#facepuller

[potter-solomons]

this motherfucker. speechless.

*tom, charlotte, and family enjoying France, Italy, and Barbados while on break*

*we do not body shame here. he is not fat. he has a six pack, dude is thick muscle.*

[artcdecos]

Lucky Wife

Harry da Souza x Fem!reader

Summary:When everything falls apart and you think it’s over, he’s right there — just to remind you that you can never leave him.

Warnings: Explicit content.

You never imagined you'd end up marrying Harry. Not him. And definitely not you with someone like him. What was supposed to be just a one-night stand after too many drinks in one of London’s hottest clubs turned out to be something else entirely for him.

The next day, he showed up at your job. That unshakable posture, broad shoulders, ridiculously fucking hot. But he wasn’t really your type. That whole untouchable, emotionless, nothing-gets-to-me vibe? It would never work with someone like you — friends, money, drinks, casual sex... that was more your thing.

But he wanted you. And that was enough for him not to let go.

Everything between you two moved fast. Too fast. You barely knew each other — and somehow, you still said yes when he asked you to marry him while fucking you against the kitchen wall.

He was never completely honest. But then again, how could he be? How was he supposed to look you in the eye and say “I kill people for a living”?

But that night... that night when the cops burst into your apartment while you were sleeping peacefully in his arms, that was it. He didn’t say much. He didn’t want to. But when you threw a vase at his head, he had no choice but to confess — still sugarcoating it like a coward.

Now, the relationship was a fucking ghost of what it used to be. He barely touched you. Slept on the damn couch more than in your bed. Kisses were rare. Sex? You couldn't even remember the last time you felt him inside you.

Time passed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. And the silence became unbearable. He was your husband, not some disposable piece of furniture. You hid it behind fake smiles and that confident, unfazed attitude you wore like armor.

But that night, you broke.

He walked into the house and didn’t even look at you. No “Hey, babe, I’m home.” Just straight to the bedroom, glued to his phone. Like whatever was on there mattered more than you.

Your heart pounded as you climbed the stairs, but disappointment was louder than fear. If it took asking for a divorce to make him look at you again, then fuck it.

You slammed the door open so hard the handle hit the wall. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still staring at the goddamn screen. You didn’t wait — you grabbed the phone and threw it across the room.

"You gonna say something? Or just keep looking like a fucking idiot like you’ve been for months?" you snapped.

He stood up, frowning. But you didn’t move.

He could kill, beat the shit out of people, get blood on his hands every day — but in this house, he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.

"You out of your fucking mind?" he barked, eyes locked on yours.

"You even realize it’s been months, Harry?! Months of you walking through that door without a damn ‘hi’. Months of you disappearing in the middle of the night like the fucking streets are your home while I sit here hoping you come back — or that the next person who rings the doorbell isn’t the police telling me you’re dead!"

"Oh, sorry, princess. I’ll try to text next time I’m in the middle of a fucking shootout," he bit back, voice dripping in sarcasm like none of this fucking mattered.

"Go fuck yourself, Harry," you hissed, storming toward the closet, yanking your suitcase out and shoving clothes in without even folding them.

He leaned in the doorway, just watching. You didn’t have to look to know his eyes were all over you.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" he finally said, voice mocking.

"For a professional killer, you’re really slow at noticing I’m leaving," you shot back, zipping up the suitcase and turning to face him. "I want a divorce, Harry."

He just stared. Blank face. Calm breathing. Relaxed body. Like he wasn’t hearing any of it.

It drove you insane.

You grabbed your bag and walked past him — or tried to.

Because then, you felt it.

His hand on your waist. That grip. Brutal, but careful. Like he knew exactly how to ruin you.

He shoved you against the wall, caging you with his body.

"You look so fucking hot like this..." he growled, burying his face in your neck, teeth sinking into your skin.

You closed your eyes, tried to fight it. Your hands hit his chest, trying to push him off. But God, you didn’t want him to stop. You needed it. Craved it. And he fucking knew.

He lifted you with ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct. He carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing.

As your back hit the mattress, your thighs opened for him like they remembered exactly what he felt like. His mouth stayed on your neck — biting, sucking, kissing.

"Why now, Harry?..." you gasped between soft moans, hating the power he had over your body. "Why are you doing this now?"

He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t care — because he did. And he knew he was the one who ruined everything.

His hand slid down, popped open your jeans, and dove straight into your panties. His fingers found your soaked core, and a dark smirk spread across his lips.

"Always so wet for me. Always fucking ready for me," he muttered.

