

“Will you excuse me for just a moment?” you smiled politely and walked away before Logan could protest, leaving him to his own devices.

You twisted the top off the bottle and picked up a glass, filling it with Vodka and some soda that was left on the table.You almost walked away with it, planning to keep it in your hands until you felt your nerves subside, until you remembered you were supposed to be a wife. Wives brought their husbands drinks, right? Not doing so would look rude and rude might blow your cover. So, you reluctantly picked up another glass and filled it partially with whiskey, knowing it was something he’d drink. You happened to glance across to the kitchen and notice a neat little rack of spices and condiments on the counter. A bottle of soy sauce was front and center, like a message from the universe, and you giggled to yourself as you snatched the bottle and hid it up your sleeve - this could be a good night if you made it entertaining.

You returned to Logan with both glasses, handing him the one filled with significantly darker liquid. He looked a little surprised but accepted it anyway.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said with narrowed eyes, a look that asked ‘what are you up to now?’

You simply nodded in acknowledgement, smiling at the hostess still standing in front of you.

“She’s a keeper,” he continued, holding the glass up to his mouth, “ always knows exactly what I like.”

You bit back a snicker as you watched him tilt the glass and finally take a sip.

His eyes went to yours immediately.  He pulled the glass from his lips, mouth still obviously full of whiskey and soy sauce. If looks could kill, you’d be long dead.

“Good, honey?” you smiled wide then, taking a sip of your own drink. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly fighting a grimace. He swallowed and nearly gagged, coughing into his fist, “mhm, just a little strong.”

“Oh,” the hostess began, “Jack was just about to tell us how you met!”

A couple of guests had gathered in the same spot, all lingering in a semicircle. Logan was quite the charmer and it wasn’t a surprise that he already had a couple of women gawking at him, hanging on his every word as if any of it was true. 

“Was he?” your tone was shrill but you attempted to appear playful, lightly smacking him on the arm, “Oh, honey, you should really let me tell it.”

Whatever he was about to come up with, you hoped it was not in the same outlandish category as cage fighting. Before you could begin, though, he dismissively waved his hand in your direction.

“No, no - you’re a little forgetful, sweetheart,” his grin was mischievous as he turned to speak to the surrounding guests, “so, it all started with a tshirt competition at a bar where the girls had to - “

“Nope! Nope,” you interjected, doing your best to keep your tone light and shaking your head, “haha - that must have been another girl, honey!”

That earned a few chuckles from the guests around you and you took the opportunity while everyone's attention was on you to try and spin a tale of your own.

“So, we actually met a couple years ago,” you started, mulling over what true details to sprinkle in or if you should make it up entirely, “uh - in a library.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue. You’d been at the mansion for a couple days before you bumped into him in the library while gathering books to try and put together your first lesson plan. You had a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of books in the other - admittedly stupid - but you’d always been careful. Except for that once. 

You had a book open in your arms, resting atop the stack you already gathered. You were walking and reading - again, admittedly not very smart - when you bumped into someone, spilling coffee on both of you and sending the stack of books to the floor with an audible thump. 

“Fuck, sorry -” you began to apologize, finally looking up to the strangers face. It was Logan, of course, though you didn’t know that at the time. You remember thinking he was handsome with his scruffy mutton chops and well groomed hair - until he opened his mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?”

You knew it was partially your fault but were irked by his attitude.

“Dude, you weren’t paying attention either, obviously!” you snapped back, looking down at the beige stain now adorning your white button up.

“I’m not the one who carries coffee and a shit ton of books at the same time.”

“Whatever.”

That was your grand introduction, neither of you even exchanging names.

Logan remembered it about the same way you did, though the version he tells is a little different. He loved to tell people that when you bumped into him, it was because you were so lovestruck that you just walked right into him. The part he always left out, though, was the first thing he thought when he saw you. He’d scolded you before even looking up to see who you were and when he had, he wished he’d reacted a little differently. 

You were beautiful, even with coffee spilt all over yourself. You looked like a girl he’d only ever dreamed of, all the way down to the color of your hair and eyes. Unfortunately, he’d already been an asshole. So, from then on, that was basically your shtick - bickering over little things, calling each other names - all to the amusement of everyone around you. It wasn’t meant to be funny, but it was obvious to everyone else that the kind of teasing you did was only because you had feelings for one another - like two elementary school kids - and neither one of you seemed to know how to approach it. The mask would slip sometimes for either one of you - when he’d place a hand on your lower back, the times he’d managed to pin you to the mat during training - and you’d always find yourself staring at the ceiling that night, overthinking every interaction you’d had until the sun came up. He was never any better off, pacing in his room to try and decipher what the hell it was he actually felt for you.

Anyway, you decided to stick to the real story, minus the part where you insulted each other.

“We bumped into each other, literally, and I had coffee and a bunch of books in my arms. So, I drop the books, coffee spills everywhere - of course. Then I looked up at him, and..” you paused, the truth caught in a lump in your throat.

“And it was love at first sight,” Logan added, grinning down at you, “for both of us.”

His eyes were trained on yours and he continued to contribute to the story.

“The second I saw her, I fell in love.”

He was still looking at you. Why was he still looking at you like that? You were supposed to be husband and wife, right, but he was leaning into it far heavier than you expected. It felt like you were the only ones in the room.

A couple ‘aw’s were shared between guests and you smiled politely at the reminder that you were in fact not the only people in the room. As the conversation switched to another topic and someone else began to speak, you felt Logan’s hand at the back of your head, gently playing with your hair. Your face was pink - he was being too nice.

A short while later, you were sitting on the couch beside him, listening to someone’s drawn out story that you stopped paying attention to after six minutes.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” Logan uttered unceremoniously and stood from the couch. He disappeared into the house and not even a minute later, another guy came to sit in his spot.

“Hey,” he put his arm around the back of the couch, his fingertips brushing your shoulder, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

You looked at the fingers grazing your shoulder and sat forward to shrug them off, “nope.”

He told you his name and you couldn’t have cared any less, deciding to actually tune back into the story being told rather than converse with him. He was alright looking, but his approach was far too off putting. 

“So, did you come alone?”

You rolled your eyes at his question, opening your mouth to answer before he cut you off.

“Cause It looks like it, and I can’t stand to see a pretty girl alone.”

You groaned in disgust, hoping if you were dry enough in your answers, he’d leave you be.

“mhm.”

It wasn’t really an answer to anything, just a noise of affirmation. You hoped he’d get the hint then, but of course, he didn’t. In what would probably be the stupidest thing he’d done that night, the guy moved his arm from the back of the couch so he could squeeze your thigh. Right as you were about to tell him to fuck off, you saw a hand grip his shoulder from behind. Logan was leaning over the sofa, bringing his face a little lower so he wouldn’t cause a scene, his dog tags hanging when he leaned forward. He had a death grip on the guy's shoulder while he used his other hand to steady himself against the sofa. 

“Hey, bub.”

The guy looked a little terrified, to say the least, but Logan didn’t let up there.

“Do you always go around hittin’ on people’s wives? Or is it just mine?”

His eyes were wide and he looked like he wanted to run but that wasn’t going to happen as long as he was in his grip. 

“I-I didn’t, uh, I didn’t know she - “ the guy sputtered, trying to nervously laugh it off.

“Mhm. Hey, tell you what - why don’t you leave my girl alone and maybe I’ll give you a five minute head start to get the fuck out of here.”

He let go of his shoulder and that was enough to drive him away, the guy scurrying to his feet and finding somewhere else to mingle.

You didn’t know why you found yourself smiling the moment he’d said ‘my girl’. You rid yourself of it with a shake of your head, reminding yourself you were there to do a job.

“Hey,” Logan leaned himself down even further so he could whisper, “I gotta show you something, c’mere.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him but got up to follow. He stopped in the hallway in front of the bathroom, looked around to see if anyone would notice you, and promptly dragged you in with him before closing and locking the door. He hit the light switch and you looked around.

“Do you always take girls to the bathroom on first dates?” you teased, crossing your arms.

“You’d have to go out with me to find out,” he remarked, “besides, it’s not like that. Look.”

You watched him get low to the ground to open the cupboard under the sink and you crouched with him, following his pointing finger to the wood paneling in the back. It looked like a fake back - a board that appeared to be the back of the cabinet but definitely had something behind it. There was a sliver of metal visible behind it when you shined your phone’s flashlight.

“I figured we should look everywhere, so while I was in here I was checking it out - saw that. You think that’s it?”

“Could be,” you answered honestly, “that, or it’s some sort of electrical box we’re about to rip out of the wall. It’s an odd hiding spot for a safe.”

“Not really. Think about it - where's the first place you’d look for a safe?”

“Bedroom or office, maybe.”

“Right, and where's one of the last places you’d check?” he gestured to the open cabinet.

“Under…the sink,” you realized aloud, looking between him and the wooden board. 

“Exactly,” he nodded, swiping the contents of the cabinet onto the floor to gain access, “here’s the thing, though - I’m too big to get in there.”

He could maybe stick his head in, but in order to duck under the pipes from the sink, he’d need to have shoulders that were much less broad.

You sighed, knowing what that meant.

“Alright, alright - move. This better be it.”

You reluctantly crawled under the sink and into the cabinet on your hands and knees. You yanked the wooden board with all your strength and it came free, revealing a metal safe.

“Got it! You were right, it’s the safe.”

Logan simply hummed in response, clearing his throat. You figured he’d be a little more enthusiastic. 

Truthfully, he was too busy staring at your ass in the nice pants you were wearing to pay attention. When he heard your voice, he shook his head, as if to rid himself of the thoughts he was having about you so he could think of a response. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but seeing you all dressed up drove him a little crazy.

“Yeah? Is it locked?”

You inspected the metal box, holding the absurdly large padlock hooked around the latch that opened the door.

“Uh-huh. Padlock - we’re gonna need the numbers.”

“No, we don’t. Bring it out.”

You did as you were told, crawling back out with the safe under your arm and placing it on the bathroom rug. It was a pretty small one - probably a little bigger than a basketball.

Logan picked it up and set it on the counter beside the sink. He unsheathed a claw and sliced through the metal latch that held the door closed in one swift motion.

“Well, yeah - that's one way to do it,” you shrugged.

“Easiest way to do it.”

He reached in and took out the small glass vial. He put it inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

“What if it falls out?” you asked.

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Alright, kid,” he sighed, “what do you want me to do with it? ‘Cause i’m sure as hell not lettin’ you carry it.”

You rolled your eyes and looked him over.

“How about you wrap it in your jacket, like cushioning?”

