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Couple Trouble

Part 1 out of 2

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Summary: Your last and most important mission with Dave doesn't exactly go ad planned. But in the chaos he still shows his unwavering love for you.

Warnings: established relationship, MDNI (+18), mentions of blood and injuries (we're still talking about Dave here), swearing, brief mention of drugs, close call situations, killing, death of a character (not Dave or reader), heavy make out session, fingering, mutual masturbation, semi-public

Word count: 8.7k

Author's note: Alright, bear with me guys, please! This turned out to be a lot longer than I expected. This is my submission for @tateypots' Naughty or Nice Challange. And this is also my first Dave story. Thank you for the beta-reading again @bergamote-catsandbooks. I love you! ❤️

“Dave, come on,” you call out from downstairs impatiently, leaning against the wall next to the front door. You look down at your watch, checking the time before speaking again. “We don’t have much time to pull this whole thing, you know.”

You hear hurried footsteps coming from upstairs, and moments later he is coming down the stairs. He is holding his usual black suitcase in one hand, full of all the things you could possibly need. Ropes, different kinds of pistols, bullets, knives. Most of the things a killer would need to do the job correctly.

With his free hand he adjusts his his black tie, letting it fall perfectly on his chest, hand smoothing over the material one last time.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs under his breath, looking around in the living room when he comes to a stop beside you.

“What did you forget?” you ask him, smoothing down the collar of his suit jacket. “If we would need it, then the poison is in my purse.”

“No, it’s not that,” he says with clear frustration in his voice. He turns back to you, his eyes widening at the sight of your dress hugging your body perfectly, only realizing now what you are wearing, his eyes widening at the sight of your dress hugging your body perfectly. “Not saying, but you know, we could also stay at home.”

“Dave!”

“Alright, alright,” he holds up his hands in front of him in surrender, his gaze turning to the room again to scan it one more time. “Have you seen my pistol? I looked for it everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. I swear I put it in the drawer of my bedside table, but it isn’t there.”

“Which one?” you ask innocently, and he shoots you a look. “You have a few, so I need a little hint.”

“My Beretta.”

“Ah, I see,” you let out a quiet sigh. You pick up your purse from the counter beside the door, taking out the said pistol, and holding it up in front of you, so he can see it too. “You mean this one?”

He looks back at you, eyes going back and forth between you and the gun. Finally he takes a few steps toward you, taking the weapon from your hand, and reaching back to shove it in his pants.

“I won’t even ask questions,” he murmurs with a sigh, picking up the suitcase again, getting ready to go.

But before he can reach for the door handle, you stop him with one hand splayed against his chest, studying his face. His eyebrows knit together, waiting for your next move. You reach up to comb back his hair that had grown longer, tucking a stray curl behind his ear, but your fingers get stuck in the string of the eye patch he is wearing. He lets out a quiet sigh, turning his gaze behind you on the wall.

Your finger is running back and forth across the strap, the leather feeling softer than anything under your touch.

“Is this a new one?” you ask carefully, not wanting to force the answer out of him.

“Yeah. The old one was really worn out,” he explains, hand lifting to adjust it slightly, pulling it more over his eye.

“It suits you,” you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb moving against the coarse stubble that he started to grow out after you told him that it looked good on him.

He lets himself get lost in the moment for a second, your compliment echoing in his ears, but he quickly regains his composure, thinking about the job at hand. He clears his throat as he reaches behind you, opening the door with his free hand.

“Alright. Last job, only one person. We go there, get in the house, kill him, and we get out of this fucking town. Somewhere more quiet, alright? Just us,” he explains, telling you the plan like you didn’t think about it together. When you nod he leans down, stealing a kiss from you before he straightens up, motioning towards the car that is waiting for you outside.

“After you, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, the fake name rolling off his lips easily, making a smile creep onto your face.

You step out onto the porch, waiting for him as he locks the door. Your eyes turn towards the street, noticing the quiet pour of the rain, small puddles forming on the road.

“It’s raining,” you announce, whipping your head back in time to see Dave taking off his jacket. Your eyes widen, remembering the gun that he put in his pants in a hurry. You are beside him in two quick steps, looking into his eyes, trying to get him back in his jacket. “Have you gone insane?”

“Why?” he asks with a shrug, making an attempt to hold the suit jacket above your head.

“Your pistol,” you whisper so only he can hear you, but he just lets out a quiet laugh, looking at you like you just said something unbelievable.

“It’s good where it is,” he answers, nodding towards the stairs. But when you don’t move an inch he looks back at you with a sigh. “No one will notice it. I swear every second person has a gun on them in this neighborhood.”

“What do you mean no one will notice it?” you go on. “Have you seen that old lady next door? She’s always at her window, ready for some drama. And if it’s not her then it’s one of her cats out of the six,” you finish.

