#mr. and mr. smith au

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Charles Rowland and Edwin Payne (Go Loud)

“I’m your husband,” Charles whispers, flexing his wrists against the plastic ties again. “We met on a cruise, five years back. I—I don’t know what else you want me to say.” He’s crying now, helpless, frightened tears that roll down his cheeks and drop onto his shirt.

The corner of Edwin’s mouth turns down, like he’s disappointed. “Yes, I remember. Did you really think the dramatics would work?”

Charles lets his head drop back on his shoulders, closing his eyes and feeling the tears run down his neck. He thinks of his world as a big glass bubble – painstakingly created out of nothing; beautiful, fragile.

Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever, eh?

Charles takes a slow, deep breath through his nose, pulling his heart rate back down, and rolls his head on his shoulders. “Alright, then,” he says. “Let’s play. Who do you work for?”

“Ah,” says Edwin, sitting forward in his chair. He looks pleased. “There you are. I’ll ask the questions, I think, seeing as you’re the one tied to a chair. Were you instructed to eliminate me?”

Charles grins, sliding his eyes to the side. “Maybe. Come on, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

-dear_monday and two_ravens, Go Loud

Alright, this one is for @dear-monday and @tw0-ravens for their absolute ROMP of a fic, the Mr. And Mrs. Smith au Go Loud which can be found here!

[appropriatelystupid]

[flightlessribbons]

DAY 1: ART! NINJA FAMILY PORTRAIT!

"When becoming the ninja at 14, having a support system is very important, but I know these guys got me! glad I have all of them to help me out with this ninja stuff- could you imagine how I'd do if I had to keep it to myself?! Well. And Howard. BUT JUST ME AND HOWARD?!? I mean we'd be entertaining enough for a radio show-"

Based off the suggestion of @artistic-harlom-world made on the original anniversary post!

I'm gonna be so fr with y'all, I made this one last week so this may be the most detailed piece out of the artworks we're gonna get BUT THATS OKAY!! I think the crew scenes will have at least one colored piece- but every other art piece will be in a monochromatic color palette, thank you for listening🫡

[octagava]

[mamamissy]

They are the world’s most deadly assassins. Their identities are a secret. Even from each other.

Mr. & Mx. Fell Coming this Fall to an Archive near you!

Created by @shaggydogstail with art by me for the @do-it-with-style-events Silver Screen Bang.

[wetpussyju1ce]

Mr. & Mrs Smith pt. 2

Assassin!Ray Smith x Assassin!fem reader

+18. mdni

assassin ray who goes ballistic if anyone puts their hands on his wife, she can handle herself, can send her own husband to the hospital but he still can't help it. so when he ends up gunning down the assassins trying to kill them just for being together, he goes to the other room, looking for his wife and finds her on the floor, clawing at a man choking her out, trying to kill her, and Ray sees red, “Hands off my fucking wife!”

The man looks up and is greeted by Ray's gunpoint, “I said; Hands. off.”

the man slowly lets go and she starts coughing, crawling away from under him and gets up as Ray points his gun straight at him. she stands by his side, a hand holding her neck as Ray asks, “What do they want?”

“They want you dead.” The man answered. 

“Obviously, you fucking twat, why?” Ray hissed.

“They're scared you'll trade firm secrets; double agent stuff.” The man answered and Ray looked at his woman, then back at the man, and without another second thought, pulled the trigger, giving him a neat hole in the middle of his forehead. 

“Firm secrets, what a joke.” His wife muttered and he agreed.

Ray, who even though they're technically on the run, still manages to look for his wife's favourite snacks when they quickly stop for gas and he goes to buy some fags cuz he KNOWS he'll be needing a couple after tonight's shitshow. and when they're back on the road, he hands them to her, w a hand sanitiser and tissues, of course. She thanks him with a big kiss to his cheek and starts munching away as he drives them to the other side of the country. 

Ray who at the first opportunity buys his wife a pair of sweats to wear, because she's still in her panties and it's getting brighter outside, the world is waking up and she's bound to catch attention w a pair of legs and ass like hers. and when she slips them on, they fit absolutely perfect because he knows all her sizes by heart, and knows to get her a size up so they're baggy and extra comfy around the waist. 

Ray who gets a special kind of twinkle in his eye when he gets his hands on any type of big firearms. he loves them big w lots of buttons to mess with. after all, he's just a boy w a special love for tinkering n messing w machines. His wife notices and her heart grows twice as big at the sight. because he's so freaking cute, getting giddy over using big guns. she cant help the smile that pulls at her lips while watching her husband light up an alley w his machine gun, putting multiple holes in each assassin coming after them.

Ray who's concerned the second his wife groans and clutches at her arm, looking in pain and Ray immediately asks, “Who hurt you?” 

She points out a bleeding corpse, and he shoots it once, “Here, you'll be okay, darling,” And she smiles at him, as he kisses his thumb and middle finger together and presses it to where it hurts, and they leave a sea of broken and bloody bodies behind, hand in hand. 

Ray who finds out Fletcher was the one who ratted them out to their firms for money. who managed to get photographic evidence of them both together. a mundane picture really, them coming out of the big Tesco, Ray pushing their trolley while his wife is opening a pack of Maltesers. 

But Ray doesn't care. he hates it when people feel privy to his private life. he doesn't appreciate that kind of disrespect, at all. especially when there's a possibility that Fletcher could've taken a photograph of his lovely wife doing literally anything, like painting in their garden in nothing but a bikini under the sun. 

His wife quickly learned how protective Ray actually was. Before she knew his real occupation, she just appreciated it when he used his whole body as a shield to protect her from unwanted touches or attention. Or when that one time a tipsy man, at the pub, accidentally dropped his wallet on her lap and reached to grab it just for Ray to grab his wrist in a flash. The man winced and Ray relaxed his hold, but dragged the man's hand up on the counter instead, grabbed the wallet on his own and slapped it on the man's hand with a tight smile. She only watched and didn't move an inch, smiling big when Ray asked her to switch seats w him.

It wasn't anything big, but it was enough for her to praise and lean her whole body against him, giving him tiny kisses on his beard once in a while, dying at how adorable he was, and that was just when she thought her sweet and attentive civilian husband was just an accountant with a smidge of OCD.

But now that he could freely express what he could and would do for his wife, was the most thrilling and addicting feeling.

When she wasn't slicing her way through skin and guts, or shooting men dead until her hand burned around the gun handle, she would stand there and watch her Ray absolutely terrorise the other assassins. She would watch with her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes now practically hearts, toying w her fingers like a lovestruck teenager. It was so exciting. 

And when Ray would meet her eyes, he would grin and she would giggle, skipping to where he was, standing over a now cooling body and giving him a cheeky kiss to the corner of his mouth. then they would leave on a stolen car, breaking every road law and rule. 

And when she finds them a way to get out of the country, Ray realises he has to change his appearance, so he sits on the dingy motel room bed, abt to shave his beard off, he'll do it, but he's just saying goodbye to his facial hair before he has to get rid of it all and cut his hair shorter. At least his wife will only need to dye her hair. 

When she realises he's abt to get rid of one of her favourite things abt him, she whines and already mourns the loss. but then realises that actually, he showed her a picture of him when he was much younger and he looked incredibly handsome under the facial hair, so really, there won't be much of a loss. 

So before he shaves it all off, she asks him if he'd be up to eating her out one last time as a farewell ritual to his beard lmao. 