“Fine.”

He reluctantly shrugged off his jacket, keeping the vial in the pocket but folding the jacket into a ball. You hastily replaced everything in the cabinet, safe included, and you followed Logan as he opened the door to step out - only to be met with another guest, her fist raised to knock.

“Oh! Dear,” she chuckled, clearly a little startled. She looked to the both of you, a grin appearing on her face, “Young love, what a gift. Don’t worry, I didn't see a thing!”

You shot her a confused look, chuckling nervously before you happened to catch a glance of your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Your hair was mussed and your blouse was untucked on one side from having to bend up and down. Logan had taken off his suit jacket and you realized what it was she was implying.

“Oh, oh - we weren’t -”

“It’s alright, honey,” she responded as you stepped out, “like I said - my lips are sealed.”

She shot you both a wink, went into the bathroom and shut the door.

“She thought we were fucking in there,” you mumbled, eyes wide in embarrassment.

“Is that so bad?”

You snapped your head towards him, a confused look on your face, “what?”

Logan shrugged, “we're supposed to be husband and wife, aren't we?”

You shook your head in disbelief and decided to ignore him, both of you joining the other guests back in the living room. Dinner was finally ready and everyone took their seats in the dining room. There were a couple of things on the table you couldn’t even pronounce.

“Is that…meat? A vegetable?” you leaned over to logan, whispering behind your hand and nodding towards one of the dishes.

“Hell if I know,” he muttered, “I don’t think I wanna find out.”

You both piled on the few things onto your plates, poking at it with your forks.

“Do you wanna get a pizza after this?” you whispered.

“Definitely,” he replied, pushing around an unrecognizable sludge with his utensil.

“So, how long did you two say you’ve been together?” You both looked up, only to be met with the hostess’ stare. You had never mentioned how long you’d been ‘together’. Her smile was polite but her stare was piercing, as if she knew something she was not supposed to.

“About three years,” you replied, looking to him for back up.

“We got married a couple months in,” he added, grinning at you. Again, he had that look - like he wasn’t just pretending to be in love with you. 

“We were in this restaurant - this little place we go to all the time,” he kept talking, “and I just told her I thought she was beautiful, that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life.”

“Really? I have to say,” she began, sipping from her glass,” for a young couple who got together so quickly, you two don’t seem very affectionate towards each other.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You shot Logan a panicked look, but he appeared unbothered.

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue,” it’s this rule she’s got about PDA. I’d be all over her if I could.”

You hated the way your face became hot. You couldn’t tell if he was leaning into it to be convincing or flirting just to make you flustered. You heard a muffled snicker from somewhere across the table and your eyes shifted to the source - it was the woman from earlier, the one who’d thought you and Logan were getting busy in the bathroom. 

“Can I at least get a kiss, babe?” Logan cooed, a smug look on his face.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“Being a husband,” he replied in a hush voice. 

It all happened within seconds. His hands cupped your face, warm and soft, and he leaned in to plant a kiss right on your lips. It was gentle and you melted into his touch, kissing him back. When he pulled away, you were still stunned, your lips parted in surprise. 

Logan kissed you.

His lips tasted like the remnants of cigar smoke. His touch was nearly intoxicating, like you were drunk off just the way he held you. You inhaled sharply and finally turned your face out of his grip, eyes glued to the table cloth. You had almost forgotten where you were - feeling like the room was spinning - and you let out a nervous laugh.

The topic of discussion moved on quickly and it seemed like any suspicion the hostess had about either of you had dissipated. You and Logan decided to say your goodbyes immediately after dinner, making some excuse about having to wake up early the next morning. When you stepped out and he shut the door behind him, you couldn’t hold your tongue any longer.

“What the hell was that?” you spat, eyebrows knitted. 

“What was what?”

He was completely nonchalant as he continued to walk next to you towards his truck. 

“You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He stopped with you at the passenger side of the truck, standing in front of the door so you couldn’t get in.

“What if I wanted to?”

You swallowed hard. It was dead silent outside, save for the chirping of crickets.

“What?”

“I wanted to,” he admitted, chewing his bottom lip, “I wanted to kiss you.”

You didn't know what to say. He hated you, didn’t he?

“Logan, I - “

“You can’t tell me you didn’t feel anything in there, pretending to be together.”

His voice almost sounded strained, like he was pleading.

“You don’t even like me, you hate me,” you deflected, but he shook his head.

“That’s not true. I never hated you. I figured you’d hate me after I acted like an asshole when we met, so I went with it. I don’t hate you. I think you’re funny, I think you’re pretty - I just never really knew how to tell you that.”

When you only stared in response, he moved aside and opened your door with a defeated sigh. You were still speechless but you hesitantly slid into the seat anyway, letting him close the door. When he got into the driver's side and started the ignition, you couldn’t stop looking over at him.

“So, you like me,” you finally said aloud.

He kept his eyes glued to the road when he responded in a low voice, “why do you think I bother you so much?”

“You pick on me because you like me? Like a little kid?” you couldn’t help the amusement in your voice as your confused expression turned to a smile.

You saw him bite back a smile that mirrored yours, shaking his head.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Well, you’re not too bad, you know, and I guess you’re kind of handsome.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Mhm, but don’t make me take it back.”

The rest of the short ride home was spent in comfortable silence, both of you seemingly trying to figure out where you’d go from there. When Logan parked his truck and got out, he came around your side to open your door. You hopped out and he shut the door for you, but grabbed your hand before you started to walk away.

“Hey, c’mere for a second.”

You let him pull you a little closer, intertwining both your hands. The evening air was chilly and you could see his breath in the air when he spoke.

“Can I kiss you, for real this time?”

You could feel your heart beating fast and you nodded eagerly. The second you did, his lips were already on yours. His hands let go of yours to settle in your hair, threading the strands between his fingers. His touch felt warm in comparison to the cold air and you leaned further into him with your hands gripping his jacket to pull him close. When he pulled away, he rested his hands on your waist and planted another kiss on your forehead. 

“Maybe we could, uh, try again,” he cleared his throat, running his hands up and down your sides, “be nice to each other this time.”

Truthfully, you couldn’t hate Logan, even though you tried. 

You couldn’t hate his perfect hair.

You couldn’t hate his sweet voice.

You couldn’t hate his kind smile.

You couldn’t hate the way he dressed.

You just couldn’t hate Logan Howlett. 

So, you kissed him again, smiling against his lips and letting him hold you as close as possible, almost lifting you off the ground with his arms around you.

“We should probably go inside, huh?” you mumbled when you leaned back, lightly scratching the mutton chops on the side of his face in an affectionate manner. Those were another thing you’d pretended to hate - probably because you were embarrassed to admit you thought he pulled them off well.

“As you wish, Mrs. Smith.”

He held his hand out for you to take and you did, eyeing the ring on your finger.

“You know,” you held up your hand to show him the jewelry, “I think i’ll keep this.”

He grinned, bringing your knuckles to his lips and leaving a chaste kiss, “I think i'll keep mine, too.”

You were both still holding hands when you went inside, blushing like two little kids. You were so engrossed in one another that you didn’t notice Jean and Ororo in the hallway ahead of you as he leaned down to kiss you again. Now that he knew he could actually do it, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll take it your night went well,” Ororo giggled, Jean doing the same. You jumped a little in surprise, covering your pink face in mild embarrassment. 

“What changed? I thought you hated each other,” the latter of the two asked.

“Eh, he’s not so bad,” you teased, shrugging your shoulders.

‘’Turns out, we make a pretty good fake husband and wife,” he explained, “I guess we got a little too carried away with it.”

As the two of you walked hand in hand further down the hall, Ororo elbowed Jean lightly, leaning over to whisper behind her hand.

“You owe me twenty bucks.”

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

A/N: If you've made it this far, thank you sm for reading!! I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep this as is or add smut so I'll leave it how it is and if enough people ask for it, I can make a part two <3 pls reblog and like if you enjoyed/want more and my inbox is always open :)

Edit: here is the link to part 2!

[mel-kusanagi]

mr. radiation king and mrs. atomic queen 🤵👰

inspired by this j frederick smith painting/illustration:

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax ] | sylus

— summary: sylus drags you onto a mission with him for old time’s sake. and you slide into familiarity, almost like there isn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driving you apart. — cw: explicit sexual content, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, mentions of blood, profanity, mentions of pedophilia, mentions of human trafficking, minor character death, men with guns, reader has a shitty past, self-destructive behavior, reader doing her assassin duties, a little romance sprinkled in between, mdni — notes: inspired by mr. & mrs. smith. thank you so much for reading, lovely! [ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 5 | part 6 ] — now playing: cariño - the marías — obligatory tags: @withering-dream @an-ever-angry-bi @midiplier @abbylee0710 @picnicthegarden @karespocketboyfriends @chrissy26 @delulusimps @glamouroki @midiplier @celestemcbrim @everywherenothere @ari-shipping-stuff @beewilko @alexhenituse @nim-rose @moonlight-inthe-sea @sunnyf4lls @himiko-omikami @inkonparchment @sillyfreakfanparty @regandoesthings @im-in-different-universe @ravensheart18 @alyyylog @corvid007 (sorry if i missed anyone.)

He wanted to make love. You wanted to fuck.

He wanted you, all tender and pliant beneath him, his name hinged in your throat. He wanted to worship you, to uncover the erogenous zones of your body piece by piece, and to expose you like forgotten treasure buried deep beneath rotting ruins. 

But you reasoned you didn’t have time. You were in a hurry—a hurry for what, exactly, you couldn’t pinpoint. 

Perhaps you were rushing to feel something, in a hurry to please and to feel useful as you tore his shirt from his shoulders, his body rigid and searing between the thick of your thighs. Pleasing is all you know, serving embedded in your chemical makeup, no room to pursue your own desires. 

Your mouths came together so abruptly that your teeth clashed. The counter of his kitchen island was glacial and tacky beneath your thighs. You’d barely divested yourself of your coat before you drew him into an ardent dance of tongues, his abs twitching beneath the artful crawl of your fingers. You tugged at the give of his pants, quietly yet vehemently demanding he take them off. He drew back, wild-eyed and hair mussed, eyes drowsy with want.

“We should slow down,” he sighed, hot and open-mouthed where your shoulder met neck. Blistered down to your collarbone where he nipped, hands roosted on your hips, thumbs soothingly cruising over juts of bone. 

It made you sick, his tenderness. You weren’t glass and didn’t deserve to be handled like it. 

