16+ = suggestive/mature 18+ = smut All fics are x fem!reader
Brad Pitt (As Himself)
- After Hours 18+
Sonny Hayes (F1 Movie)
- Lesson Learned 18+
- Lap Time 18+ Ch 2 18+
- No Breaks 18+
- The Van Has Its Charm 18+
- Nowhere Special 16+
Mickey O'Neil (Snatch)
- Front Row View 16+
Tyler Durden (Fight Club)
- Just a Little Blood 18+
- Soap and Blood 18+
- A Kind of Initiation 18+
Tom Bishop (Spy Game)
- In Transit 16+
David Mills (Se7en)
- Grave Desires 18+
- Dead Zones 18+
Louis de Pointe du Lac (Interview with the Vampire)
- The Devil You Know 16+
- Of Someone's Shadow 18+
Rusty Ryan (Ocean's 11-13)
- The Newlywed Job 18+
- Operational Necessity 18+
Achilles (Troy)
- Spoils of War 16+ Ch 2 18+
- Wounds Kept 18+
- Of Gods and Mortal Girls 16+
- Ch 2 18+ Ch 3 18+ Ch 4 18+
Lt. Aldo Raine (Inglorious Basterds)
- Cultural Liaison 18+
Cliff Booth (Once Upon a Time in Hollywood)
- Off Limits 18+
Jack Conrad (Babylon)
- The Room Above 18+
Pam's Man (Wolfs)
- Do Not Touch 18+
John Smith (Mr & Mrs Smith)
- Hostile Negotiations 18+
All Brad Pitt characters can be requested <3
SUMMARY, “A princess with fire in her heart, and an inspector with none. Paths are crossed—guns, glory and sad endings.”
# Political Drama / Slow-Burn / Enemies-To-Lovers /Mr. Sunshine AU / No Happy Ending
CONTENT WARNINGS, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Enemies to Lovers, Redemption, Older Man/Younger Woman, Canon Divergent, Mr sunshine inspired, Kido is Kido (menacing asshole) Mild Gore, Mentions of Death, descriptions of death, Kido-centric, Love Triangles
YOU REMEMBERED, and only remembered, that morning so well. A focus vision, lens of a camera, tunneled right on a certain smudge, mottled green, brown and pink. The rest were muddled, the way things were within the sunny simpleminded urgence of a ten year old consumed by the brightest glints of their day.
You were ten, then. Back when time crawled furtively under the serveil of adagio. Back when the be all and end all were ensuring your yellow sticker workbooks were primly filled with crayon scribbles led by your hand—not hooking a finger around the trigger of a rifle.
The skies had draped itself across the horizon in the form of a perfect blue sheet, so perfectly bright and clear, mottled with cotton puff of clouds that swirled around the sun.
It was March, a period of time when war came to a pause. Diplomacy, at that time, between the Reich and the Empire was much needed for reconstruction for either countries. In Japan, the heart and sole of the walls, flowers blossomed then, able to breathe within this caesure; trees grew lush, it's folialge bush-like, rustling above as it's bark stood erect, lining up as rows across the pathway of the park, and the wind that drew by was was sweetly crisp, bringing forth the air of Spring.
Dressed in a cream colored dress yourself, the hem fluttered around your knees as you jogged, white mary janes clomping across the granite path. Pink petals wafted around along with the bubbles blooming from children’s wands. Little cretins, all flushly cheeked and wide grins, squealing as they ran. Your hair, once primly swept back, were now disheveled from hours of play in the playground, sticking to your forehead in strands with sweat.
In your arms you clutched a bundle of books to your chest, panting. They were exambooks. On the laminated covers were red markings with a large capitalized A on each of them. Every step on the path sent a jolt to your throat. You were exhilerated, so much so that your chest swelled in the form fireworks about to launch.
And, it did.
A policeman whistled, guiding a dawdling motorcar that blocked the zebra crossing to the right parking spot. Weaving through the crossing, muttering 'excuse me's' and 'pardon's. You ducked below a man’s arms, and squeezed right out between two couples, who gasped.
It was then the cafe came into view. A dainty, teal green little thing tucked on the cornerside of the street, webbed across with black cords intervoven repeatedly, tangled from concrete power lines as dark bold stripes. Right beside the large paneled window, where the name of the establishment was printed across the surface in large curved letters, was your mother's table.
She was donned in a silk kimono, the color of plums, smiling to herself, at the pages a book she was occupied with. A cup of coffee—expresso—at on the right hand side of her arm. Steamed swirled above the surface. Black with sugar. No milk. Just as she liked it. Calmly, she looked up as your eager little clomps approached — her little girl, eyes wide and sparkling, with a grin that held her entire universe.
You finished school, it seemed.