And Ray would never say no to her, so just to be extra safe, he goes ahead and washes his face, soaps his beard and rinses it, just so all that he gives his pretty wife is redness from the friction. and they go to town, oh they do that the next door guests bang on the wall and shout at them but Ray doesn't give a rats ass and his wife is in another planet as he pounds her to Sunday.

When that's all said and done. Ray finally shaves all of his beard off and she helps him, tilting his head this and that way, even using scissors and a blade when needed. then it was his hair. he thought abt buzzing it all off but she just asked him to hand her to scissors and brush. So she cut almost all of his beautiful prince charming hair, left a little at the top then shaved the sides shorter, giving him a fade of some sort. and at the end when he looks at himself in the mirror he feels so naked. so different. 

“Wow, you look like my boyfriend, not my husband.” She says while standing behind him, looking at the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around her chest, hair wrapped in clingfilm. 

Ray frowns in confusion, a hand on his cheek, “Excuse me?”

“You look like my bad boy boyfriend who scares my parents, not my mature dilfy husband,” She says and Ray is still confused, “Do you like it?”

“Hm?”

“Do you like my face? Without the beard?” He asks, turning around to face her. 

She places a hand on his big shoulder, and squeezes the muscle, “I'd let you do unspeakable things to me with or without the beard, love.”

He smiles and rubs his eyes, “I need my glasses��”

“They're on the bed, I need to wash my hair,” She says, kissing him on the cheek and he hums, walking out of the bathroom with his hands on his hips, dad style.

[utopiastri]

25. Showing up injured at their enemy's house for Osc/Charles, please? 🙏

hi anon!!! thank you for the prompt dear! i've never written choscar before and this was an absolute delight to put together!!! (cw for descriptions of major injury)

(prompt list here)

Oscar’s doing his best not to yawn through Ryan’s work story when the doorbell rings.

He smiles apologetically, standing up from the table. “Sorry, let me just get that.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Ryan says, smiling politely. Oscar inwardly grimaces at the pet name but smiles back.

A horrible feeling in his gut makes Oscar close the door to the dining room on his way to the front of the house. This gut feeling is proven correct when he opens the door to find Charles Leclerc on his front doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Charles gives him a pained smile. “Oh, believe me, I wish I were anywhere else but here currently.”

“Then, why are you here? Go somewhere else!”

Charles gives Oscar a pleading look. “I need your help.”

“Charles,” he says exasperatedly, scrubbing his hands over his face, “I am literally the last person you should expect to help you.”

“Please.”

Oscar swallows. He hears a sound from behind him.

“Uh,” Ryan calls from a few rooms away, “Everything ok, sweetheart?”

Charles shoots him a look. “Sweetheart?” he mouths.

“Shut up. I was on a date before you came barging in here,” he whispers.

“A first date?" Charles asks, eyebrows raised, before correcting himself. "Ah, no, a second date but the first one was already pretty shit, hm?”

Oscar hates how perceptive he is.

“Yes,” he admits reluctantly.

“So second date. And you are letting him call you ‘sweetheart’?”

Oscar glares at Charles, but doesn’t get a chance to retaliate before Ryan’s made it to the front door.

“Oh. Ah. Who’s this, Oscar?” he asks.

“Pierre Gasly,” Charles lies smoothly, extending a hand to shake, “I’m a friend of Oscar’s from work." He shoots Oscar a defeated look. "I was just stopping by to drop something off, I won’t take up any more of your evening.”

“Wait,” Oscar says, before Charles can even start to run off. He hates himself for what he's about to do but his decision was made the second Charles said ‘please’. He turns to Ryan: “I’m so sorry, Charles actually came to tell me there’s a problem at work we’ll need to sort out – he offered to deal with it himself but I think I’ll have to lend a hand.”

Ryan shakes his head. “No, that’s ok, I’ll, uh, leave you guys to it?”

“If you would,” Charles answers, smiling in a way that would alarm anyone who knows him, but tends to charm complete strangers.

After a couple of minutes of Oscar saying his goodbyes to Ryan (and suffering through the worst goodnight kiss of his life), Oscar turns his focus to Charles, who is…

No longer in the hallway.

“Charles?” he calls.

“Kitchen!” is the response he gets.

“You know, when I offered to help you, that wasn’t me offering you to give yourself a…tour.” Oscar freezes in the doorway of his kitchen staring at the mess of wounds that was once Charles’ chest. “Charles,” he says hoarsely.

Charles smiles wanly, even as he continues to try to clean out his injuries a little. “Like I said,” he hisses as he pokes at a particularly nasty-looking wound, “I need your help.”

“You didn’t think to maybe mention the fucking life-threatening injuries you had, rather than standing on my doorstep teasing me about my date,” Oscar chastises, kneeling down on the tiles and swiping the first aid supplies from Charles’ hands.

“Oh come on, Oscar. You deserve better than a man who,” Charles cuts himself off to groan as Oscar starts methodically trying to close up Charles’ worst injuries, but he swiftly continues speaking, “A man who calls you a pet name on the second date. And god, the least he could do is call you ‘baby’.”

“Do you think teasing me about pet names whilst I literally hold your life in my hands is the way to go?”

Charles smiles lazily, even as his eyes squeeze tight with pain. “Perhaps not, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Oscar says, taking a grim delight in the sharp inhale Charles takes as he starts stitching a large cut together, “You lost the right to call me ‘baby’ three years ago.”

“Was that when I tried to kill you in San Diego or when you tried to kill me in Beijing?”

Oscar gives him a wry look. “That was when you decided to skip our wedding to go meet with an arms dealer.”

“Ah, yes, my mistake. I promise he was an ugly arms dealer, if that makes you feel any better.”

For a few moments, the only sound in the room is Oscar trying to deal with Charles’ injuries as best he can. Oscar wants to say something. He wants to ask so badly what Charles is doing here, but he knows Charles knows he wants to ask and he refuses to give him the satisfaction.

He gives in in the end though.

He always does with Charles.

“Why did you come here? Why come to me?”

Charles looks at him and, for the first time tonight, Oscar truly registers the deep devastation in his eyes.

“You were the only one I trusted not to hurt me,” he whispers.

[nyoomfruits]

osctober day twenty

prompt: lovers to enemies pairing: carlos/oscar word count: 500w

“Lando,” Oscar says, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he ducks behind the upturned couch. “Now is really not the time.”

From the other side of the room Oscar can hear loud swearing and a gun being reloaded. He reloads his own gun and locates the emergency knife he keeps in his boot.

“Are you sure? Because I feel like you’re gonna want to hear this,” Lando says.

“Depends. If you’re calling me to tell me my husband turned out to also be a super spy who has now gotten explicit instructions to kill me, don’t worry. I got the memo.” The swearing has stopped. So has the sounds of the gun loading. Actually, it’s gotten eerily quiet. Oscar carefully peaks over the edge of the couch and nearly gets hit by a bullet to the face. He swears loudly and makes a run for it, only just managing to jump into the hallway and hide behind the wall.

Across from him, a stray bullet hits their wedding photo, and it shatters into a million pieces.

“Holy shit, yeah, that was what I was going to tell you!” Lando says, sounding slightly awestruck. “How did you know?”

“Because,” Oscar says, taking a deep steadying breath, stepping out behind the wall into the doorway, firing a few shots into the living room before ducking back. “He’s currently trying to fucking kill me.”

“Oh my god why didn’t you say so! This call could have waited!” Lando says, and Oscar sighs. Deeply. He loves Lando, he really does, but sometimes.