You chuckled something husky and bitter, tossing your thoughts to the wolves. Your fingers raked through his hair. Grabbing the scruff of his neck, you brought his mouth back to yours, trapping any further words of protest in his throat. 

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want complications. Just wanted to be driven by sensation, tucking your inhibitions into the darkest hulls of your mind. 

You’re a bit of a masochist. You enjoy punishing yourself for misdeeds you’ve constructed in your mind—having feelings for your boss, secretly envying your friend. Your use is slowly running its course, and you’ll one day be thrown to the wayside. 

You figure you don’t deserve kindness. Sensitivity. You don’t deserve a slow love, the steady creep of an orgasm bubbling in your stomach, evoked by the sluggish grind of hips, words of affirmation whispered like the sweetest supplication into your ear.

No.

You deserve to be used, lusted after. You’ve spent most of your adult life with that mentality, your past having engraved that under your skin. You’ve been a weapon for as long as you can remember. A tool. Loveless. Which is why, when the gentleman who’d frequented Lux wanted to take his time with you, you declined, opting for something more ragged and intense. 

He took you hard and rough on his counter at your behest. Left you open, bare, laughing, battling to get your breath under control. You stayed the night to humor him. Let him hold you as he stroked the sweetest compliments of all with ghostly fingers into your skin as the stars in the sky gave way to the gentle spill of sun rays. 

You crept out of his arms and apartment once he sank below the misty shawl of sleep. He’d inquire about your whereabouts later—ask why you didn’t stay. You rarely did. Tonight, you felt weak. 

You’d ignore him until you next needed him. When the urge to forget sunk its talons into your chest, curling around your heart and squeezing. 

You had a mission to prepare for. Sylus’ name lit up your notifications, cryptic as ever with minimal words. You’d deal with your feelings later. 

There was work to be done.

Besides, you didn’t even remember his name. 

How could you face him when you’d uttered someone else’s name while he was deep inside you?

—

You pay for your escapades in the form of pretty petals of blue and green blooming on your neck the following night. Bite marks. 

You rub at the raw skin for the nth time, a hiss forced through grit teeth. Maybe he was a little too rough. Concealer works wonders, coupled with your glamor. Still doesn’t take away the sting, but you suppose the pain is your punishment for being weak.

You stretch, yawning. Shift until the leather of the car’s backseat squeaks. You sense his eyes on you in your periphery, boring down to the marrow. The fine hairs littering your body stand on end. You maneuver again, leant against the door, cheek propped on your knuckles, avoidant as ever.

You try to focus on the scenery unfolding beyond the car’s windshield. Powdery stars spilled over a deep violet canvas. The red glare of brake lights every so often as you approach another vehicle. Try to focus on the driver’s fingers readjusting on the steering wheel, on the fixed hum of the engine, and how it intermingles with the gentle bumps on the road. Home in on your breathing and the thunderous drum of your heart. He’s been watching you like this since you eased into the car—Sylus. 

You get this creeping suspicion he wants to say something. Like he knows all your secrets, having perused through them like they’re the yellowed pages of a book. Nah. He wouldn’t know what kind of night you had. He wouldn’t care. You’re a grown woman, capable of making your own mistakes and reaping the repercussions of them. He has other things on his mind—other people. 

Another yawn escapes you. You curse yourself for not grabbing coffee on your way out. Too busy pouring yourself into your dress, painting your face with makeup, and meticulously tucking your weapons away. 

“Long day?” says Sylus. You jolt the slightest bit at the grit of his voice. How it breaks up the silence and sets your stomach alight with dragonflies. Fabric shifts. His exhale is weighted beside you, thigh brushing yours as he spreads his legs, so very big in comparison to the backseat. 

You force a smile, smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress. “You could say that.”

You feel the shift in his gaze. There’s a whisper of bitterness in his tone when he next speaks. “Maybe you should spend less time pursuing your hobbies at night and more time sleeping.”

This time, you do turn. Cut your eyes to him, mouth tugged up with confusion. His expression reads passivity. Mouth scrawled into a rigid line, scarlet eyes fixed to yours, unrelenting. Something’s off about him tonight. You sensed it in the brevity of his call when he phoned you to outline your mission—you’d be accompanying him tonight to a banquet. A glittering, amenable doll on his arm, smiling pretty like murder wasn’t rotting your mind. You’d lure your target away to be snuffed out like a candle’s flame. Slip out without drawing suspicion, and the world would be rid of another shit stain. 

He quirks a brow, wordlessly challenging you. No customary smirk comes this time. Just the air weighted with something tense. Your throat clicks when you swallow. You opt for obliviousness, laughing it off despite the gnarling feeling in your gut worming its way up your throat. Despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to fire back. You’re reading too much into things. He’s being his usual, detached self, and not because he knows you were up to no good last night.

Right?

“Maybe I should.” 

The tendons in Sylus’ neck pull, jaw tensing. For a moment, he looks like he wants to keep prodding. But he instead averts his gaze when the driver chimes in, announcing you’ve arrived at your destination. 

The venue’s tawny spotlights dance over the windshield as the car crawls to a stop. People donned in expensive formalwear line the sidewalk, animatedly chatting as they await entry. You take some time to admire the historic, art deco architecture before your door opens, the crisp evening air spilling in and fanning over your skin. 

You look up when Sylus offers you his arm. His expression softens considerably, contrasting the wet cat he was moments ago. There’s a hint of a smile twitching his lips. He almost looks boyish, and you can’t help taking him in. He’s dressed to the nines, tucked in a three-piece tux, bow tie meticulously tied, hair swept up into a pretty, alabaster coif.

Your lips spasm. You peel yourself from the seat, gathering up the trail of your dress. Twine your arm with his, allowing him to shepherd you through the throng of people. It almost feels like old times, their voices petering to a hush when they catch sight of you. They part like a school of fish as the pair of you make your way up the steps leading to the venue’s doors.

“Stay frosty,” you joke to dispel your nerves, standing before the heavy, double doors, waiting for the attendees to open them. 

Sylus snorts, his arm flexing beneath the possessive clutch of your fingers. He pinches the bridge of his nose. And the exasperation in his voice makes your eyes crinkle with mirth. “Please, never say that again.”

You slide into familiarity thereafter, almost like there wasn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driven between you.

—

She said something curious to you when you arrived at the airport earlier—Ms. Hunter. You had the time to spare. You wanted to ask why she requested you drive her instead of Sylus. But you didn’t push it, figuring she had her reasons. Maybe she didn’t have the energy for his nagging, his fretting. She should be so lucky. 

She’d be gone for a couple of weeks, swept up in the grueling task of protecting researchers in the mountains from Wanderers. A part of you felt sorry for her. Worried. But she was a big girl. If she could smack Sylus around in Kitty Cards, she could dodge a few teeth and claws, no problem. 

“Need help?” you asked over your shoulder, the SUV’s engine humming idly at the airport’s drop-off point. 

She smiled at you from the backseat. “I got it!” she chirped as she fetched her oversized suitcase from the floor. 

She rounded the vehicle, bowing to your level at the window. Up close, her smile looked more mischievous than usual. Smile lines bracketed her honey-dipped eyes as she murmured, “Be nice to Sylus. He’s trying, ya know?” 

You pinned her with a quizzical look, your mouth working around a retort. She left before you could get a word out. You watched her slip through the crowd of travelers milling about before she was out of sight, leaving you to mull over what the hell that meant.

—

It starts to make sense as time passes what she meant. 

When you’ve gorged yourself on conversation and champagne, nestled between politicians, CEOs, socialites, and people of the like. Fickle, spewing gossip you can’t be bothered to keep up with. 

Sylus rarely leaves your side, only slipping away to chat up old colleagues or to procure you more bubbly. Always has a hand, scorching and possessive, at the small of your back, or an arm slung about your waist, drawing you into the safety his body exudes. He doesn’t correct anyone when they address you as his, giving you a subdued, amused look when you work your mouth into amending them.

You titter shyly, toying with your necklace. Maybe this is a part of your cover—pretending to be his significant other, all pretty and docile at his side. You won’t complain. It’s nice being this close, feeling wanted, and being envied in a different way. Not for your body, but for the man wrapped so willingly around your finger. 

It’s felt like ages since you’ve last done a gig together, so you’ll enjoy his attention, even if it’s all a ploy, while you can.

The evening slides by in a blur of twinkling chandeliers and laughter. 

Sylus draws you into a dance, and the pair of you are swallowed up by the mass of swaying couples and the string orchestra. Your cheeks ache with a smile, your limbs and inhibitions loosened by the champagne. He holds you to him as you waltz, his body rigid and devastating against yours, languorous fingers curled around your nape. He hasn’t stopped smiling, a boyish dimple cratering his cheek. Hasn’t released you from the scarlet stir of his eyes since, and you smoosh your face against pectoral muscle, hiding the warmth splotching your cheeks.  

His heart thrums something steady beneath your ear. Beneath the expensive pleat of his tux. Breaths even, his bewitching scent furling in your chest like smoke. You let him lead you about the glittering marble tiles of the dance floor, feeling like you’re in a dream. Perhaps it’s the bubbly that’s got you toddling through a dreamlike fog, but a fraction of you starts to think, just for a second, you’re more than a cover, and your boss isn’t so detached, shoving you to the back burner in favor of someone else. 

Your breath is sharp when he suddenly peels away, expertly twirling you. You laugh as your dress flutters around your ankles, nearly tripping you up. He dips you as the music dampens, the beautiful scenery tilting and blurring. Swathed in the tawny lighting of the banquet hall, you make out his features, something akin to affection loosening his expression, and the smile slips from your face. 

The world fades away, and only the pair of you seem to exist in this moment. He pulls you closer until your vision fills with red, fringed by dark, wispy lashes sweeping over cheeks mottled pink. His lips purse as his gaze slides to your mouth, breath stirring your baby hairs. You hold your breath as he eases in, appearing like he’ll kiss you, and you’re stricken by something hot. Your mouths but a hairsbreadth apart, he whispers something that makes your heart sink to your feet.

“It’s showtime.”

The magic of the moment falls away as he steadies you. A pout worms its way onto your face as Sylus tangles your fingers together, a chuckle swelling in his chest. He leads you back to your table, still holding your hand, even long after you’ve returned to your seats and the event’s host takes to the stage to introduce a guest speaker.

—

Nikolai is easy to manipulate. To bend to your will. Of course, he is. All men are if you know how to approach them. 

It helps that your glamor erases a few years off your face, giving you the appearance of a young woman barely experiencing the world. His favorite. It only takes you fluttering your lashes, laughing pretty, and flattering him to get him to take you back to his hotel room.