“You worry too much, darling,” he chuckles, wrapping one hand around your waist, and holding his jacket above you with his other one. He leads you down the stairs, the water splashing under you as you make your way to the car. Before you can say anything, he opens the door for you, holding it open, and waiting patiently as you climb in.

He makes sure one more time that you are comfortable before he closes the door, the sound echoing in the small space being washed away by the rhythmic fall of the rain. You watch how he drapes his jacket over his arm as he makes his way around to the driver’s seat, and you can’t help but look how drenched his shirt becomes, how it sticks to his body, muscles visible under the white fabric. You let out a quiet sigh, quickly averting your gaze as he climbs into the car too.

“Damn this weather,” he mutters under his breath. His hand lifts to push his hair back, his fingers combing through the rain-soaked strands. He aims his body towards yours, a sheepish smile spreading across his face before its replaced by a teasing smirk. “So, do you think the cats saw us? Will they gossip about it in the neighborhood?”

You put your index across his mouth to stop him, feeling embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have told you this. Now you’re going to bring this up every chance you get.”

“It’s not true,” he manages to speak, wrapping his hand around your wrist gently, and guiding it on the console between you. “Only every second chance.”

“God, I hate you,” you exclaim, rolling your eyes.

You hear him chuckle beside you, followed by the rattle of his keys. The engine roars to life moments later, and you mimic his movements when he puts on his seatbelt.

“So the plan,” he starts, driving out of the driveway, speeding down the street. Your head turns in his direction, eyes trailing across his features. His hair streaked in some places with silver now soaked, his aquiline nose, his plush lips that you have kissed so many times before, his jaw that is now ticking with nervousness and anticipation.

“He knows that we’re coming, but he thinks that we’re there for business.”

“In some way we are there for it. But for a more bloody and merciless one,” you interrupt. He smirks at your words, releasing the gear stick to put his hand on your thigh, squeezing down and not letting go.

“He will willingly let us in his house, and he will even show us around. When we see that he is more relaxed and comfortable, that’s when we will strike. The moment he turns his back on us a bullet will greet his brain,” he explains, steering the car into a narrow street with less houses.

“And if he doesn’t, then comes the poison,” you shook your bag slightly, the contents in it clinking against each other.

You remember how he handed it to you the other night, explaining what was in it, how it could end someone’s life in less than a minute. You had never seen him speak about something so enthusiastically before, and even if you were planning someone’s death, somehow the glint in his eyes made your heart melt.

“Where did you get it again?” you question, the warmth of your hand enveloping his on your thigh.

“Old friend. He knows what he’s doing,” he tells you.

You feel his hand turn, his fingers intertwining with yours, and you let out a content sigh at the rough, but familiar callouses on his palm that you already know so well.

Quiet settles over the car, only the soft music is playing on the radio, the soft rhythm surrounding you in small waves. You allow yourself to lean your head against the window, the cold a stark contrast against the warmth inside the car. Your eyes follow the drops cascading down the glass, having a fictional race where the fog of your breath is the finish line.

With every taken mile you feel the weight of the situation settle over you more than before, your brain sending out warning signs that travel through your whole body. What if things go wrong? What if the poison doesn't work? What if you aren't able to escape?

You have never been one to worry. Ever since your first job only one thing floated in front of your eyes every time: kill the person, cross out their name. It surprisingly filled you with thrill when you felt your knife drive through flesh like butter, or when you saw how the blood spread on the ground creating a puddle. But you never felt empathy for these people. Not for those who deserved it, who have done worse in their life.

But somehow along the way the thrill dissipated, leaving behind only sheer realization. You weren’t better than them just because you put them in their grave, saving the world from more injustice. With every crossed out name added to your reputation, with every drop of blood shed, with every risky mission you only got closer to your own death too.

So you stopped.

You got yourself a real job that paid well. You got rid of everything that could have reminded you of your past, and you never looked back.

Until you met Dave.

He seemed like a nice and normal man the moment he first approached you. Not long after he invited you on a drink, you started going out more often, but you noticed the moment he started acting more suspiciously. Of course you saw it, you lived the same life as him before you stopped.

At first you were afraid that maybe he would pull you back into this shady world, but after your conversation about it, he never brought it up again. He told you when he would be away, but he never talked about his job in more details.

You spare a glance in his direction, your gaze settling on the eye patch pulling tight over his left eye.

You remember that day clearly, when he said that he was going on an important mission. He warned you, gave you the exact address where he was going. You clearly remember the argument that came after you told him that you were going to go after him if he wasn’t back after a few hours.

And when he didn’t come back, even after sunset, you decided to find him, to go to the exact location he gave you. And how glad you were that you did.