He shoved the fabric aside, rubbing your clit with his thumb, slipping one finger inside you slow and deep.

A moan escaped your lips as your hips moved into his touch. You were starving for it. He kissed you hard — no sweetness, no pause, just teeth, tongue, need.

Another finger stretched you open. You tried to turn your head, but he gripped your jaw and kept your mouth on his.

Your hand found his jeans, unbuttoned them, yanked the zipper.

"Take those fucking pants off," you demanded.

He backed up just enough to shove them down, but one hand stayed between your thighs, working your pussy with precision.

You barely processed it as he ripped your clothes off, tossing them across the room. Then he flipped you over, grabbed your hips, and pulled your ass up for him.

And then — he slammed inside.

But he didn’t move. Not yet. He leaned down, pulled your hair to the side, and whispered:

"You want that fucking divorce?"

His voice wasn’t serious. It was cocky. Dirty. He knew what the fuck he was doing as he started thrusting, each stroke harder than the last.

"Say it now, baby. Say you want that divorce and I’ll walk out."

But you couldn’t speak. The only sound leaving your mouth was broken, needy moans. The way he pounded into you — like he was trying to fuck the fight right out of you — was driving you insane.

He yanked you upright, your back flush against his chest, your arms wrapped around his neck. One hand on your clit, circling fast. Messy. Filthy. Perfect.

Bodies slapping. Moans. Breathless kisses. His cock buried deep. It was chaos and heaven all at once.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, squeezing around him. Your body went limp, but he held you steady.

A few more thrusts and he spilled inside you with a groan. Your bodies collapsed onto the bed. He stayed inside you for a moment, panting against your skin.

When he finally pulled out, he laid beside you, wrapping you in his arms. Legs tangled under the sheets, fingers softly stroking your hair.

That broke you. You’d been begging for this — not just the sex, but this. The attention. The love. And now that it was here, you couldn’t walk away. Not when you loved him. Not when he was everything you needed.

"I know I’ve been fucking up," he said softly. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, pretty girl. I do. That’s all that fucking matters."

"I just want my husband back, Harry. The one who was here... even when I didn’t ask him to be."

"I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Just... trust me."

He kissed your forehead, lips lingering. You curled into him, finally feeling the weight fall off your chest.

"E da próxima vez", ele sussurrou, com um sorriso brincalhão, "talvez não jogue meu telefone na parede."

You laughed, because he was here. And somehow, that was enough.

Because no matter how fucked up it all was... Being in his arms still made everything feel okay.

[jelly-rei]

Have a Jolly day and enjoy these festive Tom pics 😋🥰

[alfiestreacle]

my bb tommy 🎀

sobbing.

[daryldixonnn]

tom<3

[kahhardy86]

Unspoken agreement

Pairing: Patrick Walker x OC

AN: Hi, this is my first fanfic, and I decided to start with Detective Walker! I just love the character and he inspired me so much! In advance, sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes, since English is not my first language. Comment if you like!

Word count: 3100k Summary: Detective Patrick Walker never liked working with a partner. But ever since Sam Harris took that place, his life had become much more complicated, both on and off the job. Especially when she decided to provoke him in the worst possible way.

Warnings: Smut, oral sex (male receiving), dirty talk

The party hall of the 12th District police union had been specially decorated for the occasion. All the department colleagues and even some he didn’t know were gathered there, in a fake formality that Detective Patrick Walker despised with every fiber of his being.

Leaning against the bar counter, he held a heavy glass, the ice already melting at the bottom. His tie was loose, and the sleeve of his black dress shirt was rolled up, revealing part of a tattoo on his forearm. On his wrist, an expensive watch adorned his look, along with the silver ring he always wore on his index finger.

It was Captain Dawson’s birthday. The entire squad was there. Even the retired ones. Even the ones he couldn’t stand to look at anymore. Walker hated parties. Hated fake smiles. And hated even more having been forced to come.

Then she walked in.

Sam Harris. Twenty-eight years old. Stubbornness well distributed over 5’4” and sarcasm per square inch. Her dress was black, plain, discreet — and still somehow seemed to challenge everything around her. She walked like she didn’t owe anyone anything. Her brown hair was styled differently, with perfect, defined waves that made the frame of her face even more beautiful.

Walker didn’t look away. Didn’t even pretend to. He never did.

Sam was his partner, but not by his choice: Walker worked well alone, and definitely didn’t need anyone to share the space in his car on any investigation.

But a few months ago, he had been forced to take the girl with him, teaching her a bit of what he had learned in his years on the force. He hated it. Hated her. And it was mutual.