On the surface, he’s a passive, middle-aged man who looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly. But beneath that facade, he’s a scourge waiting to be wiped out. He’s as despicable as everyone else you’ve bumped off, auctioning off girls to nefarious men under the guise of selling “harmless little dolls.” Moonlighting as a franchise owner, using his stores as a ruse to smuggle young girls through the channels of the underworld. 

You take that personally, having once been on the auctioning floor yourself. Memories of a past painted red flood your mind, and it makes your stomach churn with disgust. You were lucky then, having been turned into a murderous tool rather than a fucktoy. So, it makes sense why Sylus was so eager to get you on this mission. Like he knew you’d take pleasure in watching Nikolai’s life drain from his eyes, his blood caked up under your nails. 

Your smile twitches, threatening to screw up into a grimace as you walk at Nikolai’s side, arm in arm. He’s red-faced and cheery, having gorged himself on champagne and merriment at the banquet. You would’ve snuffed him out if four bodyguards didn’t flank you. Not like you can’t take them, but you’d rather complete your mission as quietly as possible without rousing suspicion.

You just have to keep up the act long enough to isolate him so you can make your move. He’s been ruffling Onychinus’ feathers, claiming to be in cahoots with its notorious leader. Sylus, of course, doesn’t like that, not wanting to be associated with the likes of him. This is where you come into play, his ever-faithful watchdog, ready to kill at the drop of a hat.

Nikolai ushers you into his hotel room, where three more guards stand in good form in the living area. You acknowledge them with a seductive smile, allowing one to frisk you. Your smile grows tenfold when he finds nothing, clearing his throat and straightening his tie as if he’s fallen prey to your charm. Someone should be fired.

Nikolai leads you into his room thereafter, the double doors shutting and locking with finality. You offer him a massage, to which the portly man happily accepts, stripping down to his boxers and plopping onto the king-sized bed. He has a thing for pretty, young girls barely scraping the surface of legality. You’ll see to it he’s ushered into the afterlife by one.

Your hair waterfalls from its updo, warm as it spills onto your shoulders when you pull your hairpin free. You ruck up your gown, climbing over his body to roost yourself on his backside, legs bracketing either side of his waist, heels digging waning moons into your thighs. You’re sultry as you ensnare him in small talk, fingers kneading over layers of fat and muscle. Nikolai hums appreciatively, seemingly thrilled to have your company. Just the way you want him.

Your fingers tip-toe up his spine, thumbs smoothing over the notches of bone there. He exhales beneath your ministrations, remarking how magical your hands are. You huff a laugh as your fingers curl around his jaw, the opposing set burying themselves in his hair. 

“Massaging isn’t the only thing my hands are good at.”

With a fluent twitch of your wrists, his neck snaps, the sound barely heard above the gentle croon of the jazz music he queued up beforehand, accompanied by the exhale of a life dying out like a flame. 

You pull his eyelids down, easing off his lifeless body. Stare at his corpse with a faraway look in your eyes, smoothing some hair away from his face. Like he’s a sacrifice to the little girl inside, screaming for revenge. You straighten your dress when the bedroom doors rattle, Nikolai’s men frantically calling his name. Shit. Maybe you weren’t as meticulous as you thought. 

Quickly, you survey your surroundings for a way out. Spot the sliding doors leading to the balcony, and you dart between them, the wispy curtains grazing over your fevered skin. A wintry kiss of wind greets you as you lean over the rail, hair ruffling, and you take in the bokeh of lights glittering on the street below. 

You’re at least eight stories from the ground, so jumping is out of the question. You could very well fight your way out, but Nikolai’s guards are heavily armed. There’s no guarantee you’ll make it out of the fray unscathed. 

You lean back against the rail, adrenaline spuming through you, watching the bedroom doors pulse as his guards kick and shove against them. Fuck! Tugging a knife from the garter belt tucked beneath the slit of your dress, you prepare for a fight, body taut, nerves flaring. 

Just when you’ve resolved to get your hands dirty, something feathery touches your bare shoulder. Gentle and curious in its embrace, and you whip your head around to its source. You’re met with a smoky tendril, speckled with claret orbs of energy, swirling ominously before you. You peer over the railing, a familiar shock of white blurring into frame. There’s no mistaking the upward cant of his lips, and the crinkle of scarlet-spun eyes from this height. He motions to you with two fingers from the sidewalk, wordlessly beseeching you to come down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, a nervous expression stretching your features. Heights have never been your forte, but you suppose beggars can’t be choosers. “Fuck it,” you relent, gathering some courage and climbing onto the rail. 

Nikolai’s men finally break through, and as they dart in, spraying the room in a hail of bullets upon seeing Nikolai’s corpse, you fall into the feathery cradle of Sylus’ Evol, a yip ripped from your throat. 

You float to the ground like a feather, falling into Sylus’ arms. He looks down at you with something unguarded shining in his eyes, using his Evol as a shield when Nikolai’s men pelt the pair of you with a barrage of bullets.

You lose yourself in the moment. Your lips part, lids heavy with something you can’t quite place. 

“Took you long enough,” you chide to dispel the tension brewing between you, trying to catch your breath.

“I’ll be more punctual next time,” Sylus answers with a chuckle, voice rumbling against your body as he casually walks away from the scene, refusing to put you down, even long after he’s warped you to safety. 

rising action | masterlist | climax 2.0

[fancyschmancyopinions]

MAYA ERSKINE at the 4th Annual Academy Museum Gala on October 19th 2024 wearing CAROLINA HERRERA

I really loved this look from Maya. Another celebrity dressed by Carolina Herrera that looked amazing.

There’s so much to like about this look. The color was amazing on Maya. Most impressively, this busy dress didn’t overwhelm Maya. I also loved that she chose to keep her beauty look and accessories minimal, so they weren’t competing for attention. I thought this was a very underrated look.

[yutarot]

1999. l.mk

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ husband!mark, assassin au, romance, enemies to lovers

wc. 10k

warnings. violence, suggestive, lots of fighting, they literally spend half the fic tryna kill eachother idk, mention of alcohol, guns, angst, heavily inspired by +82 pressin and mr and mrs smith (2005)

synopsis. after accidentally nearly killing another assassin, you both get assigned the task of taking eachother out. but what happens when the assassin you’re after turns out to be a lot closer to you than you had ever expected? do you ignore your feelings? or do you listen to your heart, risking both of your lives in the process.

notes — hiii!! i rlly enjoyed writing this it was sooo much fun. i sorta got this idea after seeing the mv for +82 pressin and ive been wanting to write something based on mr and mrs smith for a whileee so it sorta worked perfectly in my head. i hope u enjoy!!! (p.s. thank u @sungbites for being my writing motivation hehe love u)

it’s a night like all the rest, darkness falling through the window like a shadow with nowhere to go: lost, helpless. you’ve always liked night-time, enjoyed the tranquility of the silent hours as thoughts pass through your mind with no clear destination. you lie there, a moment of peace stilling within you as you slowly begin to fall into slumber. 

your peace is cut short, all tranquility lost when a voice from beside you arises. ‘babe, can you turn off the light please?’

you roll your eyes in a secretive protest before turning to face your husband, a smile now plastered on your face. 

‘of course, honey.’

you hate mark. every single moment of every day, you spend each waking hour questioning yourself of why you ever married him. whether in detestation or disgust, you hate him. but your marriage isn't based on love or hate, so you do what you must: you hide it, conceal your hate behind joyful smiles and the blissful art of routine. after all, you’re good at keeping secrets.

abruptly, he rolls back over to face away from you and you do the same.

‘goodnight, babe.’ he murmurs.

‘goodnight.’

you don’t acknowledge each other again, drifting to sleep in nothing but your own mind.

a night like all the rest. 

each morning is always the same: wake up at 7, cook breakfast at 7:30, wave off your husband as he leaves for work at 8, always accompanied by a quick kiss as he walks through the door, and each morning you suppress your hatred just as much as the last. this morning was no different.

as you sit at the dining table, your breakfast laid out before you, you both eat in silence. this is how it’s always been, this marriage, days of simple routine and empty discussion. you don’t know anything about him, not really. yes, you know where he grew up, what movies he likes, what his favourite kind of bread is, but you don’t know what goes on in his mind. evidently, you're okay with that, because it means that he doesn’t need to know what goes on in yours. it’s a marriage of mutuality, an understanding that your life is your life, and weirdly neither of you question it. neither of you question if the love is fake, or if it just isn’t there at all.

however, there’s one, tiny detail which you know you’ll never share with him, a side of your life untouched, undisturbed. on the outside, you’re the symbol of a perfect housewife, compliant, clean and kept, staying home during the day whilst he’s out at work, tidying the furniture and cooking up dinner by the time he gets home. that’s all he sees, thats all he knows. but what he doesn’t know, is that you’re none of that, not a single bit. 

after finishing your breakfast and placing down your cutlery, you look up at your husband. 

‘delicious, sweetheart, just like always.’ he says, reaching for a napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. he always did sound patronising when he compliments your cooking, but you give him the benefit of the doubt; its the only thing, besides your looks, that he can compliment you for. it's the only talent you show him.

you feign a smile in response, ‘i know just how you like it.’

‘you do.’ he grins back.

you’re not sure how much longer you can keep up this act, pretending like you’re in a happy marriage, and you wonder how much longer he can do the same. but you have to, you’ve done it for the past four years, you can suffer the restriction of a few more. 

all for the sake of concealment.

mark gets up from his seat at the table, ‘i had better go, baby, i can't be late; we had this huge data crash at work last night, and there’s lots to fix.’

‘of course, honey. i'll make your favourite for you tonight.’ you lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek as you hand him his jacket, waving him out the door. 

its tiring, the act of deception. you watch as his car reverses off of the drive of your house before driving around the corner. you wait a few moments, making sure he really is and truly gone out of your sight. or more importantly, you're out of his.

and once you are, your real day begins. 

untying the apron around your waist, you walk steadily and with purpose, climbing the stairs and walking into the room which you call your closet. only it's not only a closet, not really.

pulling back a few items of clothing, you expose the keypay at the back of the room, pressing in the passcode. 

0417. the date you got married. 

the lock springs open, giving you access to your secret, and highly personal safe.

as always, laid inside are two items of significant importance.

your work phone, and a gun. 

you pocket the gun before picking up the phone and selecting the first number in your phone book. 

‘agency.’

you hold the phone to your ear, it doesn’t even ring once before the other end picks up; they expect your call, just as they do each morning. 