You found him on the brink of death, laying there between the rocks as the waves crashed over him. His body was battered and bruised, his heart barely beating under your palm, a small pool of blood gathering around him. But he was still alive. Still breathing.

His recovery wasn’t easy.

You had to explain to him where you found him, why his body was so weak when he tried to move around too much. Explain how he went blind in one eye, a scar running across the area, marking him for the rest of his life. He tried to deny things, tried to gain back control even when his body was plastered with scars, even when the easiest movements seemed impossible.

It took him nearly two years to regain his energy, his strength, but he was still a shadow of the man he used to be.

You were glad that he never pushed you away, never tried to reject you when you wanted to help him. And God, you were glad that he was still alive. Still breathing beside you every night. Still holding you close every chance he got.

You are pulled out of your thoughts by a low curse coming from Dave, and it’s soon followed by the sound of a siren. Your eyes fall on the mirror, and soon enough a police car pulls up behind you. Your blood immediately runs cold in your veins, and panic settles in you.

Dave keeps a calm composure for you as well, as he pulls out his hand from your hold, steering the car to the side of the road, and stepping on the brake.

“Try to not say anything, alright?” His words reach you, and you can only nod, fishing in your bag to find the fake ID that he had done for you. Your fingers bump against the small vial that contains death itself, and you swallow hard to keep your emotions at bay.

“Hey, look at me.” You you feel his fingers gently take hold of your chin, turning your head in his direction. His soft brown eyes meet yours, now filled with worry and love at seeing your fumbling. “They won’t arrest us, alright? We will give them our fake IDs and some information, and then we’re out of here,” he reassures you, searching for a silent agreement. When he sees just a small flicker in your eyes, he leans forward, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

At the touch of his lips you almost get lost in the moment, but before you can say anything a chain of firm knocks break the silence in the car.

You pull back, watching how his face changes from a gentle expression to a calmer and more serious one, the lines on his face darkening again as he pulls down the window. “Good afternoon, officer.”

“Afternoon,” the man greets, leaning down to have a better look into the car, at both of you. You purse your lips, forcing a smile on your face, hoping he won't notice how much you are actually sweating. “IDs and driver’s license please,” he commands.

Dave hands over his documents without a word, and you follow him, your card nearly slipping from your fingers into his lap because of the nerves.

When the man in the uniform takes it you let out a soft sigh, leaning back in your seat. Your eyes find Dave’s form, travelling lower on his body, and you nearly let out a loud gasp when your gaze fixes on the gun still in the back of his pants, the handle sticking out. You wait until the police officer turns away, moving quickly.

You push Dave forward without warning, getting hold of the pistol and throwing it on the backseat, the weapon bouncing off of the leather, landing on the ground with a low thud. Dave sends you a glare that could kill, pursing his lips as he looks in the rearview mirror before he glances at the officer.

“Everything seems right,” he finally say, giving back your documents. “Drive safe and slow, sir.”

Dave only nods, pulling the window back up, and that’s when you notice the amount of water that fell in while the man was scanning your cards. He stays still until the police car disappears in the distance, but he quickly turns to you, eyes sending daggers in your direction.

“This,” he points towards the backseat, looming over you. “This little move of yours could have easily got us in jail,” he whispers angrily.

“Maybe you should have put your gun away when I told you,” you say indifferently, shrugging your shoulder.

His jaw ticks, but he stays silent, only letting out a low hum as he grips the steering wheel again. You roll your eyes at his behavior, but you lean against the window again, allowing the cold to calm you down before you arrive at the house. Before you do that thing you vowed to yourself you would never do again.

The rest of the road goes smoothly, and even the storm seems to sense what is going to happen, stopping abruptly when you roll up to the street where the house is located.

You and Dave both agreed the day before that you shouldn’t park in front of the place, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention, so instead he stops the car at a respectable distance. His eyes narrow as he scans the area, looking for the escape routes that he already planned out.

You know that look. Not because you have seen him work before, but because you were so careful once too. It was a habit, almost the most important one. Even when you plan out everything beforehand, you can never be too sure about how it’s actually going to play down when the time comes. And in moments like these, escape routes are as necessary as water to a thirsty wanderer.

“There’s a backdoor that leads to the garden, but from there we can get out through the little gate.” He explains it so casually that you think that he might have been here before without you.

“Are you saying that just from the top of your head?”

“No, I know,” he answers grumpily, leaning forward in his seat so he can have a better look at a small alley hidden behind a bush.

A quiet sigh leaves your lips, and you start to play with your fingers, trying to ease the nerves that are raging inside of you, and the poor skin around your nails is the target. Your eyes fall onto the rearview mirror, and a wicked idea crosses your mind.

Without announcing, you unbuckle your seatbelt and start to move around until you are kneeling in the seat.