"Yuki," She said, closing the book and setting it aside. Yuki, snow. A teasing moniker she often referred to you, Snow, because she birthed you during winter. When the war was at it's peak, and she was wailing because you were so, so cold in her arms,. A block of ice to against her already frigid heart. Everyone, the nurses and including your brother and father had huddled close to transfer enough warmth to keep your pulse beating.
A drop of snow amongst a field of grass.
And since then—Snow. Your mother's birth. Your mother’s winter. Dawn of eve.
"Mama!" You said breathlessly, almost running into the table.
She stopped you in time, her hands gentle on the knobs of your shoulders, “Easy, now sweetheart.”
"I did it!" You bounced on your heels, pushing against her palms, “I finally did it!”
The afternoon inception was not without it's usual clamor. The tongs of bells sounded from moving stalls, keen for customers. Wagons bustling with cardboards and scraps creaked, hauled upon pavements, continuining forth its lumber. Business men and students alike, pooled out from their respective gates, chattering away. Some young women sauntered to nearby stalls—elbows around each other, giggling—for hasty lunches, eager to return to their studies; some young men lounged on the steps of the school, laughing over the rim of their books.
A cycle passed, the bell tinkling.
She raised her eyebrows, "Oh? What did you do?"'
"Passed the exams!" You stumbled over your words, rambling off fervently, "In literature, and—and mathematics, and geography. I did it all in one go, the teacher said it was difficult but I did it anyways— in one minute, and after I rushed out and—"
"Deep breathes, honey,” She spoke, “Deep breathes.”
You opened your mouth, eager to elaborate, but you learned it was not proper to speak over elders. So, instead you said, "Okay, Mama," and scrambled on to seat on the chair adjacent to your mother.
She gathered the books from your arms and laid it on the table."I knew you were a smart apple," She said, caressing your hair, tucking one sticky strand over your ear, "Did you tell your papa yet? Noriaki would be glad to hear it."
"I want to tell you first," You wiggled in your seat, kicking your feet below— a habit she tried to discourage, but your knee did not like being still. Not at all. And so it goes in fluttering kicks. "Does that mean he gets to stay?" You looked up to her, eyes wide.
The hand on your head paused, Michiko regarded your gaze, slightly taken off-kilter by the sudden question. Each word spoken out of your mouth was strange. She recovered herself gracefully, saying slowly,"What do you mean, honey?"
"Noriaki," Your eagerness was palpable, "The— the empire said, said they won't take away people who study good. I study good. I get all A’s. The emperor is happy—and, if he is does that mean they wont take brother away?”
The empire declared any indiciduals with exemplary behavior in their studues were exempt from conscription—and then, were considered for intelligence. This proposition were mainly for older men, and rich young scholars who could not, or did not, want to physically serve. Noriaki was fit, young—a royal of all person. Deploying him to the army was a simple case of boosting morale. They had to. If a prince served alongside his men to the frontlines, then why couldn’t they?
She stilled, processing what you've said for a moment. And then, a wistful expression swept over.You didn’t understand, not when you were looking up to her with such guileless hope that destroying it, melting the paunchof snow you’d hold up to her, would make her wilt. So, instead, she said, "Yes. They won't take him away,” after a moment, she added cautiously, “But what happens if they do? Sometimes, the empire doesn’t listen sweetheart."
You blinked, confused, “Why not.”
“Well, if you look at it this way, can you tell me why you don’t listen to me, sometimes?”
“Because,” You said, “Because sweets are too good not to eat.”
“And like them, they also like good things.”
You puckered your lips and your face crumpled so adorably into that of a defiant child, "Then I wont let them." You firmed, tightening your little fists, "I'll hide Noriaki in my bed."
She smiled, the stinging tears drying away, "In your bed?"
"Under," You nodded, so sagely for someone chubby with baby cheeks and fat, "I'll hide him there."
"But your bed is small, how will he fit?"
You thought for a hard moment, your brows furrowed. then you look back up, said flatly, "Then he needs to stop eating so much."
Michiko laughed, a warm hurtle of breaths in her chest, and hauled her daughter into her arms. You went along with a squeal and wrapped your little arms around her neck. She held you close, her cheek on the crown of your forehead—inhaling the sweet scent of her daughter, strawberries and sweat.
In the hearth, as the fire kindles low, Michiko was willing to hold the clasp of snow to her chest, away from the licks of the fire. If that was what kept you close to her heart, then she would burn first.
"I know you can do it," She whispered, "I know you can do anything, my little snow."
And from a distance the petal disentangles itself from a cloak of pink, and slowly, slowly drowns. Michiko hugs her daughter a little tighter.
.
THROUGH THE windows, several miles beyond the Royal Tagomi estate and several more, trailing through a mudpath that meandered towards an enclosed forest—was the Hayashi Cottage. A typical wartime cottage, it huddled snugly between brambled bushes and was harbored under the shadeful canopies of trees.