‘i am now alone, will be there in 15.’ you speak, before hanging up and placing the phone in your other back pocket. 

the agency is a grand, foreboding building, dark shadows cascading between its outer walls and falling over its glass panels like a shroud. you walk inside, scanning your keycard through the main entrance before making your way to the front desk.

‘yn lee.’ you recite your name. ‘im clocking in.’

the receptionist nods. ‘mrs K wants to see you in her office.’

‘what for?’ you ask. 

the receptionist shrugs, implying that whatever your boss wants you for is confidential, and therefore, important.

after a quick journey to the 10th floor via the elevator, you make your way through the white lined corridor, the shiny black marble at your feet causing each step to echo, bouncing off every wall as you step further and further towards the door looming ahead of you. 

you knock the door twice before she calls for you to come inside, which you do so quickly, closing it behind you. 

she motions for you to sit down, her short, black and perfectly cut hair framing her face and emphasising the gap between her neck and the shoulders of her pristine, grey suit. 

you sit, looking at the woman in the desk in front of you as she speaks. 

‘it’s an interesting life you lead, agent lee.’ she says, head tilting to the side. 

presuming she’s talking about the faux relationship with your husband, you respond quickly. ‘i’d get lonely in that house by myself.’

‘that’s not what i'm implying.’

oh?

she speaks again, standing from her desk as she does so.

‘this job; you’ve been a level 2 agent with us for four years, and despite countless attempts at recruiting you for level 1, you’ve always declined. why is that?’

you take a moment to ponder her question, to truly decipher what she's asking of you. 

‘i'm comfortable.’ you reply. 

‘nothing about this job is comfortable.’

she’s right. your job is to kill. being a level 1 just means you have to do it alone, estranged from working in groups, harder jobs and more secretive clients. you stay silent as she continues. 

‘the reason i wanted you here, mrs lee, is because our agency has discovered an almost identical rival agency in the market. same jobs, same asking price and same level agents. what i mean, in short, is that we now have competition, and that doesn’t happen by coincidence.’

‘you think someone’s leaking intel to a rival agency?’

‘not think, know.’ the red of her lips twist into a scorn of seriousness, as if shes trying to intimidate you. 

‘and you think i have something to do with it?’ you ask, disbelief briefly cascading over your thoughts. 

she sits back down behind her desk, reaching for a drawer and shuffling through files and files of paper. 

‘quite the contrary.’ she replies, and you look at her in confusion before she continues. ‘actually, you're one of the few that i know don't have something to do with it.’

finishing her sentence, she slides an envelope across the desk, nodding for you to take it. 

she gets back up from her desk, looking you directly in your eyes, a shift of tone in the air around you.

‘once i've left the room, you’re going to open the envelope, mrs lee. i have two armed gunmen outside the door, under my command, waiting for you to leave. think of it as a little test of what that envelope contains. and, agent lee?’

you don't say a word, looking back at her to continue.

‘this time, i'm not asking.’

her smile is sickening. but you have no time to reproach her before she's out of the room, leaving you with nothing but the cold envelope in your hands and the ever-impending threat of death which falls over you. 

after your limited amount of time, frozen in your seat, alone in your bosses office, your mind finally goes back to the envelope in your hand. you open it, pulling out the contents inside. your mind is a state of anger; in your hand lies two pieces of paper, one, a picture of a man in his late 50’s, a cool, silver moustache lining his lip, and one, a letter, addressed directly to you. 

agent 1270.

with this letter, i have enclosed a portrait of your first job as a level 1 agent. configurations confirmed him a regular gambler at the artemis casino on 34th street. don’t fuck this up. if you do, i won't hesitate to get rid of you; we have a lot on the line. 

K. 

p.s. my gunmen are inpatient. 

moments after you even get a chance to finish the last word of the letter, two men in black suits burst through the door of the office. you roll under the desk, pocketing both items as gunshots ring out around you. 

‘shit.’ you hiss, reaching for the gun in your back pocket. with no time to waste, you emerge from the side of the desk, aiming your gun at the head of the man furthest to you, using your momentum to swing your heel swiftly into the closest man's chest as your first bullet flies through the air. with one man down and the other one winded on the floor, you take your opportunity, walking up to him as he struggles to breathe. 

you kick the gun out of his hand. 

‘why is she doing this? why make me a level 1 agent?’ you ask, the gun pointed towards the man below you. 

he gasps for air, shaking his head. with nothing but raw frustration and pent up hatred at the woman forcing you to do this, you pull the trigger. 

anger boils within you, years of working for the agency and never have you stooped so low as to have been forced to kill one of your own. she’s testing you, seeing what you can do, and you’re going to find out why.

you find your way to elevator, pressing the button for the 5th floor. checking your freshly ironed suit for any specks of blood or evidence of your previous fight, you step out of the elevator. you’re instantly met with the level 1 offices, people in suits everywhere, some sat at desks and some engaging with conversation. everyone notices you, but noone says a word. its a very private industry, the industry of assassination, no questions are asked and none are answered. 

you walk over to what looks like the main desk of the floor and the woman checks you in, showing you swiftly to your new office. the walls are a pristine white, with a glass desk and an illumination of light that's almost blinding. you set down the documents from K’s letter, examining the mans face. you don't know who he is, you never do, and it’s in your best interest not to care. all that matters is getting the job done, and under current circumstances, it matters more than ever. since, unlike before, it's not only the hidden identity from your husband that's on the line, but as is your life. 

you’re not sat at your desk for long, K’s threat looming over you. 

you check your watch. 3.14pm, exactly 14 minutes since the artemis casino opened its doors for the evening. tonight, you’ll make sure that someone will never leave them. 

after being assigned your own personal assistant, who you've learned to know as agent 4916, you request only three items for your plan to work smoothly and quickly. a dark red satin dress, a vial of poison and it’s respective antidote - not that you expect it to go wrong, but you can never assume the best in a job like yours. even so, you've never once failed a mission, and you were not about to take the risk of failing on the only mission where you don’t give yourself a backup plan; that’s what the knife strapped to your thigh is for.

you thank your assistant with a nod as you step into the taxi you ordered, covering your shoulders with a thick fur coat you acquired secretly from the evidence room. 

‘where are y’ headed?’ the taxi man asks, puffing an exhale of cigarette smoke out of the window. 

‘artemis casino, please.’

the man grins, ‘you a golddigger, huh?’

you roll your eyes, ‘im married.’ men like this disgust you, always assuming the worst of women. if only he knew. 

‘what does he do?’ he asks. it’s at this where your confidence is knocked; you can't exactly say ‘i dont know.’..

so instead you pause, waiting until the car comes to a halt outside the front of the casino before stepping out, replying back with a sly yet dismissive response as you pass him his money through the front window. 

‘none of your business.’

the casino is a lot busier than you had hoped, groups of old men and rich couples sauntering amongst the tables. there’s an indistinct mumble of voices, layering perfectly over the chime of jazz music, not enough to drown it out, but just enough to make you listen out for the instruments. 

you keep your mind fixated on the picture of the man you're looking for, but as you wander around, a sharp eye scanning all the faces, you spot him, sitting and smiling cruelly in a circle around a poker table. you label this as a perfect opportunity; there’s nothing like the emotion of overconfidence to blind a man's senses. 

walking over, you lean a hand on the back of his chair. 

‘that’s interesting.’ you say as you peak over his shoulder at his cards. 

you catch his attention as he looks up at you. 

you continue, ‘i won’t expose you,’ you giggle, feigning emotion comes natural to you now, ‘don’t worry.’ continuing your act, you walk off and head straight over to the bar. 

just as you planned, he walks after you. 

‘what are you playing at?’ he asks. you ignore him. 

the bartender looks at you expectantly, waiting for your order. 

‘vodka. neat.’ the bartender nods but the man beside you turns to you in disgust. 

you laugh at his reaction before catching the bartender's attention, ‘make that two.’ you say.

the man speaks up. ‘wai-’

‘unless.. this man can't handle his drink?’

he stops talking. 

after a moment of silence the bartender brings you your drinks. 

you stand up, your drink in hand. you’ve done this many times before and each is as flawless as the last. 

you walk around him, slowly, and as if unplanned, you trip, your drink flying straight across his blazer, soaking its expensive lining with the sweet stickiness of the clear liquid.

he stands up, a suppressed rage emerging from within him. 

‘oops,’ you say innocently, ‘here, have mine.’

he nods in reply. ‘leave it on the side.’ he says, before storming off to the bathroom to clean himself up. 

perfect.

it's then that you set the final action of your plan into place, it's then that you slip the poison into his drink. 

not wanting to be with him when the poison takes action, you hurry yourself out of view, climbing to the second balcony floor and placing yourself with perfect vision of the bar you were just at, the drink sitting there, a note you placed reading ‘bottoms up, pussy. i'll be watching’, tucked under the glass in attempts to urge him on. 

you watch for a minute, then two, and when it gets to the third, you begin to grow anxious. 

but it’s not the extent of time that makes your worry flutter; it's the sudden man sitting at the bar, at the exact seat where the glass is placed. 

the wrong man.

you can’t see the stranger's face, only the sharp outline of his back as he slumps over the drink, reading the note you placed under it.

you watch intently as he looks around, his face still under too much shadow to properly decipher his features. the shine of his all black suit glimmers from the point of his shoulders as he reaches for the drink. your stomach drops.

shit.

you stand up in vigour as his lips touch the glass. 

you were about to kill the wrong man. 

you were about to kill yourself. 

clenching your jaw with an abandonment of your mission, you stealthily follow the man from the bar as he clutches his stomach, breathing heavily as he swings himself into a bathroom cubicle. you stand outside the door, listening to his laboured breaths and the sudden bang as his body slumps over the toilet bowl. you can’t see him, but you decide suddenly that you can’t let him die, you can’t fuck up this job and kill the wrong guy, you’d look like a fool.

you slide the antidote under the door of the cubicle with your foot, hearing a breathless, pained whisper of ‘the fuck?’ from the other side, but you don't stick around to exchange pleasantries, not when you nearly killed the man. 

you turn to leave, but just as you take a step towards the main door of the bathroom, something on the floor catches your eye, something that the man had dropped in his haste to reach the cubicle. 

a business card.

you pick it up, slowly peeling it from the floor.

your face grows stern.

dread envelopes you. your legs grow weak, feeling as it tries to weigh you down.

on one side is a logo you know all too well, the rival agency your boss had warned you about. 

on the other side, one word and one number. 

agent 1999. 

the man you had nearly killed was another assassin.

an assassin from a rival agency.

and he had just fucked up your job. 

you’ve been sat at your dinner table in silence for the last ten minutes and mark hasn’t come home yet. part of you is relieved, not having to uphold your character as his wife under all the stress that you're under after failing your mission. however, there’s a part of you that’s waiting for him, the abruption in your daily routine throwing you off, despite how much you hate him. 

that’s when you hear the front door click shut, mark coming through to the dining room.

