#mr. and mrs. smith series

[spocktaculartea]

baby it's an episodic show

it's called a series ARC

[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

[zanephillips]

DONALD GLOVER Mr. & Mrs. Smith 1.06 "Couples Therapy (Naked & Afraid)"

[emmynominees]

paul dano as hot neighbor in season one of mr. & mrs. smith

primetime emmy award nominee for outstanding guest actor in a drama series

[dandelionjack]

alright so is anybody going to mention the fact that this guy is dressed like the fifteenth doctor? because i am. i am bringing it up. we know for a fact he’s wearing this costume in the miami 50s cinema episode, which is the episode that the cartoon features in

pink bowtie. silly. cheerful to the extreme. likes to dance. just like the “dream lord” was whimsical, bitter, acerbic and self-loathing, and wore a bowtie too — an exaggeration of 11’s most prominent character traits. an explicit foil/parallel/alternate self that exists to highlight all your worst habits

there’s also the fact that alan cumming, who voices Mr Cartoon Dickhead over here, was at one point in a shortlist of actors to play the Doctor, and has featured in another episode in 13’s era — one where he played yet another character explicitly stated in-text to mirror the doctor in some shape or form (king james the witchfinder who dedicated his life to fighting what he perceived to be evil)

all i’m saying is, a cartoon guy who realises he’s fictional and desperately tries to break through the fourth wall of the silver screen … well!

[notfernintheslighest]

i love bitches who’d rather literally die than talk about their feelings

[briabooknerd]

Mrs. Smith's Spy School for Girls

Power Play

Double Cross

Lola Benko Treasure Hunter

The Midnight Market

Beth McMullen

[gabbyp09]

[admireforever]

Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2024)

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Anime comparisons to non-anime content that I’ve seen:

Konosuba —> It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Spy x Family —> Mr. and Mrs. Smith / True Lies

One Piece —> Looney Tunes

Chainsaw Man —> Scott Pilgrim

Monster —> Hannibal

Attack on Titan —> Dune

Black Clover / Mashle —> Harry Potter

Code Geass —> Game of Thrones

The Promised Neverland —> Chicken Run

DanDaDan —> Regular Show

(Feel free to add any other comparisons you’ve seen)

[spicyvampire]

Okay, now I'm waiting for the Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005) thai gl adaptation from Englot, Mrs. & Mrs Smith, in the summer of 2026, this is not request, it's an order

[spocktaculartea]

mr. and mrs. smith was great, y'all are digging for reasons to be mad

[saecookie]

Doctor Who — The Matrix Resurrections

Neil Patrick Harris as the Toymaker and the Analyst Jonathan Groff as Mr Smith and Rogue

[emmynominees]

michaela coel as bev in season one of mr. & mrs. smith

primetime emmy award winner for outstanding guest actress in a drama series

[whoreviewswho]

Madam! What year is this? - Dimensions in Time

As fan-legend has it, the original plans to celebrate Doctor Who’s thirtieth anniversary were much grander in design than Dimensions in Time. The narrative has dictated that 1993 was somewhat of a dark time to be a fan of the series with the last serial to air, Survival, having wrapped up in December 1989 and the only signs of new material coming from the popular but controversial New Adventures line of novels and the ongoing Doctor Who Magazine comic strip of which nobody took particularly seriously. Although fans had no idea at the time, hope was soon to be in sight for the series as negotiations were already underway behind closed doors between the BBC and Amblin Entertainment for a big screen adaptation of the programme. 

That is not a story for today, however. Instead, our attention turns toward the BBC Enterprises arm who were quietly taking note of the healthy sales figures the Doctor Who video line was racking up. Following BBC One's decision not to commission an anniversary special for the show's thirtieth birthday, BBC Enterprises took it upon themselves to commission a direct-to-video exclusive. The fabled Lost in the Dark Dimension was set to star Tom Baker, reprising his role as the Fourth Doctor, in a dark and twisted timeline caused by an insane human scientist wherein his incarnation never regenerated and he, along with his companions Ace and the Brigadier, have to set things right and restore the proper timeline. 