“Sorry,” he says. “Will do next time.”

“So, now what?” Lando says.

“I don’t know, I-“ But then suddenly the phone gets slapped out of his hands and Carlos is right there, pinning him against the wall, knife against his throat.

“Gotcha,” he says.

“Not our good knife,” Oscar says, glancing down. “It took me ages to get that thing sharp again.”

“And what a good job you did,” Carlos says, pressing the knife closer so it grazes the skin of Oscar’s throat, drawing blood.

“Good thing it’s not the only one I sharpened,” he says, bringing the attention to the emergency knife, which is currently pressed against Carlos’s side.

“It seems, mi amor, that we are at an impasse,” Carlos says, and his eyes are shining with mirth, and Jesus Christ, who knew Oscar’s husband was hot and dangerous. It’s doing things to him he does not like to admit.

“It seems, mi amor, that we are,” Oscar parrots, tripping over the Spanish like he always does when he tries.

Carlos is grinning at him, and Oscar is grinning back, and then before either of them can make a move, the world explodes around them.

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

MR. AND MRS. SMITH RIPPNER

KINKTOBER DAY 9 - MR AND MRS SMITH AU WITH JACKSON RIPPNER

Pairing.| Jackson Rippner x fem!reader

Summary.| You live a double life, but you’re willing to give it all up to devote yourself to your husband. With one final mission, you learn that your marriage is based on a lie.

Warnings.| Dubcon, noncon, manipulation, physical fighting, blood, blackmail, bondage, choking, breeding, head f!receiving, p in v.

Word count.| 7.6k

Notes.| This story KILLED ME. It was not intended to be this long and kinda angsty? Will probably make more sense if you've seen the movie. Idk kinda hate it but that's okay.

The warm sun caressed your skin through the open blinds. The birds were tweeting outside at how much of a beautiful morning it was. However, those peaceful sounds were drowned out, your ears too busy being filled with your husband’s lovely loud moans. With your naked bodies tangled in the sheets, the both of you blissfully cried out in unison, your body pinned underneath his as his hips snapped in and out. As you tug at his roots, you screamed out in ecstasy, your hips rocked against his as you rode out your orgasm. Your husband followed shortly after, finishing deep inside of you. Quickly your bodies stilled, his head buried into the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent. 

“I don’t want you to leave…” you giggled, holding tightly onto your husband with your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock was gradually softening inside of you. 

Your husband groaned out softly, he kissed your skin ever so tenderly. How you wished you could stay in bed with him for eternity. Whilst massaging his scalp, he sluggishly raised his head as he puffed out. 

“I know baby, I don’t want to leave either” he agreed sweetly as he pressed his lips against your heated forehead. 

Your bodies were entwined together like snakes. It almost seemed too easy for you to be able to flip him onto his back. He huffed out as you straddled him, your drippy bare region rubbed against his member in a teasing manner. As he chuckled out, he felt himself twitch ever so slightly. He took your head into his hands. 

“How long will you be gone for again?” you asked softly. 

Both of you knew you knew the answer to that. Sometimes you just thought that if you repeated the same questions over again he’d change his answer to satisfy you. Considering how often you both traveled, the distance felt hard at times. When one of you was walking in the door, the other was heading out. 

“Five days at most” he whispered. 

He gave you a reassuring kiss. It wasn’t too explicit or plain. His touch was all you ever needed to relieve your dreadful thoughts. Five days wasn’t that long. You’re complaining as if you don’t already have a job to do in between his trip. But you would forever hate to see him leave. 

“I suppose I can handle that” you murmured as a grin grew on your lips. 

“When I get back, I’ll take you out to our favorite little restaurant” he hummed as he left a trail of kisses over your heated face, his hands caressed around your neck. 

“Yes, John” you sighed. 

John stilled, his blue eyes narrowed at you, while the grip on your cheeks tightened. You couldn’t help but to smirk mischiefly. 

“Hey” he warned softly. 

“What?” you laughed. 

“You know I don’t like being called that” John mumbled. 

“What? Your name?” you taunted in a joking manner. 

“Yes” he huffed. 

As soon as you used nicknames like honey, sugar, sweetie pie even… John insisted that you stick to it. He’s always claimed that John was such a common, plain, boring name. It was his belief that his parents named him that to spite him. It felt a bit dramatic, but you kept your mouth shut and kept him happy by calling him a variety of sweet names, however honey just always felt most fitting.

“You’re so theatrical” you snickered.

“It makes me feel like you’re mad at me” John almost talked under his breath.

Sometimes he acted like such a child, you rolled your eyes and rubbed the back of his neck in a reassuring manner. “Okay honey, is that better?” you slightly mocked. John hummed as he kissed you on the lips. 

“What are you going to get up to?” he asked, his face blank but eyes eager to know. 

“Oh I don’t know… House duties I suppose” you lied perfectly. John blinked coldly to you, but the expression quickly vanished as he smiled and planted another soft kiss on your lips. “I’ve been thinking…” you trailed, debating the topic on your hesitant mind.

John’s brows frowned in curiosity underneath his loose locks of chestnut hair as he shifted his hips into a more comfortable position. “About?” He inquired eagerly, head tilted like a cute dog. 

You sighed out, your fingertips ran over his bare chest, John exhaled in relaxation as his eyes studied yours. The silence was short yet impactful. 

“This house is so big” you pointed out, the implication rested on the tip of your tongue. 

“Do you want to downsize?” John tilted his head in confusion. 

The both of you loved this suburban home. There were plenty of spare bedrooms for guests, as if either of you had visitors lining up. Neither of you had much family, the only relationships you shared were the fake ones with your wealthy neighbors, always engaging in their social gatherings to keep up appearances. Thou shalt love their neighbor. 

But with every month that passed of you living here, the more your neighbors seemed to pressure you into having a baby. Most of them were on to their second or third. The ladies would always warn you that the honeymoon stage wouldn’t last forever, so you might as well create your love child before you both despise one another. 

“I was thinking of bringing another in” you said unsurely, unable to keep eye contact with him for once. 

“Like a dog?” John asked softly. But when he noticed your anxious expression, he sighed lowly.  “Oh…” he gulped lightly, eyes widened. 

“Yeah” you mumbled, you brushed his chestnut locks to the side. 

“But I thought we discussed this before we got married” John commented, a neutral, calm expression painted over as he gently rubbed your lower back.

“I know, I know… But I’ve been thinking about it for some reason” you answered as you smiled hopefully at him. 

“We can discuss that possibility better when I get back, yeah?” John reassured you. “But yeah maybe, the idea of filling our home with a baby just may be fulfilling. A baby Smith… Maybe you wouldn’t have to travel so much?” John cocked a brow, a gleeful look on his face. 

“Likewise to you” you snickered as you smacked his chest gently. 

“Wow, I plan one business trip after months of being locked up here and now you blame me” John joked, he pulled your face closer to his. 

“You were gone for weeks on end” you huffed. 

“Six weeks isn’t that long, is it?” Jackson snorted, a mischief grin locked on. 

You kissed him, his arms wrapped around your back as his hips pushed up to yours. The friction built up in you both, again. Sometimes you wondered if you’d reverted back into a teenager, you never seemed to have this high of a sex drive until you met him. John’s length was like a forbidden fruit that you were addicted to. 

“Come on, join me in the shower” he ordered kindly, his baby blue eyes sparkling. 

“I need to cook you breakfast” you objected with a cheeky grin. 