‘honey? what are you doing awake?’ he asks, setting down his briefcase, the tie to match his brown, tartan suit loose around his neck, top button undone. he looks dishevelled, whatever had made him late had ruined him.

you stand up, rubbing your eyes out of exhaustion. ‘you can’t just come home late like this.’

‘im sorry, baby. a lot happened at work, okay?’ he says, walking up to you. he leans forward to catch your eye contact. ‘some idiot sent me the wrong file and the whole network crashed.’

you nod, pushing in the dining table chair as you prepare to leave the room and go to bed. 

‘goodnight, yn.’

‘goodnight.’

you can’t help but feel that something is off. 

like usual, you wake up at 7, cook breakfast at 7:30 and wave your husband off as he leaves for work. each morning is the same, a list of routined actions you perform, a pretend life you wish you could lead. only this morning, you fear it could be your last. 

as you tread down the white hall of the 10th floor of the agency, eventually standing at your bosses door in anticipation, you knock. 

she calls you in and you shut the door behind you. there she sits, black bob swaying above her shoulders and thin, red lips pressed into a straight line of discontent. the bullet holes on the desk from yesterday still remain, a reminder of what your boss had promised would happen to you if you had failed to complete the job.

not only had you done that very thing but to make matters even worse, you had also accidentally held an attempt of assassination on a man from the rival agency.

‘good morning, agent lee.’ her voice is stern, deep.

you nod, taking a seat. 

‘you know why you're here? yes?’

you nod, not daring to say a word.

‘then i believe you understand the vitality of the situation we are now in because of your mistake.’

again, you nod. 

‘words, mrs lee.’ her voice raises, causing you to sit up in your seat.

‘yes.’

she nods, crossing one leg over the other. ‘good. then you shall be pleased to know that i'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself.’ 

your mind is going a million miles an hour, thoughts racing each other in a swirl of confusion. the perplexion must have been evident on your face as K begins to explain. ‘the agent that intercepted your mission is agent 1999 of the sparta agency. we have reason to believe that he is the source feeding our information to his agency, that’s how he knew you were going to be there.’

it all makes so much sense yet none at all. why would a random stranger pick up an unattended drink at a casino and drink it? unless..

a thought sparks in your mind. ‘you think he drank the vial on purpose?’

a small grin peaks at the corner of K’s upper lip before she continues. ‘he gambled that whoever was on the mission would have had an antidote on them. sparta agency aren’t to be messed with, agent lee, they will use any means to intercept our missions, and with this intel they are our biggest liability.’ she rises from her seat, walking to move over to her wall-panel window, scouring the view that lays beyond it. ‘after this, whoever agent 1999 is will most likely be given the task to kill you; they can’t risk the fact that you might know what he looks like.’

her back is still facing you as you reply. ‘but i don't know what he looks like, i didn’t see his face.’ 

she turns in your direction, a smirk which you haven’t seen before now plastering her features. ‘and he didn't see yours either. that’s why i'm giving you the task of taking him out, it’s a race of who can find and kill who first, if he’s smart, he’ll always be where you are, it only makes your job easier.’ 

to take out a criminal is one thing, but to take out a highly skilled assassin is another. you stay silent, conflict in your mind overwhelming you. you love your agency, and you love your job, but you fear that this task is nothing but fated suicide.

K steps back to behind her desk, sitting again to face you as she speaks. ‘if you do this, mrs lee, you would have regained my approval.’ she shuffles through the files on her desk, looking up at you through her brow at her next words. ‘not just anyone can take out two of my men with just a pistol and two bullets. i'm trusting you with this. you have 24 hours to complete the job.’

you check your watch, it’s 10:45 am.

12 hours.

12 hours to take out a high class, heavily skilled assassin. 

she really was testing you.

you waste absolutely no time deciding what you’re going to do, rushing to your office and calling for your assistant. 

‘give me whereabouts on agent 1999 of the sparta agency, i want all the information you can find.’ you say, and she nods before scurrying out the room. 

you’ve never questioned a kill before, knowing nothing but their faces, merciless in all aspects. but there’s something incredibly ironic about this one, something that you’ve never had to deal with before.

he’s just like you. 

your assistant returns and you sort through the printed files until you find his personal profile. like the rest of your jobs, you expect to see his face, printed in the top corner, usually a CCTV picture or a mugshot if you're lucky. but much to your surprise, you’re faced with nothing but a grey square, a question mark placed in the middle, almost mocking your lack of knowledge.

you look up at your assistant, a brow raised.

‘there’s no record of what he looks like. not a trace.’ she says.

you nod, a forced sense of acceptance. this man knows what he’s doing. 

continuing to search the files, one catches your attention: his previous kills. 

671. 

‘he uses a revolver..’ you murmur to yourself. 

this fact, this small, minor detail, changes everything; revolvers are exceptionally loud guns. meaning almost each and every one of his kills would have been done in private, in basements, elevators.

if you want to lure him in, get him somewhere he will follow, you need to find somewhere private, somewhere you can confront him one on one. 

that’s when the perfect idea hits you.

you grab your car keys from your desk drawer, pocketing them in the inner pocket of your blazer. a motel, somewhere far enough from the city but somewhere close enough that he will follow you there. 

you’re just hoping that, right now, he’s sat outside your agency waiting for you to leave, waiting to follow you home. 

but you’re not going home. not today. 

your suspicions are correct when you reach the border of the city, a blacked out mercedes maintaining its speed a few cars behind you. you know it’s him, agent 1999, you don’t need to see his face to be sure.

you pull up to the first motel you see, the lack of cars in the parking lot signalling a perfect place for the job you're about to undertake.

before he can swing into the motel behind you, you step out the car, sprinting to the reception. 

you push open the door in eagerness, rushing to the front desk. the receptionist looks up upon hearing the bell on the door ring at your arrival.

‘one night. please.’ you say before sliding a $100 bill across the desk. ‘keep the change.’

the receptionist looks at you in disbelief as she hands you a key with the number 8 engraved on it. 

you waste no time, rushing round the corner to the stairwell. it’s just as you make it past the line of sight that you hear the reception bell ring, that agent 1999 has come through the front door. 

your curiosity is screaming at you to peek around the corner, to find out who this man is that you’ve been given the task of killing before he kills you. but you refrain, your urge to survive overwhelming you as you begin to climb the stairs, past room 6, past room 7 and past room 8. instead, you go to room 9, placing a gamble that it’s that room that the receptionist will assign him. 

you don’t move, don’t waver from your stance outside his door. 

not even as you hear the door to the stairwell open, not even as you hear the slow, antagonising echo of his footsteps.

not even as he comes around the corner.

fear. 

not the kind that paralyses you, but the kind that makes you regret. that’s what you feel when you see him, that’s what you feel when you look down the barrel of his gun: fear. 

but it’s not the gun that scares you.

it’s who's holding it. 

the assassin you’ve been hired to kill, the man who's been hunting you down, is none other than the man you had least expected it to be.

your husband..

you lock eyes with him, but you see none of his usual warmth, his usual empathy. all you see is the eyes of the man trying to kill you. 

‘mark.’ you breath, raising your gun at him, a mirror of his pose.

slightly, ever so slightly, you see him flinch as you say his name. he’s holding back. 

‘babe.’ he says, sarcasm lining his tone. ‘why aren’t you at home?’

a smile of annoyance lines your lips, eyes rolling. ‘could ask the same of you.’

you’re ever so aware of the guns you have pointed at each other. his eyes never leaving yours, he speaks again. ‘i have important business to attend to.’

of course you do, you think to yourself. 

its a pity you never liked him, never got to know him. atleast now, you understand why.

‘as do i.’ 

suddenly, gunshots blast through the air. 

amidst the confusion and fear of who shot who, you run to the door labelled ‘8’, turning the key and quickly running inside. but your attempts to shut mark out are quickly abandoned when he swiftly places his foot between the closing door and it’s frame.

you jump back, reaching in your back pocket for the small knife you stashed earlier, hiding around the corner of the room. he kicks the door open, standing in the doorway, gun still in hand. he walks in slowly, treading lightly as he scans the room with his aim. 

but just as he gets into the room, you stop him, grabbing his arms from behind him and twisting the gun out of his hand. 

he attempts to kick you off his back, mind increasingly aware of the knife you have placed to his throat.

hesitantly, he turns, putting his hands up. 

once you’re face to face, you take no time in tackling him. he grunts, the wind knocking right out of him as he hits the floor. 

straddling his waist, both of your faces are emotionless, void of any of the pretend love you were used to maintaining.

‘did you know?’ he grunts, breathless, eyes glancing slightly at the blade you have pressed to his throat. ‘did you know it was me?’

you push the knife closer to his skin and he winces. 

‘answer me, yn.’ his voice is hoarse, struggling to speak. 

you take a deep breath, deciding to tell him the truth. 

‘no.’ you say, but curiosity peaks in you again, and this time, you’re taking no chances at missing out. ‘did you?’

his jaw clenches.

with a sudden sense of energy, he kicks you, causing you to fall on top of him, your knife going slack in your hand as he knocks it to the side. he flips you both over in the process so that he’s now above you, taking a hold of both of your wrists. 

‘no,’ he says, anger lining his words. ‘well,’ he chuckles, ‘i knew one thing.’

you furrow your brows. 

he continues, ‘you’ve always hated me. i’ve always been able to see it in your eyes. you detest the thought of ever marrying me.’

you go to speak, but before you can reply, he cuts you off. 

‘i wouldn’t worry, it’s a mutual feeling.’

with that, you reciprocate his anger. all those years of marriage, of putting up with a man you hate in order to give yourself a sense of security, all of it, has come down to this. pushing him off of you, you crawl to his revolver, laid out across the other side of the room. 

your hands gain purchase to it, lifting it up to point at him. 

your finger rests on the trigger. he’s in perfect shot. there’s no one around, you would complete your mission and regain your boss's trust back. but somehow, something stops you. 

as you look into his eyes, the deep brown hue of his pupils looking at you in disgust and anger, you snap. 

you just can’t do it. 

because whilst his eyes may be looking at you in a new light, it’s those same eyes you have grown accustomed to seeing everyday. nearly every other set of eyes you see, looking back at you, you only get to see once before they’re closed forever, no one being granted the experience of ever viewing them again. but his, you’ve always known that, no matter what, you’d see them at the end of the day, that you’d wake up to them after every nightmare. 

you just don’t think that you could let them go. 

that you could let him go.  

he notices your hesitation, a hint of a smile now making it’s way to his features.