To your movements Dave looks in your direction, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. You just shake your head with a smirk, leaning over the front seats to try and pick up the gun from the floor. The position makes your dress ride up, and Dave has to focus hard to not look down at your exposed thighs.

You try to stretch as far as you can, and you let out a sound of triumph when your fingers meet the cold metal of his pistol.

Meanwhile Dave is trying to keep his control in check, running the plan through his head again and again, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he spares a glance at you.

His restrain instantly breaks when he sees you still bent over, ass sticking out in the air. He feels himself twitch in his perfectly tailored pants, and he subtly reaches down to try and adjust himself.

God, when was the last time you two had time together? Days? Weeks? Maybe even months? Dave can’t even remember anymore. He was too busy with trying to get back into his old shape, and you were too occupied with nursing him. Dave would be lying to himself if he says that he doesn’t need you.

“Damn it,” he curses under his breath, trying to chase away the images of you naked, moaning his name over and over again.

“Everything alright?” you ask while pretending innocence, returning to your seat and holding out the pistol towards him.

His eyes jump to the gun before he reaches out—only after he makes sure that his other hand is covering his crotch—and takes the Beretta from your hand. He doesn’t dare to look up, knowing well that you have a smirk on your mouth while watching as he tries to control his boner.

“I’m fine,” he clears his throat.

“Can we go then?” you ask, your hand already on the door handle.

“Just give me a few minutes, alright?” he asks, avoiding your eyes. You chuckle softly, opening the door and climbing out. He stays in, but your appreciate the quiet, taking in a deep breath. The fresh air mixes with the smell of rain, and it immediately calms you down.

It seems like a calm neighborhood as you study it. A few dogs barking here and there, the birds chirping on the trees, some looking for food on the ground. No people walking on the streets except one suspiciously intoxicated man who is determined to get close to you.

You try to step closer to the car, signaling him that you are not alone, but it doesn’t do anything.

“Hey. Do you have some fire by any chance?” His words are slurred, the cigarette almost falling out of his mouth as he speaks. You shake your head, and take a step backwards when he leans close to you, the smell of alcohol hitting your nose, a strong contrast to the smell of rain. “Do you want speed?”

You look at him completely confused. Is he really trying to sell you hard drugs in broad daylight?

You shake your head again. He shrugs his shoulders, one hand reaching out towards you, and without any hesitation your palm lands straight on his left cheek with a loud crack.

Dave, who is watching the whole interaction from the car, is trying to control himself and not just climb out of the car and strangle the man in the middle of the street. When he sees the man trying to reach for you, his hand is on the handle in an instant, gun in hand, but he stops his movement, watching the man stumble back from your slap.

You eyes follow the man who suddenly walks away, and you turn your head when you hear the car door shut next to you. Dave is leaning against the car, looking at you with amusement glinting in his eyes. He already put his jacket back on, and you are sure that the gun is resting in the back of his pants again. “That was hot.”

“You never said that it was hot when I slapped you,” you say, smiling at how he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah because those hurt like hell, and I never saw it from the outside.”

“Isn’t there somewhere we need to be?” you ask, starting to walk.

You stop in your tracks when you hear his voice behind you. “Wrong direction, darling. The house is at the other end of the street.”

You let out a heavy sigh as you turn around, watching him stand on the pavement with his hands deep in his pockets. The click of your heels is loud as you walk back to him. You reach out to tug his hand out from his pocket, lacing your fingers with his, and he just lets out a low chuckle as you start to pull him with you now in the right direction.

From the outside you probably seem like a normal couple on their way to a date, dressed in fancy clothes. Not two former assassins ready for their last kill before fleeing to somewhere quieter.

He subtly points towards the house when it comes into view. Your eyes widen at the sight. Not because you haven’t seen it from photos before, but because it looks so much bigger in real life than on some pictures taken with a camera. You are not even sure anymore if it’s considered to be a house or a mansion.

“Are you sure that the man is going to be alone?” you ask with uncertainty in your voice. If he has such a big house then there must be some bodyguards too.

“I’m sure.”

“But what if there are other people in there too? I have a very bad feeling about this whole thing,” you murmur. He stops in his steps, turning towards you. His free hand raises to rest gently on your cheek, his eyes softening at your worried expression.

“It’s going to go as we planned, alright? And if it doesn’t,” he stops, leaning his forehead against yours. “then I have the most beautiful partner in crime, and we’re gonna solve it together.”

“I don’t think my beauty would matter in this.” You shake your head as you pull back slightly, and he just smiles at you.

“It will matter to me because whenever I’ll look at you, I’ll know who I’m killing for.” He finishes it with a soft kiss to your mouth, his stubble scratching against your chin.

When he breaks the kiss you look up at him, a soft giggle leaving your lips. “That wasn’t really romantic.”