While the Seventh Doctor was set to bookend the story, it was clear that the four remaining Doctors would be relegated to minor appearances. Nonetheless, the special was to be ambitious, including many monsters and all of the surviving Doctors onboard in some capacity. Negotiations, however, did not go well with particularly pushback from Jon Pertwee and Colin Baker. As the interest and scope of the project grew, BBC Drama were eventually drawn in and the promise of a BBC One broadcast was soon to follow. A month before filming, the film was abandoned after being deemed too expensive to justify making. 

The idea of producing a full special for television continued to be bandied about but these plans were eventually halted for fear of damaging any exclusivity deals the BBC was hoping to make with America. In fact, it was future producer of the American TV movie, Philip Segal, who requested the shut down of the special.

And speaking of producers, this is where our old friend John Nathan-Turner re-enters the arc of Doctor Who's history. Nathan-Turner, producer of the programme between 1980 and 1989 and now producer of the associated VHS line, met up with his friend and colleague Nick Handel during the preparation of 1993's Children in Need charity night. Aware that the broadcast would fall closely alongside the anniversary date, Handel floated the possibility of a Doctor Who short as part of the programme's lineup. While initially uninterested, JN-T eventually accepted deciding to bid farewell to the franchise for good and, this time, on his own terms.

Allegedly, JN-T was less than enthused by the possibility of a Doctor Who sketch as such and, instead, suggested a thirteen minute story stretched over two nights. As per Handel's request, JN-T penned the script himself with a student, and fan, he was acquainted with named David Rodden. This marked the only occasion in his decades long association with the show that JN-T ever had an official writing credit. Handel's suggestion to implement the then cutting-edge Pulfrich 3D effect was taken onboard and Roden developed an outline for a script with the Seventh Doctor and UNIT taking on the Cybermen. JN-T turned down this proposal and suggested a multi-Doctor event in the vein of The Five Doctors. Handel, meanwhile, insisted upon a further edict to a further new element to generate good publicity. JN-T suggested the story be a crossover with soap opera Eastenders and Handel agreed, getting the Eastenders team reluctantly onboard. 3-Dimmensions of Time was then conceived almost as it aired only with the inclusion of the Master as the primary villain. When Anthony Ainley proved unavailable to reprise the role, it was instead allocated to the Rani, as played by a returning Kate O'Mara. This would be her third, and final, onscreen appearance as the character. I don't have much to say about her in any of the analysis below so I'll just mention that she is great and one of the biggest highlights of this whole thing. What a performance.

Dimensions in Time aired on BBC One on the 26th and 27th of November 1993. Alongside a notable publicity push that included a Radio Times cover, the first in ten years, the story rated as highly as 13.8 million viewers. This proved to be the single strongest figure of JN-T’s entire stint as producer (and, therefore, of any story featuring Peter Davison, Colin Baker or Sylvester McCoy to date).

This is a great shame because Dimensions in Time is incomprehensible nonsense. Yes, it is a great deal of fun and a joy to see Doctor Who being treated as the cultural institution that it is. The series is an ongoing soap opera in the UK, for all intents and purposes, and special shorts of this kind are by no means unfamiliar territory for such a series. Dimensions in Time raised a lot of money and drew in a lot of awareness for a good cause and that makes everything about it worthwhile.

So, with the objective goods out of the way, let's have a bit of fun attempting to take this seriously as a piece of art unto itself. The conceit of tise adventure, because that is all that it is, is that the Rani has returned (we are off to a great start already) and taken time aside from her scheme to capture a specimen of every life-form in the universe to enact her revenge on the Doctor. She is attempting to do this, I think, by trapping all of his previous incarnations, and companions, in a pocket universe that is in repeating itself in a cycle of twenty year periods. Not thirty. Twenty years. It should be strongly noted, however, that this is pure speculation based only on the Third Doctor’s unvalidated guess that he is trapped in a thirty year time loop and the Rani’s chide that the Doctor’s other selves are trapped.