Glints of the sun’s rays blistered through the crack of the rustling leaves, allowing the sparkles to move.On the soil, right beside the post, a pail stuck out at an angle, shrouded with vines and moss that weaved over one another, sinking it into the loam.
The cottage itself was well groomed: gardeners kept the grass trimmed and the flowers blooming; and the interior, managed by the cleaners, ensured it was swept of dirt, mopped and dried—even when the floorboards were not often entertained with footsteps and the gleam of the overhead bulb, alight. They cleaned often in the weekends, which meant on the weekdays, it was vacant.
There was no life, and yet—there was so much.
Within this silent stillness, Kotomichi knocked his heel against the door, slamming it open. The interior was alighted bright by the sun. The potent smell of birch wood shrouded your nose. You were slung on his side as he held you—an arm around your waist, guiding you to limp, the carpet soft under your boots. The hallway led to the living room, an oval space with two windows bolstered on the walls behind the sofa.
You were not heavy, but with pain, you curled into yourself, and it took quite a while to to haul you across the rug. He laid you on the cushions. Wincing in pain, you caught sight of the old wartime radio—your father often listened to—on the table.
Usually, during silent nights he would. Tuning it mellow, the sound of jazz swirled from the speakers and you would sleep to it, snoring softly with your head in his lap. And he would smile. It has been there for years, when fingers first toggled the antennas to now, collecting dust on the surface.
You closed your eyes.
Picture frames littered the walls. You made the cleaners turn it around. What use are they if the dwellers weren’t present? Straing through the eyes that belong to those who no longer walked this world You tried to keep your eyes drifting to a minmium. If you weren’t careful, the memories will come rushing back like unspooled threads around a knob.
So, deliriously, you kept it to the ceiling instead, focusing on the searing pain in your torso, your arms—your entire body. The pain felt like an ache in your chest.
Kotomichi laid your hat on the rug, along with your rifle, then he disappeared to the other rooms. For a moment you panicked, wondering if he truly left— then, it came to you, in muddled thoughts, that there was no use leaving you here. He was your mentor, wasn’t he?
You heard his footsteps padding around the floorboards. Surely to ensure they were the only ones here. Several minutes later, he returned to the living room and drew the curtains close, not fully— enough for a sliver of sunray to light the room aglow. He then knelt before the cabinet near the hearth. He pulled the drawer and plucked out a box.
The first aid kit.
“Any bleeding, denka?” He knelt before you.
“I—” You shook your head, panting, feeling a cold chill up your spine “No—no, I don’t know. But i think my leg—it— burns.”
“Ah,” He looked down. It was difficult to tell, at least at first, from a glance. On closer inspection the crusted fabric smelt of iron. You were bleeding.
“I will have to touch you, denka,” He said.
“You have my permission.”
He slipped on his gloves. With a shear, he carefully snipped around the scabbed fabric, slowly peeling it off. You felt every sting. The cloth was crusted to your wound, after all. Eventually, when he drew the fabric aside, it revealed an bloody gash across your calf.
“How does it look?” You kept your eyes to the ceiling, a little hesitant to look down. You were nearing the edge of unconciousness again, and perhaps, if you did swivel—that just might be the last addition.
“You were reckless, your highness,” Even in times of admonishment he sounded gentle. He uncapped the alcohol bottle and poured some onto a white cloth. “Reckless than usual.”
Of course you were. You were almost caught by the Kempeitai and you were in the temporary custody of an underground rebel, having to escape through the window and manuever grimey alleyways. How he found you was a means beyond your ability. Kotomichi found you slumped against the wall behind the dumpster, swept you in the motorcar before any patrol stumbled upon them.
Reckless was a deserving referral.
“He will not compromise my position,” You said quietly.
“Under his terms, yes?” He gently dabbed your calf. You gritted your teeth, steeling in the painful sound through your molars.
Money isn’t so diffult to accumulate with your position. The only problem is where you’ll be aquiring them. As of now, the blackmarket is currently scrutinized by the Kempeitai.
“He is fighting for his place as much as i am fighting for mine,” You closed your eyes, vision swimming from the peircing pain, “As long as he is fighting, then he will not be idle enough to interfere.”
You have never encountered his community—which you assumed would be the Resistance—firsthand. And, perhaps, you've already had gotten a glimpse of their character through his own. Well-meaning, at times brash, but honest. However uncouth, even when the cause he fought wasn’t yours, you will always respect and admire those who act. Words will never have meaning. Silence maintained conformity. Violence, you believed, will always be the gear for change, the sole reason why you agreed to his proposal for arms. If there were many more causing revolts across the city—how else would the empire deal with them, if not to draw their soldiers from the frontlines to maintain peace?