“Let’s see how you’ll like it when I actually do it,” he murmurs, squeezing down on your hand before turning you both towards the house, starting to walk again with a newly found positivity.

From up close the mansion is even more beautiful. The walls are solid, bright white like a storm hasn’t just passed by. You admire the little garden full of different and colorful flowers as you climb up the steps of the house.

It all just seems so peaceful. Little bees doing their job, birds jumping in the well-cut grass while looking for earthworms that came out of hiding after the rain washed over the ground.

But your heart still can’t settle.

The warmth of Dave’s hand in yours — a gesture that usually calmed you — is now like a kiss to death, not having any effect. And the smell of the rain is not calming you anymore either.

Dave turns to you one last time when you reach the door, raising your joined hands to place a soft kiss on yours before letting go. He hits the button on the intercom next to you on the wall, waiting patiently.

The wait isn’t long, but it is enough for your thoughts to start racing again. The reality of the situation hits you with such force that you are scared of putting up a show by having a panic attack.

You don’t remember being this panicked and scared before in any of your missions. Not even your first one. So why does this feel so different?

Your body tenses when you hear the low male voice coming from the intercom. “Yeah?”

You step back slightly, letting Dave speak, but you still try to force a friendly smile on your face to not look too suspicious.

“Sir, I’m Mr. Sinclair, and,” he looks at you, guiding you more into the camera of the intercom. “This is my wife, Mrs. Sinclair. We tried to arrive a bit earlier, so we could have more time to discuss the details of the offer.”

“Ah, that’s amazing. Please, come in.”

You hear a soft beep followed by the click of the front door as it swings open.

You see an older man standing there in perfectly tailored suit with grey hair and well-kept beard, an inviting smile on his face as he holds out his hand towards Dave.

Your husband accepts it, shaking the man’s hand firmly. You just look from the side, not really sure what to do, but then the older man’s eyes turn in your direction. He releases Dave’s hand, and he comes closer to you, taking your hand in his as he places a soft kiss on the back of it.

Exactly where Dave’s lips were just minutes ago.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, but you dare to spare a glance at your husband next to you.

His jaw is clenched, eyes focused on that small area of your skin where the man is still touching you. You can see so many things playing behind his lashes. Impatience, disgust, but what’s the most visible is protectiveness.

Relief floods you when the man finally let’s go of your hand, and you let out a soft sigh. He steps into the house again, inviting you inside, and with Dave’s hand on the small of your back you step through the door.

The brightness of the mansion hits you unexpectedly, and you have to squint your eyes for a second.

The whole place looks like you just stepped into a movie or a book where the main character is rich, and can’t put their money anywhere else so they buy a modern house instead. But the luxury can’t calm you either.

“Would you like something to drink?” the man asks, his eyes traveling back and forth between you and Dave. You shake your head, rejecting the offer, and Dave mimics you. The man just shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders as he leads you further into the mansion. “Either way, I’m going to get myself something strong.”

Your eyes meet Dave’s beside you, your hand instinctively moving on your bag, the outline of the poison pressing into your palm. He nods just a little so only you can see it.

“Mr. Bennet,” Dave says his name, and the old man looks at him after he pours himself a glass of whiskey. “Can I use the bathroom?”

The man squints his eyes in suspicion, but he places his glass down, walking around the counter to put his hand on Dave’s shoulder and start guiding him out of the kitchen area. Dave looks at you one last time, lips pursing as he nods, and finally disappears with Mr. Bennet.

You are not sure what to do.

Years ago you were more confident when it came to killing. Pouring poison into someone’s drink without hesitation. Shooting people in the head without thinking twice. Snapping someone’s neck, the sound of the bones cracking reminding you of someone walking on twigs and dried leaves. Something so strong that it can keep together a human being, but still so fragile when the person twists it correctly.

Your hand disappears inside your bag, and you pull out the small vial of poison. You turn it around a few times, watching how the liquid flows in it.

Your eyes then fall on the glass of whiskey left on the counter, and without hesitation you step closer. With one last look towards the door of the kitchen you unscrew the vial, pouring the content of it into the glass, watching how the transparent liquid mixes with the golden one.

You swirl the glass a few times before you put away the vial.

And you wait.

You try to look as natural as possible, but the nerves bleed through your facade. You’re walking up and down, playing with the strap of your bag, looking out the window.

You have a clear view of the huge backyard, and a smile creeps onto your face when you see the flowers neatly planted in a line. But your smile instantly fades when you hear a loud thud coming from upstairs followed by a loud gunshot.

At first you think Dave couldn’t wait, and saw the perfect moment to attack, but then you hear the sounds of struggling and fighting, and you are on alert in an instant.

You walk out slowly from the kitchen, going in the direction of the stairs. You climb the steps carefully while in your head you are trying to come up with an idea on how to attack without gaining too much attention.