“I’ll eat at the terminal” John grinned back, his newly formed erection pressed against your bare skin. 

As you arrived at the drop off zone - because John always insisted you never wasted time and money to walk him to security- you kissed him passionately before he quickly exited the vehicle and grabbed his small suitcase from the backseat. 

“I love you” John smiled. 

“I love you too” you smiled back. 

John shut the door, took a step back and blew you a kiss as you drove away. Once he disappeared from your rear mirror, you changed the radio station and slipped off your ring. Likewise to your flash SUV vanishing, his gleeful smile formed into a sinister stern glare. 

Whenever you were away from John, your double life crashed on top of you. They always warned you, this job was a deadly commitment. No one could make it work with the white picket fence with a sniper underneath your bed. Before you met John, you loved being an assassin. It gave you a constant rush of adrenaline that no other drug could. But the moment you met him, you could feel the switch begin to flick over. 

It was almost a suffocating burden to be married to John Smith. Yet, his love felt like a drug. Don't get it wrong, John was a terrific husband. If you were having a gloomy day, he’d come home with your favorite ice cream and a new rental for you both to watch that night. Date nights were always over the top with him. Even though you both traveled frequently, you always managed to squeeze in a romantic getaway every now and again. Puerto Rico was the next spot on your list, but he didn’t know that. For John burns, not tans.  

The thought of retiring grew larger inside of you by the day. You could easily fake your job experience for a more conventional profession. You wanted to be honest with John, this profession just wasn’t it. Sure, the pay was great, benefits were out of this world. But it was always so time consuming and moral reckoning. Not to mention your life was always at risk. Every mission you took, the more you worried for John. What if something did happen to you, how would he cope? Even worse, what if something happened to him? You've hidden him from your workplace, but what if. 

John Smith was charismatic, confident and intelligent. There wasn’t a day that you’d catch him in a faded pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt, he always dressed proper. He’d always be able to read the room, it was impressive with how easily he could mingle into the conversation, as if he was the one that started it. It felt like he knew you completely from day one. John Smith was mesmerizing, alluring and fulfilling. He was the fantasy you never knew you craved. 

You sighed as you arrived at your headquarters. The elevator ride up was dreadful as you could only think of him. The doors dinged open, you blinked back your swelling eyes as you waltzed through. Your second identity quickly painted across your expression as you approached your desk. As you plopped at your seat, you opened up your resignation file, your fingers nervously tapped on the wood as you considered everything. Your finger hovered over the print button. With a firm push, the printer roared to life. After neatly laying it on your desk, you opened up your mission report once more and scanned over your next and last target. 

‘Jackson Rippner’

- 

The missions were all the same, always to terminate bad, horrible men that polluted the world. You liked to tell yourself that you were more of a vigilante than a cold blooded killer, that your jobs were somewhat for the greater good. But who were you to think that you were any better. This was no justice system, nobody would learn. Maybe you were wrong about this whole baby idea, how could you raise a child knowing you’ve killed many others? Especially with a beautiful man like your husband. 

But this was the last one, you had to keep on telling yourself that. It would all work out, you’ve done your time as one of their soldiers. It was time to live a normal life.

Quickly, you slipped your handheld mirror from your purse and applied one final layer of gloss. As the elevator dinged open, your stiletto boots went silent on the carpet flooring. The rough security guard stood in front of the room entrance, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest. With him looking you up and down, you batted your lashes as he started to pat you down over your coat. He tried to untie the coat but you swatted his hands away, glaring harshly at him. The guard huffed at you and checked your handbag, the handcuffs dangled from his thick finger. All you could do was shrug at him. After three slow knocks, the guard let you in.  

The room was decorated in a seductive red. You strolled carelessly, your thighs crossed over one another as you pretended not to notice your target in the corner of the room. Jackson smirked at you in his hotel provided fluffy white robe, his blonde hair slicked back as he twirled his whiskey on rocks. He stalked over to you, his tongue rolled over his lips. As your eyes lingered over to the closed bathroom, you stepped towards it, but he stopped you by raising his hand.

“I just wanted to freshen up” you batted your lashes, tone soft. 

“No, no, you look perfect” he gave you a toothy grin. 

You resisted your impulsive huff. The handbag is dropped onto the cabinet as you slowly untie your coat, revealing your shiny, leather, exposing catsuit that made your tits look perfect. The knee high boots tease at the limitation of the skin of your thighs. You unclasped your claw clip, your luscious hair fell onto your shoulders. 

“Mr Rippner” you purred, your hands dipped into your bag for the cuffs.

His dark eyes ate you up completely, his mouth almost drooling at your beauty. As you approached him, you unrobed him, revealing his toned muscular tan body. With a seductive smirk, you pushed him to his knees and quickly and certainly tightly, cuffed his hands behind his back. You teased him by tugging at the roots of his blonde hair. 

“Are you a naughty boy, Jackson?” you whispered as you squatted in front of him. 

“Mhm-hmmm” he hummed, his eyes piercing into yours. 

“Do you know what happens to naughty boys?” you murmured, your lips inching from his. All he wanted to do was kiss you. 

“No” he whispered back. 

You stood up and slipped behind him, your hands ran up and down his broad back, your lips pressed to his ear. “They die” you whispered darkly. 

Before he could even react, your arms locked around his head and you effortlessly snapped his neck. To stop him from thumping to the ground, you held onto hair, carefully laying him on the soft carpet. You exhaled out and stood up, you picked your phone from your bag and sent the confirmation text to your boss. You then slipped your wedding ring back onto your finger, you hated having it off. 

“Damn baby, you’re such a sexy killer” the voice of your husband echoed behind you. 

Your body spun around towards the bathroom, you stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. This wasn’t possible, how was he here? You stumbled back and blinked hard, expecting this all to be a guilty figment of your imagination. He was wearing one of his ordinary suits as he smirked devilishly as per usual. 

“John” you gasped. 

“I really thought you were gonna kiss him for a second” your husband tutted, his eyes full of mischief as he approached you. 

You were frozen in place. Every thought in your mind bounced at a high speed, you couldn’t grasp onto anything. All you could do was murmur his name again as he closed the distance. 

“Baby, how many times do I have to tell you I hate it when you call me that?” John lectured teasingly. As he tried to wrap his arms around you lovingly, you shoved him back. 

“What is going on?” you hissed like a viper. Then, it all clicked, all of the pieces fell perfectly into place. Your eyes darted from the dead man on the floor back up to him. “You’re Jackson Rippner” you mumbled, your expression drained in shock and defeat. 

“...Yes…” Jackson answered, his eyes widened for a second as he tried to hide the grin off of his lips.

“Who’s that guy?” you questioned. 

Both of your eyes drifted to the carpet but returned back to one another. 

“My decoy, obviously” Jackson shrugged carelessly. 

“I-I don’t understand” you stammered, trying to keep your emotions on track. Jackson rubbed your arms to comfort you, stupidly you allowed it. “But- But I had your profile checked” you argued, shaking your head at this situation. This possibility wasn’t, well… it wasn’t possible. 

“I’m a great ghost baby” Jackson gloated. 

When you fell silent, pouting a lot harder than you realized, Jackson pouted back. He hugged you tightly, his lips pressed to your heated cheek. 

“John!” you gasped, you tried to push him off but he wouldn’t budge. 

“Baby, my name isn’t John!” Jackson chuckled, his lips continuing to kiss your skin. “It’s Jackson…” he whispered somewhat flirtatiously. 