They didn’t get along and everyone at the station knew it. It was obvious and they didn’t care to hide it. They barely spoke, except to work or argue about anything.

And of course, when they had sex.

A few months back, they had fallen into a dangerous and unhealthy dynamic. They were sleeping together, even though that was the one thing they should never have done. However, it had become impossible to prevent those out-of-line encounters from continuing to happen between them.

And slowly, more and more, this unusual attraction between them was making the relationship increasingly complicated.

Sam greeted Evans and his wife with two kisses. Laughed at something Ramirez said. Shook Lieutenant Frank’s hand as if they were old friends. She exchanged quick hugs and short conversations with colleagues scattered around the room. But when her eyes met Walker’s, she simply looked away. Walked past. As if he were just another part of the scenery.

It was on purpose. He knew.

She took a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and stood near a group of three forensic colleagues. She didn’t sit. Didn’t relax. Sam never relaxed in public, but she exuded that disconcerting aura of self-sufficiency, of someone who prefers to be alone because she’s used to not needing anyone.

Walker twirled the whiskey glass between his fingers, watching from the corner of his eye. It had been weeks since the two had exchanged more than dry phrases between one report and another. But their silence was loud. Like an internal siren only they could hear.

At first, Walker didn’t notice the movement. He was too busy staring at the bottom of the empty glass, feeling his throat burn slightly as the ice melted into the remaining whiskey. But when he looked again, he was there.

Reynolds.

The rookie at the station stood next to her, leaning slightly, with too wide a smile. Sam listened attentively, or pretended to. And that was enough.

Walker watched from a distance, chin resting on his hand, eyes narrowed. There was no sound there, he couldn’t hear the conversation. But he knew the type well. New guy at the station, wanting to make an impression, show charm.

And Sam was letting him.

She let Reynolds talk, let him smile, let him get closer with that overly cordial demeanor. And worse, she responded. Not in tone. But in gesture. In the slight lean of her body, the way she crossed her arms under her chest as if to emphasize the curve of her shoulders, how she tilted her head and smiled half-lipped. Sam Harris knew the effect she had. She knew when she was being desired. She knew how to use that. And there, in that stuffy hall, surrounded by colleagues, she was using all of it against one man.

Against him.

Walker didn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t. He was surrounded by people who knew them. People who knew they were partners. Who assumed, in fact, that they hated each other, and that, at least, was true. He and Harris couldn’t stand each other. Never had.

From the first day, she infuriated him. With her overly independent ways, sharp comebacks, the habit of disobeying orders just to prove a point. And he, with his closed-off demeanor, loaded silence, and that brooding pride of someone who’d seen too much shit to want company. Sam came to the force pushed in by the department, a new woman, too young for his taste, too bold to sit in the backseat. Her promotion came fast. Smart, sharp, a precise nose for detecting lies.

But the two of them together? It was like throwing gasoline on a fire.

They worked well, where it mattered. In the field. In investigations. They could read crime scenes like reading a map. But outside of that… they were a disaster. A disaster that was becoming more and more dangerous and extremely explosive.

And then it happened. Sam slightly turned her head, as if adjusting her hair behind her ear, and her eyes, for a brief second, locked onto his.

Walker didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

It was as if the entire hall had stopped. The music, the laughter, the conversations around... all gone. There was only that stare.

And there was something there. A silent mockery. It was like she wanted the satisfaction of knowing he was watching, that he was noticing how much she was being desired by another guy.

Sam held the glass as an extension of her body. Long fingers, a carefree posture, absolute control of the situation. Reynolds was still talking. She was still smiling. But her gaze was fixed on Walker.

And then, subtly, she looked at Reynolds. Briefly touched his arm. Then laughed and took another sip of her drink.

Walker felt his jaw clench. That was a message. She was provoking him. She knew he was watching. She knew he was swallowing every gesture, every silent word, every fake flirt. And she liked it.

Damn her.

He gripped the glass until the ice cracked. A muscle pulsed on the side of his neck.

No one there knew anything. Didn’t even suspect. They didn’t know she had been in his bed, hot breath on his neck, moaning his name softly as if she hated to say it. They didn’t know that two weeks ago she had pushed him against the wall of the men’s restroom at the homicide division and kissed him like she wanted to hit him. They didn’t know he had left purple marks on her waist more than once, and that she wore long coats for days afterward. No one there knew how many times she had been on her knees for him in the confinement of their office, giving him so much pleasure that it was hard to hide the noises he made.

That was a secret.

A dirty little secret. Like everything between them.