It is hard to really articulate everything that is doesn't work about the as a narrative because it is so completely insane that one has a hard enough time even deciphering what the narrative is. I suppose to makes as much sense as any approach to just run down the various strands of the special one incarnation at a time and express my related thoughts that way. Like the multi-Doctor stories before it, Dimensions in Time has the good sense to frame the current TARDUS team as our de-facto protagonists. We bookend the story with the Seventh Doctor and Ace which implicitly suggests they are our present day. All well and good. Weirdly, though, the incumbent incarnation is the one who leaves the least of an impression.

We first meet the duo as they arrive at the Cutty Sark and it is nice to see them bouncing off of each other as if no time had passed at all since we last saw them. Appropriately, it is the Seventh persona who ultimately saves the day but his method of doing this is utterly perplexing. The Rani is collecting alien lifeforms for...reasons and is lacking in a human specimen so she kidnaps one of the Doctor companions, Romana, under the presumption that she is one. Because of this cock up on her part, there are two Time Lord brains in the Rani’s computer and the Doctor uses this to… well, do something. I think what is implied is that the Doctors are trapped in a time tunnel being cast across the Greenwich Meridian. The Doctor then overloads the Rani’s computer and frees himself? Using what seems to be Ace’s stereo from Silver Nemesis in the process. Oh and K-9 is also there which I will noodle in a second. This resolution is, naturally, nonsense but I will give Sylvester McCoy and Sophie Aldred all the credit in the world for doing their best to sell the stakes of this, even if they seem to have as much idea as I do of what they are. Extra points to McCoy in particular for amusing reasons that I will also get into later.

Let's backpedal a bit though. Perhaps we can piece together the plot from earlier clues instead of the barmy resolution. Immediately after the Doctor and Ace arrive on Earth, there is some kind of explosion and the Seventh Doctor is suddenly replaced by the Sixth.

Or is he?

The script seems to be unsure as to whether the Doctors and their companions have been taken out of time and trapped in the time loop (ala The Five Doctors) or whether it is just the Doctor and Ace who are trapped and their appearances are changing/degenerating based of the Doctor’s memory (see the comic book Timeslip or Big Finish's middling Once and Future series). Most of the time, it seems to be the former since each of the companions who appear have their own personalities and line of questioning intact. The Sixth Doctor even claims that the "in-rush of time zones is designed to seal [them] all". The Doctors sharing information works for me if this is case since it is well established that different incarnations of the Doctor can telepathically communicate. Them all being their own selves who are trapped also makes sense as to why, occasionally, additional characters appear such as members of U.N.I.T. (Mike Yates is back on side?) and K-9. Otherwise it would seem that Ace is splitting into two different people, Peri and Nyssa, only to change into one, Liz, and then back into two, Romana and Victoria, and then have the latter disappear completely…? What his going on?

When the Doctor meets up with Leela, who is dressed in this Pocahontas get-up after Louise Jameson insisted she not wear the leathers of the '70s, he asks her what “form” she was in when the Rani cloned her for her menagerie, to which she replies Romana. Huh??? I cannot make heads or tails of this moment. Is this really just Ace shifting through forms and the Doctor regressing through his bodies? I have no idea and the script clearly does not care. This is all just an excuse for a runaround with some classic Doctor Who characters and, as said, that part of it I do enjoy. 

Now, Colin Baker has always put in 110% as the Doctor, even with the worst material, and Dimensions in Time is no exception. He has some of the funniest moments with Ace (his disgust at their clothes clashing) a lovely moment with Susan where she is scared about the stranger she is paired with and even gets to share a scene with the Brigadier in a record-making moment. Mind you, why the blazes does the Doctor need a helicopter escort just to cross the river? It is also terribly rude of the Seventh Doctor, in the climax, to telepathically connect with all of his selves and free them EXCEPT for the Sixth Doctor. Was Colin too busy to film a shot of his mind-melding? What is up with that? Still, he is a joy and I was very happy to see him back in the role.