Jackson was soft with his words, but a brute with his actions. He held you against his chest as you squirmed like a fish out of water. It was amusing for him, watching you get all overwhelmed over a little detail. 

“Baby… I have it all planned out, okay? I need you to trust me” Jackson spoke a lot more firmly this time. Your eyes pointed up to his. 

“John-”

“It’s Jackson!” he snapped, his words hissing in anger. You flinched and blinked hard, your lower lip began to wobble. The hold he had on you tightened shortly. He exhaled out and loosened his grip. “Anyways, you killed my decoy, they’ll think Jackson Rippner is dead. And I’ll happily stay in the shadows far away from your work so we can continue playing happy husband and wife” Jackson proposed, a gleeful expression locked on. 

The seriousness in his eyes was frightening. “Jackson, you’re scaring me” you gulped.

“I know, fuck- I know how much this can be for you” he sympathised in a highly condescending tone, his head tilted down to yours. “It certainly does change things…” he mumbled lightly. “But baby, you can’t judge me. We work in the same profession” he chuckled, hoping to bring light to this. 

“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” you whispered, eyes turning all glossy.

“Of course I did” Jackson snorted. 

“Who are you?” you dared to ask. 

Jackson stared at you blankly, analyzing every single sign you were throwing at him. He breathed out and let go of you, he turned his heel and walked towards the mini bar. “Let me get you a drink first, okay? You’re currently in shock, you need to calm down a little bit first” he clicked his tongue. 

You watched his back as he pulled out two glasses. He opened the whiskey bottle and filled them, sneakily sprinkling the small plastic bag of powder into your glass. Returning to you, his expression was blank as he held out your glass. Reluctantly, you took it, you stared at the liquor. Jackson downed his glass, placed it down next to your handbag and cocked an eyebrow at you, his foot impatiently tapped on the carpet. For someone who was supposedly stalking you, he was stupid enough to think you were an idiot. Your face scrunched in anger, before Jackson could react, you splashed the drink on his face. 

“Baby!” Jackson spat the liquor off of his lips. 

You punched him in the nose, he stumbled back and snarled out. Reactively, he tried to swing at you but missed as you leaned your upper body back. You swiped his feet and he crashed onto the floor. Repeatedly, you kicked him in the stomach until he latched onto your calf and yanked your leg up into the air. You fell onto the carpet with him. 

The door swung open and you leaped into the bathroom as shots were fired in your direction. You pushed your body weight to the door and you could hear Jackson screaming at his guy. 

“Don’t fucking shoot her!” Jackson roared, a vein popped out of his forehead. “Give me the fucking gun and get out!” he commanded.

The silencer was on, meaning hotel security wouldn’t be paying you a visit anytime soon. You needed your damn handbag to get out of here. Running your hand through your hair, you tried to summon up your game plan. Adrenaline ran through your blood as you heard the door shut once more. 

“Baby… Come out and let’s talk” Jackson projected kindly as he approached the door. He emptied the gun and dropped it to the ground, ensuring that you’d hear it. “I don’t want to fight with you, okay? Come on, let’s be civil with one another before somebody gets hurt” Jackson attempted to convince you, that familiar persuading tone on his tongue. . 

He was right, somebody would certainly get hurt and you’d be damned if it was you. You cursed to yourself, stood up, brushed yourself down and opened the door. That non wipeable grin was on his lips as he stared you up and down. His devilish blue eyes locked onto your band. 

“Put it on already, huh?” Jackson murmured, his hand dared to reach out to you. 

You smacked his hand away, swiftly twisting his arm around, he grunted out as you kneed him in the stomach. He is charged into the wall by you, you repetitively throw blow after blow into him. Jackson tried to counter you, but failed miserably as you smacked his head into the plaster. 

“I’m going to slice you to pieces” you threatened, your rage uncontrollable. “You fucking cunt!” you screamed as you threw him into the side of the bed. 

As you stomped towards him, Jackson hurried to his feet and pulled out the blade from his jacket pocket. The tip is pointed directly at you as his fingers rubbed over his cut lip. 

“You fucking bitch” he snarled but had this crazed smirk on his lips. 

This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fought at a disadvantage. So you courageously raised your fists at your husband. Jackson laughed smugly and called out for his guard. You scoffed, picked up Jackson’s empty glass and hurled it at the man as soon as he entered the room. The glass scattered over his skull and he tumbled to the ground. Jackson cursed loudly as you reached for your handbag and coat before you flew out of the room. 

You ran across the terrace as you swiftly slipped your coat on, Jackson was hot on your tail as easily unclasped one of the rings from the bag, a metal rope connected to it. You clicked the ring onto the lamp post, held onto the other handle of the bag and dived off the balcony. The rope protracted down the high rise building, the drop slowed down as you watched the sidewalk grow closer. As your boots clinked onto the cement and hand let go of the handle, you hailed the next taxi, not giving a damn who stared you down. As you sat in the back and the adrenaline drained from your blood, you broke down into tears as you ripped off your wedding ring. 

Jackson heaved as he planted his hands on the cement edge. A grin formed on his lips as he watched you gracefully fall. He couldn’t help but to be proud as you shrunk smaller and smaller. You go into the next taxi and disappear into the concrete jungle. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and held it to his ear.

“Yeah, commence through. Kill them all” Jackson sighed.  

-

The truth was, you were originally Jackson’s target. Your firm had information his desperately needed. The security on your system was too good for his team to hack, he needed access from the inside. As soon as Jackson saw your profile, he felt some kind of draw towards you. As he stalked you, this attraction quickly turned into an obsession. His patience thinned every week, he craved some taste of you. 

When you booked a last minute red eye flight, he jumped at the opportunity. He was surprised with how easily he caught your attention, you seemed to crave it just as badly as him. It would be your downfall without even knowing it. You could almost have him fooled, you didn’t seem like a killer, you had morals, ethics, care in the world. Everything he didn’t possess. You silently screamed for domestic life, but you just didn’t know it yet. Before the plane landed, Jackson realized that there was no possible way he’d be able to fire the gun once the job was over. 

When he took you on your first date, he expected to fuck you, not to make love. My, he knew how cheesy it sounded, but it was a sleepless night of passion and sensuality. Jackson had never felt more emotionally, physically and spiritually raw and intense. It was like he had an outer body experience that night. He could have sworn he felt the exact moment that he fell completely in love with you. You craved him too, felt the exact same thoughts he did. It was like you were both one that night. Now Jackson was never a romantic, but he knew he’d marry you when the sun rose in the morning.  

You quickly turned sloppy around him, you really thought he was as innocent as he looked. Jackson accessed your system so effortlessly. It really was a pie waiting to be taken. He partially felt bad betraying you, but it was better than eliminating you. As if to reward him for his hard, continuous efforts, you fucked him that night until he saw pure bliss. 

He covered his tracks perfectly, you were robbed blind. There were no leads, no suspicions, nothing. He saw it in your eyes the next time he saw you. Jackson’s heart fluttered, you were in the shitter and you wanted him to be your shoulder to cry on. Not that any physical tears were shredded that day. But Jackson comforted you, held you as you both talked sweet nothings to one another. You told him you loved him that night, he felt no shame in returning those blissful words. That night, you truly believed everything would be better. That Jackson was your silver lining. 

The porch lights were still on even though it was past midnight. As Jackson’s Mercedes pulled up the driveway, he took in the last moment of silence, peace. A devilish smirk grew on his lips as he casually got out of the car and almost skipped to the door. It was risky, you could have eliminated him at any moment, but Jackson knew you, a public execution was not your style. 