‘you can’t do it, can you?’

you stay silent, finger still hovering over the trigger. 

‘over five-hundred kills and now you’re hesitating.’ he taunts. 

you stay still, shaking with anger. ‘you’ve done your research.’

‘had to make sure i knew what i was dealing with. although, nothing could have prepared me for this.’ he laughs, as if this whole situation is funny to him. 

‘okay then,’ you say, lowering the gun. turning it in your palm, extending the handle out towards him. ‘kill me.’

he looks at you, a stern expression on his face, as he takes the gun from your hand. 

but what he’s not expecting is for you to put your palm to his shoulder, making him sit himself down on the bed as you climb to straddle his lap. 

he looks up at you, a mix of hatred and annoyance lining his features. slowly, you take his left wrist, guiding his hand to hold the small of your back. his eyes travel to the curve of your waist before looking back up. even slower, you take his right wrist, the one holding the gun, moving it so that the barrel presses firmly against your temple.

you let go of his wrists, the index finger of his left hand drawing circles on your skin, something he used to do years ago, in the age where you used to cuddle up to each other to watch movies. then, you accepted it because you had to make eachother think you loved the other. now, he’s doing it because he knows you don’t.

his face is close enough to yours now that you see the golden specks of his eyes as he looks at you, they swim in the pool of colour, drowning in the light that reflects off of them. 

gun still pressed to your temple, mark lets out a deep breath. ‘you really want this?’ he whispers. 

barely there, you nod, eyes falling to his lips. 

he chuckles, hand at your waist now tracing its way up to the back of your neck. 

his eyes flutter as he leans in. it's smooth, gentle but so incredibly angry as he kisses you. in all the years of your marriage, you’ve never kissed mark like this, never shown him enough emotion to be able to connect this deeply with him. your mind soars into a place of nothingness, beyond your world of killing and death, but it’s quickly brought back when you hear a sudden click from the pressure at your temple. 

the gun.

you pull away, marks face a look of irritation as his eyes travel between the empty gun and you.

he had tried to distract you. 

he had tried to kill you.

you slap the gun out of his hand before climbing off of him, dashing for the half open door. 

you hear his footsteps clamber after you, chasing you down the motel hall. sprinting down the stairs, knowing he’s behind you, you keep running and running and running. 

but it's not the fear of death that's urging you on, it’s the fear of knowing you didn’t have it in you to kill him.

and he did.

you didn’t go home to cook dinner that night, the image of his eyes on you scarring your memory, the feeling of his lips invading your mind. 

instead, you go home with nothing but one intention. 

this time you’re not going to let him distract you. this time you’re not going to let him leave. 

his eyes were not going to stop you. 

driving down your street, an invigorating anger consumes you. a resurgence of betrayal floods your actions as you press down on the gas pedal as though your life depends on it. all because now it’s evident that if you don't kill him, he will kill you. 

pulling your car sharply around the corner and onto your driveway, you step out the car, pistol in either hand. you scan the building with your eyes, the warm exterior of your house now a cold shell, a place for death.

someone, tonight, is going to die here, and you will not let it be you. 

as you creep around the house towards the back door, silence swarming you, you see a sudden flicker of light from the kitchen. 

there he is, usual home comfort clothing, usual messy hair. to him, you’re not a threat; he’s seen it first hand, witnessed your hesitation. 

but not anymore, not after he had tried to kill you. you won’t let him take your life away from you anymore than he already has. 

you slowly walk towards the back door, twisting the handle to pop it open, but just as you do, the kitchen light switches off. the entire house turns to black. 

he knows you’re here. 

you walk inside, past your immaculate kitchen, past the stairwell. but it’s when you get to the living room that you hear a shuffle amongst the furniture. 

and you’re right next to the light switch. 

you reach your hand towards the switch, inches away from turning the light on before a hand clasps around your wrists. you twist, shooting blindly at the figure behind you, an attempt to defend yourself. 

‘nice try, honey.’ you hear his voice whisper from beside you. 

you turn again, trying to gain an idea of where he is, but before your eyes can focus, a rally of gunshots explode at the wall beside you. unfortunately for mark, he misses, similarly blinded by the darkness surrounding you, but fortunately for you, the fire of his revolver illuminates from the barrel, signaling exactly where he’s positioned from across the room.

moving before you can even think, you run towards him, launching yourself in his direction. you meet the hardness of his shoulder as you knock you both onto the floor, rolling away from each other. you attempt to regain your balance on your feet, but a sound from across the room stops you in your tracks: the chilling swipe of a knife being drawn from the kitchen drawer.

mark has never deviated from his selected weapon before. 

he is desperate.

still unable to see each other, you speak out as you eventually stand up. 

‘have you ever considered couple’s therapy, sweetie?’ you taunt, hoping a joke would distract him as you crawl across the room to find one of your pistols. 

he laughs in reply, ‘with you, or the fake wife i’ve been married to for four years?’

‘i have no idea what you're talking about.’ your voice is sweet, an innocent persona you’ve been willing to upkeep. 

his voice sounds closer, raspier. ‘you know, i always wondered why you hated me.’ he says, the sound of his words circling you as you freeze. ‘i thought, maybe you knew what i did for a living, that you despised me for it.’ he stops walking. ‘but now i know that you really do just hate me.’

with that, he lunges in your direction, circulating his arms around you from behind, knife held firmly against the front of your neck. you feel his breath on your cheek, hear his heartbeat. 

and it’s racing.

‘you won’t do it.’ you say, fear consuming you. 

you feel his lips twitch into a smile from beside you. 

‘you’re naive, baby.’

‘then do it.’

there’s a moment of stillness, mark’s breath halting, his heart still pounding. 

the pressure at your throat lingers, but it doesn’t increase. 

instead, it’s the silence that speaks volumes.

the knife drops to the floor, clattering at your feet, his arms still enveloping you. 

he turns your body by your shoulders, and the stillness of the room allows your eyes to focus.

there he is, hair dishevelled as he looks down on you. it’s almost impossible to tell, but amongst the flood of darkness you think you see a hint of a smile in his eyes. 

he looks down at the floor, his arms falling to his sides. 

‘im sorry, yn.’ he says. 

you furrow your brows in confusion. 

‘wh-’ 

but before you could ask what he means, you feel the warm embrace of his arms around you, head falling into his chest as he pulls you towards him, a hand running through your hair. 

you stay like that for a moment, basking in each other's comfort, memories of the start of your marriage flooding back to you. 

it’s now that you realise the extent of your fear, it's now that you realise what you really feel. 

it’s not mark’s eyes that reel you in, not the warm brown or the golden specks that you urge to drift away with, no, it’s just him. 

the man you have despised for all these years, for this entire marriage, is the man you don’t.

before you could have it in your heart to figure out why, a high pitched screech blurs around you, a whistle you both know all too well. 

‘yn!’ mark pleads, pulling your wrist towards him as he ducks behind the wine cabinet, its bronze structure serving as the perfect shield as he holds your body towards him. 

you don’t know why, but you trust his embrace.

as if perfectly timed, the hot surge of the explosion traces your skin as the kitchen falls to ruin, the cabinet protecting you both from the heat of the blast. it’s only a small explosion, erupting only a meter within itself, but your heart pounds at the nature of it.

you look up at mark as you pull away from each other. 

‘that wasn’t me-’ you begin, but a shock in mark’s eyes stop you from talking.

you turn, facing the direction of the explosion. 

emerging within the rubble of your kitchen wall, is a figure. 

the smoke conceals them, hiding the details of their features from you. 

but as the second figure emerges from the dust, you recognise their silhouette almost immediately. 

agent K. your boss.

‘fuck.’ mark mumbles to himself as he holds an eye contact with the first person so extreme that it has you questioning. meanwhile, you do all you can to avoid K’s glare, feeling her eyes burn into your skull.

both yours and marks. 

K and the man you don’t recognise both stand in what’s left of your kitchen, eyes trained on the proximity of you and the man beside you.

you don’t dare to speak first. 

‘agent 1270. agent 1999.’ K begins, breaking the silence. 

you check your watch, fear and terror consuming you as you read the steady pace of the clock hands.

10:44 pm. 

it’s been exactly 11 hours and 59 minutes. 

you’re completely and utterly fucked.

K continues, ‘there's a little someone i would like you to meet.’

after her cue, two men in black walk towards you, dragging a half limp man between them,  black cloth over his head as they place him on his knees ahead of you. 

after receiving a nod from K, one of the two men reach for his hood, lifting it off his head and revealing the terrifyingly familiar face of the man it belongs to. 

he smiles, his silver moustache smiling with him. 

it’s him, the man you were supposed to poison when you had accidently poisoned mark instead. 

mark clenches his jaw beside you, hands digging in his pockets as he glares at the man in front of him. 

and suddenly it all pieces together. 

your mind draws back to your conversation with your boss.

‘it’s a race of who can find and kill who first.’ 

that is what she told you when she gave you the task of killing mark, that is why she gave you the job. 

because he was set to kill you too. 

you were set to take out eachother.

‘this was your plan all along.’ you say, eyes flickering between K and the stranger beside her, completely ignoring the man as he gets dragged away again out of sight. ‘this is what you’d hoped for. you knew, this whole time, what you wanted.’

mark looks at you, and you can see the pieces falling together in his head. 

K looks angry, livid even, but it only adds fuel to your flame, so you continue.

‘there was never a rivalry between our agencies, was there?’ you ask, not waiting for the answer; you already know what it will be. ‘there was never any competition.’

K’s anger slowly morphs into a smug look of distaste as she begins to speak, slowly walking towards you. 

‘mrs lee, do you really think i would have assigned you such a task? you, an inexperienced solo assassin set to murder a gambler at a casino?’ her eyes search yours. ‘it was all under the plan i had constructed. i instructed you to slip poison into the gentlemans drink, under oath that if you fucked up i would get rid of you, and agent H here,’ she points at marks boss beside her, ‘was to instruct agent 1999 to take a sip of the drink, reasoning it as an interception of rival plans and promising him an antidote he wasn’t going to receive. killing both of you in the process.’ you feel the anger in mark shift beside you. ‘what we didn’t expect, however, was for you to give it to him yourself. so, by all due means, we had to improvise. if we couldn’t take you out, then you would have to take out each other.’

by this point, K is directly in front of you, the scent of her navy suit filling the air around you with an aroma of sweet spice. 

but as you look into her eyes, you decide that, really, you’re not scared of her. 

you peek at mark beside you, his attention elsewhere, trained on his boss as he remains across the other side of the room, a smug look on his face.

mark speaks up. ‘why? why go through all that trouble to kill us?’ he says, directly aimed at his boss.

agent H comes forward, until eventually, he is side by side with agent K. 

your boss smiles, ‘because marriage is a dangerous sport, agent 1999.’

your heart thumps in your chest, your skin crawls.

she knew. 

she knew everything. 