Peter Davison clearly does not want to be here. The Fifth Doctor is actually saddled with the most exciting moment of the serial; the cliffhanger which sees him on the run from every alien creature in the universe. However, Davison knows what kind of crap he is in and responds by just half-arsing it with equal parts lacklustre and over-the-top line reads. You have to chuckle at his insistence on keeping the hat on too, to hide those absent blonde highlights. None of this bothers me, Davison is so good that half-arsing a performance is still a good performance. No, what is really off is how strangely obvious it is that he is barely in this. The Fifth Doctor has just one scene which feels longer that in is being stretched over both episodes. Apparently, he was supposed to appear again toward the climax, presumably in the scene with Leela, but allegedly reassigned the techno-babble filled scene to McCoy who was late to the set due to a hangover. I also feel obliged to mention that, in a fitting moment of surreality, the Fifth Doctor's costume is entirely unique to this story for no discernible reason.

Tom Baker also only appears in one scene; a prologue of sorts where he sends out an S.O.S., on a superimposed microphone for some reason, to his other incarnations and warns them about the Rani. Quite where he is sending it from and whether it ever reaches them is never answered though. This scene also adds confusion to events since it is this incarnation who clarifies that the first two Doctor have already been trapped. Okay, so if they are trapped then it IS the initial theory I had that the Rani is taking everybody out of time. Right?! 

It is a shame that the Fourth Doctor never interacts with anybody else but it is fun to see Tom in costume and playing this role again regardless, especially when he is this melodramatic. He is blatantly reading his lines right off of the script just out of shot though. Also, why on Earth did he end up with a question mark etched onto his face? Tom’s original suggestion was, bizarrely, for a bullet wound and, if the idea was to be rightfully declined, nothing should have taken its place. At least one could hazard a guess as to how his Doctor might have obtained a bullet wound. Presumably, he was shot in the face. That addition, as bizarre as it is, at least might have provoked a reaction and suggested something about the circumstances that put the Doctor in wherever he is. I cannot fathom any reason for a question mark to be etched into his face. What a suitably strange addition. 

In talking about the Third Doctor, this is as fine a time as any to break down the specifics of this pocket universe time-loop trap; it is London’s East End. As such, the cast and characters of the soap-opera Eastenders appear in force. It is nice for JN-T to get to marry the three passions off his life (Doctor Who, pantomime and soap opera) in one big package for his final televised work on this property but goodness this is a weird choice. None of the Who characters seem to be aware that they are surrounded by the cast of a different television programme so perhaps this is just the confirmation we all wanted that this is a true shared universe.

Pertwee was 74 years old when he appeared in Dimensions in Time but he has lost none of his charm and presence in this role. It is a delight to see him and he, like Colin Baker, is taking this whole thing 100% seriously. His face-off with the Rani is one of the highlights of the story. He just commands the screen so well. He is also wearing a costume unique to this story for his onscreen appearances although the purple smoking jacket is Pertwee’s own and was frequently worn by him at conventions and events between his leaving the show and his death in 1996. If this IS the Third Doctor, how on Earth could he know to recognise Mel? Or for the Sixth Doctor to recognise Ace, for that matter. It is also a little strange the TARDIS being on the other side of a river is enough for him to deem it an unreasonable solution when Sarah Jane suggests they return there. Can he not be bothered to try and take the walk? The Fifth Doctor reasons it is in a different time period but why would that make it inaccessible? Presumably it is still in the same spot in all periods.

Dimensions in Time is a fitting encapsulation of where Doctor Who had found itself at this point in time; off-air, over-the-top camp and generally tossed aside by the BBC. JN-T tried his best to remind audiences that Doctor Who was a beloved institution but, instead, he showed them every reason why it had quietly gone away. The 3D gimmick may well have been cool at the time but it means that the finished product looks otherwise extremely ugly and nauseating. This special is a rambling mess of a piece that wastes the opportunity to put five Doctors onscreen together and sends out the JN-T era of Doctor Who out for good on an enormous whimper. It is abominable and an enormous disappointment on every level. That being said, this is an easy 10/10 for sheer entertainment value. 

[bird-inacage]

The Heart Killers Trailer | Kant x Bison (Cat & Mouse Cut)