You had no other option than to come here. Jackson had annihilated your firm before you could bring yourself to contact them. All agents were now dead one way or another, your director included. This reckoning was all due to you. Jackson Rippner was the virus in the system. It felt like you were in the fallback scene of a spy film. This was now a suicide mission, all from your stupid blindness of love. Why did you always have to trust him? You should have listened to your instinct and kept someone on his tail whenever you were gone. 

“Honey! I’m home!” Jackson called out as he viciously slammed the door shut.

The interior was dead silent, he knew you were somewhere, hidden in the dark as you awaited the perfect moment to attack. Checking the hidden security cameras would be too easy for him. Jackson wanted a challenge. The masculinity inside of him demanded to show you your place, as a woman and a devoted wife. 

Jackson flicked on the dim lights, he slid the pistol out from his hostler as he cautiously stepped over the oakwood floor. His footsteps were light as a feather as he almost hovered over the ground. When he reached the turntable, he chucked on one of your favorite jazz records and turned up the volume through the amplifier. His chestnut hair shagged over his forehead, he could sense you, because the pungent perfume you always wore filled his smell. 

“Babygirl… Come out, let’s play!” Jackson grinned as he picked up a photo frame down the hallway.

He pressed his back against the plaster, the winder staircase on the opposite side of the wall. His face pointed towards the edge as held the photo of the two of you towards the stairs, the glass’ reflection painted the staircase on the glass as you came into sight. You aimed the shotgun in your hand as you squatted in the midpoint of the staircase, your barrel pointed right to the edge of the wall. The frame was shot to pieces as he hissed out. 

“Careful honey, I don’t want to shoot you” you spat, tone dripping with deception.

“Oh no, no more pet names, I only want to hear my proper name off of your lips!” Jackson laughed. 

Intuitively, Jackson dropped down as you shot straight through the wall. Another shot was fired for goodluck, the dust and darkness blinded your vision, the moonlight and dim lights wasn't enough. Jackson groaned out dramatically as he dropped his pistol, an inch from hands reach as he plummeted to the floor. You gasped as his head came into view, you lowered the shotgun as you slowly stepped down. 

His left eye peaked open as he saw you off guard. Swiftly, he picked up the pistol and fired in your direction. You grunted as you hurried back up the stairs, firing a few shots for good measure. But when Jackson’s magazine ran out, you jumped at the opportunity to attack. He strode down the hallway, his face content as blasts splattered through the walls just short of him. Turning the corner, Jackson reloaded and took the next right to do a complete circle around the floor.

But you bet him to it, your knees sliding on the floor as you fired in his direction. Unfortunately you missed your target. Grunting to yourself, you reloaded and spun into the open. The coast was clear, you stood silently, the barrel switching from every possible open exit. Your brows furrowed when you saw his pistol slide over towards you. 

“Come on now, guns are overrated baby! Take your anger out on me a bit more passionately” Jackson called out. 

Silently, you followed the sound of his voice. As you sharply turned the corner, the room was empty and you muttered soundlessly. 

“You think I’m an idiot!” you shouted back. 

“Kinda, given the fact that I’ve had you wrapped around my finger this whole time!” he bellowed. 

The urge to prove him wrong, to get your revenge the righteous way took over. You emptied the shotgun and threw it to the floor. You pulled the bullet off of your black midi dress.

“Come out then baby, give me your best shot!” you mocked. 

“Gladly” Jackson smirked as he turned the corner and leant against the hallway wall. 

Cracking your neck and rolling your shoulders back, you brought up your fists and strided towards him. With a wicked grin, Jackson slid off his jacket and carelessly raised his own fists. The first punch you threw had your full force. But Jackson ducked and jabbed into your knee. You winced and kicked into him with your free leg. Jackson wrapped his arms around your lower body and forced you to the floor. 

“How could I be so stupid” you whimpered softly as Jackson tried to pin you down. 

“Because you’re in love with me baby” he smirked, his ego so full you almost felt it drip onto you. 

Your hand slipped free, you punched him in the jaw. Jackson groaned out, his mind dazed momentarily, you shoved him off of you. With a shake of his chestnut hair, Jackson chased after you. Ending up in the kitchen, you picked up multiple objects and flung them in his direction. Jackson managed to dodge most. As your hand wrapped around the expensive fine china vase Jackson adored, his eyes widened. 

“Now! Don’t throw that!” he ordered as he shoved his finger at you. 

Scoffing towards him, you hurled it towards his head, he had no other option than to duck. The material shattered against the wall. Jackson’s head snapped back, his blue eyes wide as he stared at the red pieces scattered over the floor. Snapping his eyes back onto you, he gave you a smug look. 

“You really are a petty bitch, ain’t you baby?” Jackson scolded. 

“Don’t call me that” you huffed. 

“Baby” Jackson pouted.

A wave of anger crashed over you, you flew over the island in the middle of the kitchen and crashed into him. The both of you threw jab after jab, kick after kick. Your nails dug into his skin and Jackson hissed out harshly. You’re banged up into the fridge, the back of your head making first contact. 

“You lied to me” you mumbled as Jackson held you against the fridge. 

Jackson pointed a finger at you. “Shut it… You lied to me just as badly” he countered. 

The denial was planted deep in his mind. In his justification, you were both as bad as each other, you both lied and deceived one another. Despite him always knowing, the ignorance was bliss for as long as it had lasted. 

“You used me!” you yelled. 

Jackson rolled his eyes as you flipped his back onto the fridge. 

“I know, but does it make you feel any better if I say that I was supposed to kill you initially?” Jackson chuckled softly. 

You slapped him across the cheek and let go, your chest heavy as you tried to keep your overwhelming thoughts at bay. Jackson hated to see you cry, to see any negative emotion in you. You were his to protect, to look after, he hated how badly the truth was hurting you. You could handle the physicality, but not this, not those dark emotions that no one can train you to block out. Jackson reached out for your hand. 

“Don’t touch me like that” you warned. 

“Baby, let’s talk” Jackson urged as he tried to touch you again. 

It snapped inside of you, you opened one of the drawers and pulled out the first knife you could wrap your hand around. The blade is pressed against Jackson’s throat, his jaw clenched as he glared at you. The edge of the bench dug into his lower back, his hands clawed down beside him. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” you threatened, your body trembling immensely. 

“Do it baby, rip my heart out” Jackson grinned. “It’s not like you’d make it out of the fucking door, they’re watching us…” Jackson snorted, his eyes flickered towards the window. As you looked out, you saw the red laser flicking through the darkness, right onto your forehead. “Til death do us part” he whispered into your ear. 

“I don’t care if I die” you whispered back, accepting your fate. 

“Sure, but I bet you would if your sister did, yeah? Oh but you had no siblings didn’t you? Yet my accomplice reports that she’s alive and well in Tampa, now isn’t she?” Jackson spoke casually. 

Your eyes snapped onto him, eye twitching. It was impossible for him to know that, you’d hidden it so perfectly. Impulsively, you attempted to drive the knife through his hand on the counter. But Jackson slipped out, the knife clanked against the marble, you hissed out, your grip loose. Easily, he stole the knife from you and pointed it at you. You were stumbling back as he followed you. 

“Do anything to me, and I assure you, she’ll be dead before you can reach her” Jackson spat. 

It angered you, you should be fighting him to the death. Trying to rip his skull in half. But all he needed was a little threat to keep you at bay. You found yourself climbing the stairs, ignoring him completely as he stalked you. 