‘a distraction.’ she sneers, ‘a liability.’

you don’t say anything, you can’t.

‘and though you liked to pretend you hated it, mrs lee, i knew, truly, deep down, there was a vow more important to you than any job you could have been given.’

the silence is deafening, scorching the air around you. 

but its not K that finishes the sentence, it's the voice of the man beside you, the voice of the reason behind all of this. 

he’s breathless, but the words are laced with nothing but raw honesty as he whispers them, a realisation sparking from within him.

and now he’s finally aware.

‘till death do us part.’

it’s only after those words are uttered that the whole world breaks loose. 

shots erupt from wall to wall, glass smashing around you as you follow mark, his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. 

you both burst out the door, his hand letting loose of yours so that you can sprint your way over to mark’s car. 

‘get in!’ he yells at you from the driver's seat, but your mind betrays you, a plan of strategy forming in your wits.

‘hang on.’ you yell back at him and with little time to spare, mark rolls his eyes.

he rolls down the window. ‘we don’t really have time for this, yn.’ mark grunts through his teeth, anger enticing him to just drive off without you, to let you die. but he can’t, not like this.

you ignore him, legs close to giving in as you run to the keypad on the gate to your driveway. urging mark to drive through, you press in the numbers, closing the gate before climbing over, jumping into his car on the other side.

‘go, go, go.’ you yell, gunfire belting off the metal of the cars exterior and you shut the door.

skidding the car round the exit of the street, the rubber of the tyres producing a thick layer of smoke behind you, mark calls over to you, ‘what did you d-’

but before he could finish his sentence, your entire house explodes in a massacre of flames. 

you grin at him in succession, ‘self destruction code.’

he laughs back at you, ‘you’re crazy.’

‘i know.’

as you begin to gain speed on the highway, mark sliding the car skillfully between the cars around you, you start to notice three other cars doing the same behind you, gaining speed, and the familiar black tint of each window signalling who they belong to.

‘shit, they’re after us.’ you wince, mark looking in the rearview mirror and cursing at the sight. but before he can suggest anything, he peeks over at you, watching as you reach under the seat and find yourself a set of machine guns.

noticing his questioning look, you turn to him, ‘what? that’s where they are in my car, so i could only guess.’ you shrug.

he laughs, in awe at this new version of his wife, ‘i think i can get used to this side of you.’

‘you’d better.’ you reply, before reaching up at the sunroof and pulling it across, making a gap for you to emerge out of. manoeuvring yourself so that you're kneeling on the centre console of the car, you push your upper body out the top of the car, aiming the gun at the cars chasing after you. 

beginning to fire your guns, aiming for the cars’ tyres and successfully stalling one of the drivers, you seem to start to lose your balance.

‘mark!’ you call. 

‘you okay, baby?’ he yells back, noticing your struggle.

you roll your eyes. ‘you’re driving like a coward’

‘you’re kidding, right?’

you look down at him, peeking your head back through the sunroof. ‘let me drive.’

he sighs in acceptance before you reach your legs over to his side of the car, swapping places with him. 

but mark has better ideas. 

‘open the trunk.’ he demands, picking up both machine guns from the passenger seat and climbing to the back. 

you press the button, the trunk opening up and giving mark a full view of the cars behind him. 

you speed up the car, weaving through the traffic in an attempt to divert their bullets. 

‘it’s too busy, babe, i can’t aim like this.’ he yells back to you. 

‘hang on.’ you call as you speed past cars until you find a junction in the road. you turn the car, slipping across it and nearly flipping the car in the process. 

‘holy shit.’ mark yells, clinging onto the handle on the car roof.

you laugh, ‘sorry.’ 

now with a clear aim of the cars behind you, mark crawls on the backseat, shooting desperately after them.

you begin to grow eager, listening as mark wastes all the bullets you have at your disposal. that’s when an idea begins to form in your head, an impossible yet incredibly daring plan. 

amidst all the chaos, you call for him again. ‘mark!’

‘yeah?’ he says, ducking behind the seats to avoid the other cars’ oncoming gunfire, panting in exhaustion. 

‘you got any explosives?’

mark’s head tilts, ‘under your seat. why?’ 

you reach under your seat, grabbing the grenade and passing it back to mark. 

‘i need you to open the left door at the back.’ you yell, and he does so, other hand holding on by the seat belt to keep himself upright. 

you continue, ‘when i tell you to, throw it out that door.’

‘shit, okay.’ he replies, leaning back against the seat, wincing in pain at the strength to keep himself going. 

noticing a straight length of road up ahead, you ready your hand on the car’s parking brake. when you gain enough speed, you quickly turn the steering wheel to the left, forcing the car to a stop in the process. in a whirl of gravity, the car spins on its side as the cars behind you are forced to stop. it's then that you call for mark to throw the explosive. 

a bright white light erupts from beside you, a hot breeze brushing past your skin.

the cars go up in flames, both of your bosses inside them. 

it's over.

everything is over.

after a few moments of tranquility, mark is already outside the car, pulling you from the driver's seat and bringing you to your feet. 

‘you okay?’ he turns to you, eyes searching yours in a second of sincerity that you’ve never seen from him before. 

it’s cruel, the way he looks at you, as though nothing has changed, as though you're still that same innocent wife you once were. the thick atmosphere of reality struggles to set in between you as you look back at the damage you’ve made.

both physical and not.

‘they’re gone’ you whisper, ‘it’s all gone.’

he feels everything you feel, he always has, every thought, every emotion, all of it. so he does what he knows he also needs the most, as he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you in warmth. he knows you're hurting, and for once in his life, he has the power to stop it. 

side by side, you walk. not a word is uttered, not a thought exchanged. you don’t need to, you both understand. it’s bittersweet, but yet terribly foreboding, so you don’t say a word. 

you had managed to find yourselves in a nearby town, not a care where you had ended up, home no longer a fortified place, destroyed and abandoned. you stand, complete yet broken, at the front of the town's local church, looking up at the grand design of its wooden doors. 

it’s as if you both had gravitated here by some external form of fate, woven into your lives, repeated like a mantra, forcing back to you everything you had seemed to have forgotten. that’s how you find yourselves where you are now, feet facing each other as you stand at the altar at the front of the church hall, the echo of the stone walls reflecting your silence. 

for once in your life, you look into his eyes knowing that they’re his.

‘till death do us part.’ you whisper, and you know K was right; you do mean it.

he smiles back at you, dimples showing.

‘till death do us part.’

mark looks at you, really looks at you, a softness in his features and a new found sincerity in his heart. 

it was at that exact moment that you realised why you had hated marrying mark lee.

it was attachment: something so incredibly forbidden yet increasingly enticing. all you wanted, all you really wanted, was to love in honesty, but it wasn’t mark that you wanted to love.

it was agent 1999. 

two weeks later 

the room is plastered in an ugly hue of grey, carpet stained and window forcing a breeze to flow through the curtains. mark sits beside you, listening to the question of the woman before you. 

‘so, what made you both want to come here for couples therapy?’

mark turns to you, a smirk lining his lips. you smile, trying to conceal your laugh.

‘i guess you could say we kept a few secrets. isn’t that right, mark?’

he looks at you, eyes wide and heart full. 

‘something like that.’

[spencerreiddddd]

Jealousy.

Gist: Your called on a case and the leading chief of the police department seems to be very smitten with you, Spencer doesn’t like this one bit.

“He’s been staring at you the entire briefing, is he not self aware?” A voice whispered in your ear causing you to slightly turn your head to your right to look at Spencer the owner of the voice.

“Who has?” A small confused frown developing on your face.

“Mr. Mustache over there.” Spencer said a small cocky smile forming on his as he eyes you while you turn to look at the man who Spencer claims has been eyeing you. As you turn to look at him he’s already looking at you, he flashes you a small smile before averting his gaze.

You turn to look back at Spencer.

“You mean officer Smith?” You whisper not trying to disrupt the briefing Rossi was giving on the current case you were called to take in Florida.

“Whatever his name is.” Spencer grumbled causing you to chuckle slightly.

“Now if I didn’t know any better I’d say someone is jealous.” You smirked looking at him teasingly.

Spencer grew pink in the face as his ears hummed a light red color at the fact you called him out.

You and Spencer had been dating for almost 3 years already. You both kept your relationship private the team knew and if anyone asked you’d tell them but you both didn’t go around flaunting your relationship.

“I just don’t like the way he’s looking at you.” He whispered looking away from your teasing smile.

“You’re adorable.” You said as Rossi ended the briefing and everyone got up ready to leave the room.

“I have to head to the bathroom really quickly, wait for me here so we can head out together?” Spencer turned to look at you as he grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder.

“Yeah baby.” You smiled as you grabbed your file folder and put your bag over your shoulder.

Spencer smiled and walked out of the room.

On the way out the room yourself you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder.

Turning around you were met with officer Smith, or as Spencer would say Mr. Mustache due to the very well groomed 90’s style he had going on.

“Oh hello-.” You said a little surprised.

“Hello Ms. Y/N, sorry for stopping you but I just wanted to say I’m a big fan of your work.” Smith said sheepishly a small nervous smile forming on his face as he talked.

You smiled softly at him.

“Thank you very much, it means a lot.” You said nicely causing his eyes to glisten.

“Your books are very eye opening and are what inspired me to join the police department and serve my city, so it’s very nice and an honor to meet you.” Smith said stretching his hand out for me to shake.

As you shook his hand you felt a familiar arm place itself on your hip.

Looking to the side to see Spencer with a serious face next to you.

“Hey I’m back.” Spencer said smiling at you.

You nodded “Well I have to get going, it was very nice to meet you.” You said nicely giving smith a small wave as Spencer guided you out of the room.

“Yeah…” smith responded as he watched you leave.

Unknown to you Spencer had looked back and threw Smith a look that any man knew to mean “stay away.”

Sorry I’ve been gone for so long life has been BRUTAL. That’s all I’ll say…so here’s a small happy story for you guys🫶🏼