But the sight that welcomes you on top of the stairs is not something that you are prepared for.

It isn’t just Dave anymore and Mr. Bennet. There are unknown men dressed all in black. Five of them. Dave is fighting for his life, trying to push back one of the man who has him in a choke hold, elbowing him in the ribs a few times.

You gather everything in yourself not to make a big entrance. Instead you quickly walk to one of the walls, hiding behind it, and you start measuring your chances.

The men are far stronger than you, that’s not a question. But you know that you have a long history of killing and attacking without anyone noticing. You also know that Dave can hold out a bit longer.

You try to look around, your eyes searching for Mr. Bennet, but you can’t find him in the chaos.

Dave lets out a loud grunt as he leans his head back forcefully, and all you can see is the man stumbling back, holding his bleeding nose. You still don’t say anything, but it is almost like Dave senses your presence because he looks in your direction. He knows he can’t allow himself the luxury of watching you too long for two reasons. One, he would become an easy target if his attention shifts somewhere for a long time. And two, he would give your hiding spot away.

He moves effortlessly between the men, and your eyes widen when he gets behind one of them, easily letting a bullet in their head.

The man falls hits the ground, a pool of blood immediately spreading around his head. A bloody halo.

One down, four more to go.

You still don’t know what to do. It is almost like your body is paralyzed, and all you can do is watch how Dave takes down two more men.

One man is left for him, and one is left for you. But when you finally decide to move from behind the wall, strong hands pull you back. Your survival instincts kick in, and you try everything you learned back in the day to get out of the unknown man’s hold. But your eyes widen the moment you throw your head back in an effort to see the man better.

Because it is not one of Bennet’s men. It is Mr. Bennet himself.

He looks at you with a chilling smile, and you let out a loud sound close to a scream, close to a painful moan as his hand falls around your neck and squeezes it down.

You try to keep your breathing in check, trying to not use up as much oxygen as you would usually do, but the panic sets in as he squeezes down harder. Your vision starts to blur, and you can only hear the sound of fighting faintly now.

“You two really thought that I wouldn’t be prepared?” you hear his voice beside your ear, but you don’t have enough energy to answer.

But before your world turns completely black, the hands disappear from your throat, and you fall forward against the wall. Your vision is still blurry, hands shaking, and you take deep and long breaths, your lungs filling with oxygen again.

Your ears are ringing, but even through the unwanted sound you can hear loud grunts and bones cracking.

When you look back, you see Mr. Bennet laying on the ground while Dave is straddling his chest, punches raining down against the old man’s face.

The deep red color of blood swims into your vision too, and now you can see clearly how bloody Mr. Bennet’s face is, as well as Dave’s knuckles. Though you don’t know anymore if it’s only the old man’s blood or if it is already mixed with Dave’s.

Either way, your husband sees red. His knuckles are raw from the punches, but he doesn’t stop. He feels tired, but he gathers more energy with each attack. He doesn’t look to the side. Only one goal floats in front of his eyes.

Killing Mr. Bennet.

You move slowly, crawling across the floor to the struggling bodies. You place your hand on Dave’s back, but he doesn’t look back at you, doesn’t stop his punches. So you move your hand upwards, caressing the hand he is holding down Mr. Bennet with.

Still nothing.

So you do what you think might work.

“Dave, stop,” you call out softly, placing your hands on his face and turning it towards you. He falters for a second, his messed up hand hovering in the air for a second before he let it fall beside his body.

“Are you… Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. Then you see his gaze shift down to your throat, and by the way he purses his lips you already know that bruises started to form where the man’s hand was squeezing down.

“I’m okay, but we need to go,” you remind him, and you can see the hesitation in his eyes as he looks back at the man laying motionless under him.

“I said that I would kill for you,” he says, glancing back at you with a determined look. “He’s not dead yet.”

“Dave, he’ll suffer enough even like this. We have to go. Now.”

“No,” he shakes his head, reaching for his gun. “A job is only done when we kill our man. Or did you already forget that? You worked in this for years too. You should know the rules.”

His words and tone suddenly hit you, and it all just makes you see even clearer. It isn’t the bruise on your neck that causes you pain. It is his words. Because he knows all too well that you tried so hard to forget everything about your past, that you tried to live a normal life without remembering any of these rules.

You know it is not him speaking, that it is just the adrenaline working, but it still hurts.

So you slowly push yourself to a standing position, looking down at him. “I’ll be waiting in front of the house.”

You see the way he slightly nods, but his mouth stays closed, and without another word you turn around. Your steps are still a bit unsure, and you need to hold on to the railing as you go down the stairs.

You don’t look back when you close the front door behind you, but you let out a long, relieved sigh. You lean against one of the walls, throwing your head back, and closing your eyes, thinking about what just happened.