“Where are you going baby?” Jackson mocked arrogantly. 

As you reached the second floor, Jackson flung your body to the wall, his hand slipped around your neck, a gentle warning squeeze followed. Your glossy eyes snapped onto him, a dirty glare painted your beautiful face. 

“Don’t act like this. You made vows to me, remember?” Jackson reminded you harshly. 

As if vows were meant to mean anything at this point. You could counter him with plenty of his own vows. It made you sick in the stomach with his attempts of manipulation. He was sick in the head with some foul disease.  

“I don’t know who you are, you disgust me” you insulted. 

“Well… Get over it” Jackson shrugged his shoulders. 

“You’re pathetic Jackson. What makes you possibly think I could forgive you, love you? You’re an insecure little boy who can’t take no for an answer” you cruely countered. 

Jackson’s expression was blank and dark. As if all humanity drained from his body, he flung you backwards. Before you could even process it, you felt your back hit the thick edges of the stairs. You tumbled down, hitting your head intensely multiple times as you rolled to the floor. A slow groan escaped your lips, you whined out as you tried to focus. But your mind was dazed, your body felt numb and your eyes blurred. Within a blink, Jackson appeared beside you, how long were you out for?

“You okay?” Jackson whispered as he kneeled down beside you. His tone was full of concern and care. You mumbled out gibberish and Jackson chuckled, gently he caressed your heated cheek. “Come on then, let’s get you to bed” Jackson breathed out. 

Easily, he threw your body over his shoulders and carefully headed up the stairs. Beelining straight to the bedroom, Jackson flicked on the lights and thoughtlessly dropped your limp body onto the bed. You bounced on the soft mattress, your eyes squinted as you tried to piece everything back together. Putting up a small helpless struggle, Jackson stripped you bare. He texted his men to stand down and closed the blinds. The sound of the wooden draw pulling out caught your attention, but you couldn’t decipher what Jackson was grabbing. 

“Up for some kinky shit baby?” Jackson smirked snugly as he held up the rope. 

“Fuck off” you groaned as you tried to crawl off the bed. 

But Jackson straddled your hips and roughly pulled your wrist to the bed frame. After tightly binding you to the bed, you squirmed like a dying fish out of water. Jackson leant down to your ear, his warm lips pressed to your lobe as he inhaled your scent.

“I don’t wanna hurt you anymore baby” Jackson made known. “Don’t make me do it anymore, it hurts me too” he said through a soft tone. 

“Then untie me” you grumbled. 

“No, no… I need you baby, so badly” Jackson moaned lightly as he pressed his clear hard onto your stomach.

Your eyes widened, how long had he been erect for? How was physical combat a major turn on for him? Surely he’d never take advantage of you in this sense. Jackson was always a gentleman, kind, and thoughtful. Never would he pressure you into something that you had to consider. But yet again, this was Jackson, you didn’t know Jackson, you only ever knew John. 

“Jackson, don’t do this to me” your lip wobbled, eyes heavy. 

The pounding headache didn’t help. Hopelessly, you tugged at your binds, Jackson smirked darkly at the sight. The soft touch he always gave you made your legs squirmed. He’d only be rough with you if you wanted it that way, you prayed he’d stick to that. 

“Shush, you’re gonna have to comply with me baby. I know everything about you, every single person you’ve ever even smiled at, I will have killed if you continue to piss me off. You've sacrificed enough for your job, so surely you can still sacrifice a little bit for me” he grinned. You opened your mouth to counter, but Jackson was quick to press his finger to your lips and hush you. “I know I’ve lied to you from the beginning, but you have to know that I’ve always loved you” Jackson spoke truthfully, rawly.

It felt like a rip to the heart, because you knew his words were honest. That look in his eyes was too hard to stare at. No, this doesn’t change anything. Jackson was a horrible person, you were not the same as him no matter how badly he tried to persuade you. 

“You took advantage of me” you huffed, blinking back your tears.

“I know, I’m sorry” Jackson exhaled, almost looking guilty at his actions. “Baby, we’re not normal people, you can’t possibly hold this against me. Now, you can go around and think that what I did was unforgivable. But can’t you just be happy that you are completely accepted by somebody? No one will ever love you the way I do. What we have is real, you’re mine and I’m yours, always” Jackson confessed. 

All you could do was laugh weakly. The insanity of this man was wild. The sweet look on his face dropped. 

“You’re fucking crazy” you insulted. 

“Don’t piss me off” Jackson said coldly. A stare off commenced, slowly a grin grew on Jackson’s lips. “You want a job with me? I can get you in easily” Jackson laughed softly.

“I was going to quit for you” you snarled. 

“Made it easier for you then” Jackson shrugged. 

His eyes lowered to your stomach. Instantly, you knew exactly what he was thinking. Your body tensed as his hand traveled closer to your bare skin. You flinched as his fingertips rolled over your hardened nipples firstly. 

“Now, let's talk about that baby” Jackson licked his lips, his hand pressed to your stomach. You were speechless, shocked that he could think of this still. “A baby Rippner, now doesn’t that just sound fitting?” Jackson sniggered with a smug mouth. 

Slowly, he stripped himself bare over you. All you could do was watch in a mixture of fear, intimidation and arousal. His body was always so perfect in your eyes. You hated how badly you subconsciously submitted to him. As your skull thrummed, you squeezed your eyes shut. All you wanted to do was stop thinking completely. 

Jackson whispered your name as he pressed his lips to your neck. It was soft, everything he was doing was so fucking perfect. The way his hands rubbed your trembling skin, how the top of his head rubbed against the side of your face. Those sweet whispers of his made you squirm, the pleasurable ache in your core tormented you. 

His hands squeezed your tits, as he gradually lowered himself to your cunt. Sometimes Jackson wished that he could die by suffocation from in between your legs. The smell of your musk was intoxicating. You whined, your mouth clamped shut. Everything was hurting you, breaking you, yet your body demanded to accept the pleasure all too easily. 

“Yeah, gonna put a fucking baby in you alright. All fucking mine, fuck you’re so perfect, I love you so fucking much baby” Jackson praised, his fingers rolled over your sensitive flesh as he admired you. 

This was too much to handle. You broke down in tears as your body trembled from a mixture of reactions. Quickly and carefully, Jackson climbed up your body, his lips pressed to the side of your mouth. 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay baby… I’ll look after you, always. You just gotta give me a shot, I’m still John… Still the man you married” he assured quietly as he tried to wipe your tears away. 

“Jackson- please” you sobbed. 

“Shush, I’m always going to take care of you. I made vows to you, I refuse to break my word” Jackson spoke more firmly this time.  

“Jackson” you whispered as he aligned his tip to your entrance.

“My name sounds so beautiful on your lips baby, keep on saying it” Jackson softly ordered. 

After whimpering his name one more time, he crashed his lips against yours. Your mouth fell open, you were too tired to fight him anymore. His eager member slipped deep into your welcoming walls. The pleasure was too relaxing for your state. You were losing consciousness. All you wanted to do was sleep, it was the quickest way you could get away from him, even though it was only temporarily. 

“No, no, stay with me. Keep your eyes open, you’re fine” Jackson commanded. 