Walker knew that if he stood up now, crossed the hall and pulled her out of there, no one would understand. But she would. She was provoking him because she wanted that. The tension. The fury. The reaction.

But he wouldn’t give it.

Not there.

So he did what he’d learned to do ever since Sam came into his life: swallowed it. Swallowed the anger, the desire, the almost primal urge to drag her out by the hair and remind her who she was provoking.

Reynolds said something that made Sam laugh louder — a laugh she usually reserved for genuinely good jokes, but that now had a forced, almost theatrical taste. And then she did it.

Touched her hair, tossing it to the side in too smooth a motion. Her neck was exposed, her chest too. She slightly tilted her body, as if pretending to find balance, and rested her hand on Reynolds’ shoulder. The touch lasted more than three seconds. Long. Intentional.

Walker looked away for a moment, just to avoid making a scene. He placed the empty glass on the counter, not taking his eyes off her for long. It was as if every gesture of that woman was a direct attack on his sanity. She knew. She was calculating every detail.

When he looked at her again, she had already stepped away. She was heading toward the side exit of the hall, the glass still in hand, her hips moving with that lazy, sensual rhythm she used whenever she wanted attention, or to punish someone with it.

Walker knew what that meant.

Sam wanted to be followed.

He didn’t make a scene. Waited a few seconds, just enough not to arouse suspicion. Then adjusted his shirt sleeve, left the glass behind and walked through the hall discreetly, like someone going for a smoke or taking a call. Passed through the side door without saying a word.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit, with the muffled sound of the party in the background. Walker had no trouble finding her. Sam was standing by the door of a unisex bathroom, her eyes fixed on the doorknob. As if she was thinking about going in or not. As if she was waiting for him. She heard footsteps approaching but didn’t turn around. She just went inside.

Walker followed her in and locked the door.

The sound of the latch echoed louder than it should have, and the silence that followed was as heavy as the hot air between them.

“I knew you’d come” she said, without looking at him, staring at her own reflection in the small bathroom’s stained mirror. The cold light accentuated the shadows on her face. “You always do.”

“What the hell was that, Harris?” his voice came low, hoarse. Full of tension. “Are you messing with me?”

She turned slowly, leaning on the cracked marble sink.

“Messing? I was just talking. Reynolds is nice. Different from you, at least he tries to be friendly.”

Walker took a step forward.

“Friendly? You think I have patience for your games right now? You did that just to piss me off.”

“And it worked, didn’t it, Walker?” she shot back quickly, her eyes shining with challenge. “You are here.”

Walker got closer. Now, there was less than a meter between them.

“I came because you pissed me off. Because you want to play with fire and think you won’t get burned.”

Sam took a step too.

“And if I want to get burned? Will you put me out?”

There were sparks between them. Neither of them smiled. Neither blinked. It was a declared war, and they both knew it.

“You love pissing me off.” he growled. “Always testing my fucking limits.”

“And you love losing control.” she fired back, her face so close he could smell her sweet perfume mixed with alcohol. “You look so cute when you’re jealous.”

Walker grabbed her chin, firmly, without any gentleness.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling. You’re just a good fuck... nothing more.”

She didn’t back down, nor was she intimidated by the way he cut her off.

“That’s what you keep saying, Detective Walker. So let me go back inside and continue talking with Reynolds...”

Walker grabbed her waist tightly, pushing her against the sink. She let out a muffled laugh, her light brown eyes meeting his blue ones with confidence and challenge. He moistened his lips and brought his face close to hers, his eyes dangerously tracing her lips.

“Stop provoking me, Harris.”

“Or what, Detective Walker?” she smiled dismissively, her eyes now locked on his lips. “What do you intend to do with me here, in this bathroom?”

“I’m going to teach you some respect for me, Harris.”

The kiss came like a collision. Nothing delicate. Nothing gentle. It was fury, anger, and lust mixed together. Their bodies crashed in the tight space, hands pulling at clothes, mouths fighting for dominance. She moaned as he lifted her, seating her on the sink with controlled brutality.

Walker ran his hand under her dress, feeling the warm, firm skin trembling with desire.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured against her neck. “Love provoking me, just to end up like this.”

“And you love pretending you hate me” she gasped, clutching the back of his neck. “But you chase me every time.”

He pulled back slightly, a dangerous gleam on his handsome face. Walker lowered her from the sink and pulled her close, gripping her hair tightly with his right hand. Sam tried to break free, but he smiled.

“Oh, no, baby. You’re going to learn not to push my buttons in public, huh?”

“Let go, asshole...” She protested, but not entirely seriously. Their game was always like this, a complete fight for dominance, which he often won.