There was supposed to be only Mr. Bennet in the house. He was supposed to be an easy target. And instead Dave needed to take down five men by himself, and also end Mr. Bennet’s life while all you could do was watch from behind a wall.

You feel guilty for not being able to do anything. You curse under your breath as you reach up to comb through your hair, and try to look more decent. You pull down your dress, and then you fix the strap of your bag so it sits strap comfortably against your shoulder.

You jump a little when the door opens minutes after.

Dave appears beside you, and it seems like he took a quick trip to the bathroom because his hand is not drenched in blood anymore. His eyes immediately fall on you, and he steps closer. His hand reaches for yours. “I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes at the apology, the words rolling off his tongue softer than he was with you upstairs. “We’ll talk about it at home, alright?”

He nods before he starts walking, pulling you with him, and you follow wordlessly. The enormous mansion becomes smaller and smaller with each step you take away from it, and deep inside you are grateful that both of you made it out of there safe and sound.

You go through the same street which you walked through when you arrived here. The only difference is the six lifeless body that you left in there instead of only one.

Your car comes into view, and you sigh heavily at the sight of it.

This time Dave doesn’t open the passenger door for you, but you don’t mind. The most important right now is getting away as soon as you can, and that means moving as fast as possible.

The engine roars to life as Dave turns the key, and in seconds he is already pulling out of the street. You don’t miss the way he looks in your direction in the rearview mirror though, and you appreciate the gesture when he places his hand on your knee in an attempt at grounding you. You return it, placing your hand on top of his like you did before when you were rushing to get to the house, and you squeeze down.

In that moment a quiet, relieved laugh breaks out of him, and the soft sound pulls you in too. You are laughing and chuckling in the car, something completely surreal given the fact that Dave just took away the life of six people.

“I fucking love you,” he says between two laugh, glancing to the side at you.

“I love you too,” you say it back. And then you lean closer to him, placing your chin on his shoulder, your mouth grazing his ear as you speak softly. “But you really shouldn’t have shot that poor old man.”

“A rule is a rule.”

“Yeah, but he would’ve suffered enough even like this, and then eventually he would have died because of the head injuries you caused him.”

“I may be a heartless bastard when it comes to killing,” he starts. You open your mouth to cut him off, not liking what he is about to say, but he shoots you a warning look. “But I don’t like to see people suffer. I messed him up good, and then I set him free,” he finishes. But then he turns his head to the side, and your noses are touching. “And anyway, he deserved it. He touched what’s mine.”

“Ah, getting possessive, Mr. York?”

“I’m not possessive. I just want people to know to not mess with my woman.”

“I don’t know. That sounds pretty possessive to me,” you wonder. He rolls his eyes before he turns his attention back towards the road. But you don’t lean back into the passenger seat.

Instead you lean closer to his neck, starting to place soft kisses to the exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt. From the corner of your eye you can see him flex his jaw, and you can hear him let out a strained sigh. “If you continue this then we’ll have to pull to the side,” he says.

You smirk into his skin at the sound of his words. Then you pull your hand away from his that is resting on your knee, placing it on his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. He slightly jumps in his seat at the contact, and the car swerves a little before he gains back control over it.

“Don’t do that,” he says in a dangerous tone, but you don’t listen to him, letting your hands wander further upwards. Without warning you place your hand on the front of his pants, palming him through the fabric. He lets out a strained breath, gripping the wheel tighter with one hand, and squeezing down on your knee with the other as you lean close to his ear again.

“Pull to the side, Dave.”

He nods, and the next chance he gets, he immediately pulls the car to the side of the road. He stops the engine, and turns towards you with a surprising speed, crashing his mouth against yours with raw hunger and need.

Your free hand falls on his shoulder, and you let it travel back into the curls at the nape of his neck while your other hand fumbles with his belt buckle. You let out a frustrated sigh, and Dave chuckles at the sound. Suddenly he pulls your hand away from his prominent bulge, and he pushes you back deeper into your seat without breaking your heated kiss.

“You’re lucky everyone decided to stay home today and there’s no one on the road,” he mumbles when you break away to take some fresh oxygen into your lungs.

Suddenly everything feels too much and not enough at the same time. His hand on your knee, his hot skin against yours, burning, and still not enough. Still not somewhere where you need him the most.

“Dave, please,” you say with need, and you almost don’t recognise your voice as it echoes in the small space.

Dave shushes you with another kiss, but this time he moves lower along your jaw, down to the side of your neck. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he lets out a low groan. He moves his hand up from your knee, and your legs instinctively open at his needy touch.

He explores your inner thigh like it’s his first time touching you.

And God, you waited for this moment for months now.