When you didn’t listen to him, mumbling and whimpering to yourself, he slipped his hand around your throat and squeezed hard. You wheezed out, your bloodshot eyes flashed open as you searched for air, bound wrists fought against the rope. Jackson coached into your ear, his hips slowly pumping his cock in and out of you. He released his grip enough for you to ruggedly breathe, his lips attached onto every bruise and cut on your body to assure you that he meant no harm. You tried to hide it from him, but it was pointless. He knew your body inside out, it truly was his to own. 

“Jackson I’m… Gonna…” you gasped as you felt your walls pulsate. 

“That’s it, let all of that tension go, get rid of all of that bad energy” Jackson smirked as his free hand rubbed your sensitive bud. 

Shortly, you screamed out hoarsely, he let go of your neck to hear your sympathy. The clenches vibrated down his length. Right after, Jackson felt his dick ready to spurt out. His hands pulled your hips up as he buried himself completely inside of you, your body trembled immensely as he finished inside of you. Your body slumped, completely exhausted as you gasped for an easy breath. Right before you finally could escape him, you heard his dark voice echo through your mind. 

“Goodnight Mrs Rippner”

[steddielations]

Eddie should’ve never taken that loan. It was at the start of his career, he was young and desperate to make it in the industry. It was just to fund his demo tapes but he should’ve known better than to get entangled with the mob, it wouldn’t end there. Once his music took off, they wanted more and more.

Now he has a life, a husband, they’re talking about adopting and Eddie hates himself for keeping this from Steve. He rationalized it, didn’t want to drag Steve into his mess, thought he could keep quietly paying but they want too much now. Eddie’s career isn’t as active anymore, there’s no way Steve won’t notice, they’ll go bankrupt, revealing this secret that he shouldn’t have kept for so long.

He’s gotten a few ominous calls and an unfriendly visitor at the studio that made it clear, they want their money and they’re gonna get it. He has to tell Steve, it’s getting too dangerous. So now he’s sitting across the dinner table from his husband, over a meal so lovingly made for them, about to blow up their life.

“Sweetheart, there’s something—”

There’s a noise outside the window, could’ve just been the wind but there’s more noises, people… footsteps… Eddie grabs Steve, dragging him to the bedroom as he demands to know what’s going on. Eddie tells him everything, in a hushed voice crouching inside their closet with tears brimming, he tells him every lie that’s caught up to them, stained their marriage, apologizes for putting their lives in danger and Steve—

Steve is rifling through the closet, pushing aside clothes to reveal the wall. There’s a compartment behind a painting that Eddie’s never seen. He watches, speechless and shocked to his core as his husband, his kindergarten teacher husband who wears ironed polos and makes dinner every night in a ‘kiss the cook’ apron, takes several lethal looking weapons from the wall and starts loading them up, quick and efficient like a machine.

“Steve, what—”

“You’re not the only one with secrets, love,” he presses a firm, forgiving kiss to Eddie’s forehead and leads him out of the closet, weapon raised, “Now get behind me.”

[claritys-silly-things]

It’s that time again yall

Headcanons! It’s a long one this time

Emetophobia tw

- (I think I can classify this as modern) Rip sodapop curtis you would’ve loved saying “I’m just a girl 🎀”

- Soda never liked haircuts. When he was a small feral child his long hair would get tangled a lot, but he’s tender headed as FUCK so he would scream and cry when his momma brought the brush out. Darry put sodas hair into braids sometimes just for fun and soda didn’t mind bc it kept his hair from getting tangled, and then it didn’t hurt to brush. He’s always had really soft hair and it grows super fast.

- Jealous little soda asksjks (this was about soda being jealous over pony getting attention as a baby but I don’t wanna edit the original ramble I wrote down)

- When ponyboy was born he just kind of STARED. No crying or anything just 👁️👁️. Even Darry cried when he was born. Soda cried a lot.

- Adding on, Darry and pony were pretty quiet babies. They still cried for food and stuff sometimes but not a lot. Soda was a LOUDDD crier, and a frequent one too. It was the type of crying that sounds like it hurts the baby’s throat cause they’re shrieking their head off. Also soda would cry for, like, the first year of his life if he was ever handed to his dad.

- If Johnny survived the fire and got a wheelchair, he’d be running over people’s feet. Constantly. Just because. Or bc they asked for it. Either way, the moment he gets a hang of that wheelchair it is OVER for yall. And probably before that too.

- Ponyboy gets the same. Goddamn. Thing. At EVERY restaurant. Partly because it scares him to order anything else, partly because he’s picky asf. He makes sure it’s there on the menu and has his order memorized by now. “Chicken tenders, fries, and a Pepsi please.” He’s tried to ask for other things in the past like eggs, cuz he likes those, but the moment they asked him “how would you like them done” he just stared at Darry because he didn’t know what all the different types of eggs were, and now he’s scared bc he’s taking longer, and the server is still there, so he just got sunny side up eggs and they were slimy and he wanted to go home and cry (based on a true story sadly)

- Basically pony has anxiety and probably autism (so me)

- Ponyboy likes avocado. That’s it that’s the headcanon. It’s like one of the only healthy-ish things he’ll eat.

- Soda gets suuuper nauseous really easily, and pony gets carsick on occasion. So the first time pony went to a theme park, his family was scared that he would throw up like soda. They go on a ride and he’s like “yall im fine dawg.” Soda is jealous bc pony can go on rides unaffected (soda will still go on rides anyways, he just throws up afterwards)

- Pony is the most PALE ASS BITCH you’ve ever seen. He burns soo easily. His face gets red really quickly, no matter what’s going on. The only time he gets the slightest bit darker is when he burns and tans. Two-bit has been like “you ain’t white you translucent” multiple times because in the right lighting you can see pony’s veins. It’s even worse because soda and Darry tan so wonderfully, and pony looks like he had an allergic reaction if he doesn’t reapply his sunscreen when he’s supposed to. I feel like Mrs Curtis is the reason for this, she didn’t tan. Mr Curtis did tho.

- Pony has mild (severe) ocd

- Marcia’s last name is smith she is white-Hispanic on one side and Native American on the other thank you for coming to my TED talk

- Marcia is Cuban and Native American

- Marcia’s full name is Marcia smith that’s it that’s the end

It’s funny cuz I listed these things like three times and just forgot about the other two

- Twobit is Brazilian end headcanon

- Mr Curtis had autism and Mrs Curtis had inattentive adhd

- Mr Curtis was half Mexican on his mom’s side and half Irish on his dad’s side. Mrs Curtis was full Italian-American.

- Darrys the typa guy to make pony and soda turn off a show or movie if it talks about possession or like demonic stuff/soul stealing stuff

- (Modern au) Darry will get a text from ponyboy about something, like “can I go in your room rq” and he sees it but doesn’t actually open the text message until later and like, two hours later he’ll just respond “no” and thinks it’s the funniest shit ever

[kalolasart]

I played around

[the-kr8tor]

Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

[fishy-strawberries]

You still alive, baby?

—

Since I repainted the cover of Mr & Mrs Smith with Ilsa and Alanna I haven’t been able to get this AU out of my head, so I redrew some screencaps to add them in!

Ilsa, mercenary for the Syndicate, and Alanna, heiress to the Mitsopolis crime empire (currently run by her mother Max) keep their lives a secret from each other throughout their relationship—until they can’t anymore 👀

In my notes I’ve got the whole movie recasted with MI characters (Paris my beloved <3 ) but since I paint faster than I write fic, maybe I’ll be able to do a few more of these to flesh out what I have in my head :P

[ionshi-teiru]

[mamamissy]

Created by @shaggydogstail with art by me for the @do-it-with-style-events Silver Screen Bang.