“Get on your knees, love.” He whispered, still holding her hair and pulling her down.

Sam didn’t resist, though she looked slightly annoyed. She knelt in front of him, resigned, her eyes rising to meet his right there. Walker gave a small smile as he loosened his belt with his left hand, without taking his eyes off hers. The girl moistened her lips in anticipation, the irritation she felt slowly giving way to the adrenaline and excitement of that encounter in public, in such an inappropriate place.

Without much hesitation, he put his cock out of his pants, and she let out a faint gasp as he pulled her closer by the hair with a certain firmness. The young woman met his gaze again, a spark of defiance flickering in her eyes. Walker smiled once more, holding himself at the base and brushing his cock lightly against her lips, while his other hand kept a tight grip on her hair to keep her close.

“Open your mouth, darling.”

She obeyed without hesitation. Her lips enveloped his fat cock in a single, fluid motion, her tongue gently tracing the tip and the opening, tasting the faint essence that lingered there.

Walker tilted his head back, a low groan escaping his lips in response.

Sam looked up at him as she slowly took him deeper, inch by inch, until her nose pressed against his abdomen.

He held her there for a moment, and she gave a soft gag.

“Good girl...”

He gently pulled her back by the hair, guiding her off of him. A thin strand of saliva connected the tip of his length to her lips, and Sam let out a soft cough.

“Come on, baby... you can take it... suck me just right.”

He released her hair and placed both hands on his own waist. Sam offered a wicked smile before taking him into her mouth again, this time with deliberate eagerness. She moved up and down, letting the slickness guide her rhythm, aroused by every muffled moan that escaped from Walker’s lips.

She took him in deeply, then withdrew with precision, swirling her tongue around the tip before descending once more, sucking with the practiced pressure she knew he craved.

As she skillfully worked her mouth along his length, her right hand reached down to gently massage his balls, drawing a shudder from his legs.

She smiled and let his cock slip from her lips, stroking him with quick, steady movements while she worked his balls, sensual, submissive, and entirely devoted to giving him pleasure.

“That’s it... you look even more beautiful like this, with my cock full in your mouth, you know that?”

She looked up at him again, then took him back in, her pace now more intense, clearly enjoying the way he moaned helplessly every time her tongue teased the tip.

Walker grabbed her hair again, pulling her away from his length, and she laughed. He held the base of his shaft once more, now pressing his thick, hard dick against her face.

“ Open your mouth, Sam.”

She obeyed without hesitation, and he then began to slowly fuck her mouth at first, going deep with every thrust, making her cough lightly as he hit her throat. But she endured. She always endured. In fact, she loved the way he subdued her when he wanted relief, the way he dominated her in bed and always left her wanting more.

It was a dangerous, dirty dynamic... but deliciously pleasurable for both of them.

Sam let him take her mouth without resistance, savoring every second of it, every muffled moan he released, every time the head of his cock hit her throat.

She loved it, even if she wouldn’t admit it to him, but Patrick Walker was definitely the embodiment of everything that turned her on the most in the world. Who cared about the nearly twenty-year age difference between them? That man was everything she desired.

And he probably knew it.

She felt his pleasure beginning to rise, noticed how his thrusts became more erratic and his cock harder in her mouth, moving in and out in a sensual, raw dance, the way only Walker could.

“I’m going to cum...” he whispered. “right into your mouth, princess…”

Sam felt the strong taste of his release flood her senses in hot bursts. She closed her eyes, taking every drop of his seed, wasting none. Walker used his left hand to pump himself a few more times while still in her mouth, and she extended her tongue to catch the last drops.

As soon as he withdrew from her mouth, still hard, she gave a few more gentle sucks, even knowing he was probably sensitive. Walker didn’t stop her; he only tried to steady his breathing while watching her there, with her lipstick smudged, still taking him as he slowly began to soften. It was as if she didn’t want that moment to end.

When she finally stood up, he zipped up his pants and straightened his clothes while the woman looked at him with some expectation. He unlocked the door with a small smile, and she placed her hands on her hips, annoyed.

“You’re going to leave without returning the favor, Patrick?”

He was walking toward the door when he stopped and looked at her, his blue eyes shimmering slightly with unspoken victory.

“If you keep being a good girl until this damn party is over, maybe I’ll return the favor later...”

[feveredvisions]

Wait lmfaaooo Tom would definitely send this as a response to your thirst trap or just a casual mirror selfie on your IG story that he fancied:

[louhardy]

you can't fool me. i know what you did. you zoomed in...

...AND I DON'T BLAME YOU.