His hand reaches your underwear, and you throw your head back at the feeling as he runs his fingers back and forth over the wet material.

“Jesus, darling, you’re so wet for me,” he whispers into your neck. “And only from me telling you that you’re mine?”

All you can manage is a small nod, but that is all he needs. He pushes your underwear to the side, and he runs his thumb over your bare and wet folds. A moan leaves your lips when his thumb catches on your clit, and he smirks into your skin as he starts drawing slow circles over it. Testing, afraid that he forgot what you like and what you don’t.

But the way you say his name calms him, and he gets braver with his movements.

With that small part of your mind that is still clear you make a decision.

You reach over for his belt again, this time unbuckling it with success. Then you quickly undo his pants’ button, and pull down his zipper too impatiently. When your hand touches the fabric of his briefs, you don’t hesitate to reach into it, wrapping your fingers around him. He moves his hips up, chasing the feeling, and you smile at that, but it quickly turns into a moan when he easily eases one finger into you.

You capture his lips with yours as he starts to move his finger in and out of you at a steady rhythm. You drag your hand up and down on his cock, stopping at the top to gather some of his precum on your thumb and spread it over him as you start to stroke him again.

He grunts into your mouth, bucking his hips up into your palm as you speed up your movements.

The moment he pushes a second finger into you, you throw your head back against the seat, your mouth opening around a silent moan. The break of the kiss makes him move down to your throat, and your free hand falls on the back of his head to keep him there.

With his thumb he starts drawing circles around your clit again, and your hand falters on his cock when he speeds up his fingers.

You can feel your orgasm building, the heat getting unbearable in your lower belly. Your fingers pull at his curls, and he groans into the crook of your neck at the feeling.

“Dave, I’m going to—”

“It’s alright. Come for me, baby,” he mumbles against your skin.

Your high crashes over you, and you lean forward in his touch as the waves wash through your body. Your hand from his hair falls to his wrist as he lets you ride it out.

When it seems like your brain has cleared out, you dare to open your eyes and look at him. You are met with his dark brown orbs, and you smile at the sight. A soft moan leaves your lips when he retreats his fingers from you and pulls your underwear back into its place, and that’s when you realize that your hand is still wrapped around his cock, and he’s still unsatisfied.

“Oh, shit, I’m sor—”

You can’t finish your apology because he captures your mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he tells you in a warning tone between two kisses, and all you can do is nod.

But when you start moving your fist again, he is completely gone. He leans his forehead against yours, mouth opening slightly as he tries to hold back his own groans of pleasure.

You missed seeing his face like this from up close. You missed seeing how he tries to keep things together.

But right now you can see that he won’t last long. Months of pent-up tension and need is being released right now as you stroke him faster, and he can’t help but wrap his own hand around yours — not to control your moves, but to follow them.

And suddenly his face contorts in pleasure, eyebrows pulled together, a loud gasp escaping his lips as he pulses in your hand. He spills over your knuckles over and over again, and you don’t stop stroking him until every last drop comes out. His hand wandered up to your wrist, holding on tight as the muscles in his thigh tense at the last wave of his high.

When your strokes feel too overwhelming, too much, he pulls your hand away, and you understand without words.

“I made a mess,” he finally speaks, his eyes looking at your hand covered in his come.

“I don’t care.”

“You probably should,” he says, but his eyes widen when you raise your hand to your mouth, licking down the evidence of his pleasure. You can see his now softening cock twitch slightly at the sight, but you are too lost at the salty taste of him. When your hand is clean, he still looks at you with stunned expression, and you smile at his words. “That was hot.”

“You said that too when I slapped that man on the street,” you remind him.

He groans loudly at the memory, like it was physically hurting him to think about how hot you looked defending yourself.

“Because it’s true.”

“Right,” you say with an unbelieving smile, patting his thigh and then pointing at his exposed cock. “Tuck yourself away before I decide to do something else too.”

“Right. Yeah, of course,” he answers quickly, hurrying to pull his briefs up again, and try to button his pants again. While he is trying, your eyes wander up to his face, and a smile creeps onto yours at seeing his flushed skin.

You still can’t believe that this is the same man who can kill people without wincing. He is just so different with you. Caring, loving, helping out whenever he can. You still can’t forget about those times when he just lets you rest and does all the housework. Except cooking.

He’s a terrible cook. Once he almost burnt down the whole kitchen by accident, just because he wanted to surprise you with pancakes in the morning.

“Can we go?” He breaks you out of your thoughts again, and you nod, sending him an encouraging smile.

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” he mumbles under his breath, starting the car again and pulling back on the road. His hand finds its place on your thigh again, and your gaze immediately falls onto his skin against yours, and you can’t concentrate on anything else for the rest of the ride.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @eviispunk, @baronessvonglitter, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @nutbutterjellie, @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa

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