“Putting your trust in Wyatt Price and his organization will be something i will not implore you to do or the fact otherwise,” He said, “It is yours. I am simply the medium who will guide your decisions.”
You glanced to the rifle, Wyatt’s words echoing in your head,
“Would they not find out it is you, sensei?” You leaned forward, concerned, “As we speak, the Kempeitai are going through the records of the battalion, those who survived—they will locate their housings, Kotomichi. And then they will find you.”
And when they do, you will protect him just as he did, to you.
“Then they will find a dead man,” He said.
You frowned, confused, “And what of the man that isn’t?”
Kotomichi looked up and smiled, “He goes by a different name, now doesn’t he?”
It took you a moment, your eyes scanning his own, “Kotomichi isn’t your name?” You asked, quietly,
“It is my grandfather’s,” He said, “My real name is gone. I have a new life, now, and i will live by this name. No matter how sparse it meant to me.”
You glanced to your lap, thinking about his family—the two sons and his wife he lost in the war,“You should not have to forgo the name your parents gave you. It was a name your wife called you by.”
“She would be glad to know i am alive,” He smiled. “It is my choice, denka. And it is your choice as well, to proceed as how you usually would.”
“I am proceeding just fine,” You said, a little defensively.
“Then realize your rebellion in this other life will be consequential,” He said, looking up, “You may revolt however you like in this suit, wearing a hat with your scarf around your face. But remember, when you are a Princess—you may be previleged enough to not suffer the usual consequences, but when the future draws near…”
“I cannot be desentisized, Kotomichi.” You said quietly.
“Even if you cannot bear to see those who lay their heart for the wrong cause,” He bandaged the cloth around your leg, “at least know that everyone is implicated in the war, even if you refused the Empire’s embrace. Sometimes, they simply desire the illusion of a normal life because it provided them so.”
“Then what about those people who died?” You said desperately, “Dont they want to live as well? An illusion where the ordinary was normal? Wives, husbands, children— don’t you think they want it as well?”
Hina would. Hina would want a simple stroll in the park donning that pretty yellow dress much too overbearing for their waller, the hem fluttering around her ankles as she walked. She had wanted to open a shop to support her artistry—she loved painting. But the war thinned our their savings and despite her amibitions, above it all, she loved him. So she applied to work at the garment factory as a seamstress. The first day she went to work was the day the shelling began.
“Yes,” He said quietly, “Yes, they do.”
Then, the doors of the cottage bursted open, startling you. You were too slow to register the assesment of the disturbance but Kotomichi did, holding up a hand just as you reached for your rifle. It was Yukiko—your personal attendant—who fluttered in. She had ran here, this girl, panting, her cheeks flushed and hair askew. In her arms were peach colored silks. A kimono, ones you recognized that are only used for formal occasions. When a high ranking guest would visit.
“Tagomi-sama is proceeding with the marriage, denka!” She cried, “Obersgrüppenfuherer and Chief Inspector Kido is currenly at the estate!”
Request: Hi I loved the Headcanon you made of A Relationship with the Princesses, so I could make a Headcanon of a relationship with the Princes. please it would be great
NOTE: I do not write for Pocahontas and I'm not a huge fan of Smith but in the interest of keeping this even and mirroring it with the princess one, he has been included
Aladdin
First and foremost, Aladdin wants a partner who accepts all parts of him. Sure, he can be cunning and sweet talking but he's also rough around the edges from living on the streets for so long
Someone who has a similar situation or who is always up for a good time would also be welcome
If you can provide (money or food) he will also be hooked, he's not a gold digger but the idea of stability and knowing where his next meal is coming from will definitely have him interested
John Smith
An ideal partner for John would challenge his way of thinking
He's a lone wolf, married to adventure so in order to have him falling for you, you'd need to be someone new, someone he wants to learn from
He wants a partner who will inspire him to think and see the world in a new way and likewise, he wants to share his own views and life with you
Li Shang
General Li Shang's first and foremost thought always is pleasing/making his father proud, so a partner who his father approves of is always a good start
He doesn't want a traditional partner who stays at home, he wants someone he can see as his equal, who will challenge him and who he can challenge
His ideal partner would be someone who respects him, but who he can also respect. Bonus points if you know how to fight
Naveen
Naveen is a fun loving guy, so his ideal partner would balance him out. They would appreciate and know how to have a good time, but when it comes down to it be able to be hardworking and serious when he struggles to be
He doesn't know a lot of the basic skills required to function, so he would appreciate someone who could either do that or teach him how. Someone he could also teach things he knows to, how to let loose, music, that kind of stuff
Someone who understands he's more than just a prince, someone who wants to be with him not because of his good looks or money but because he has a good heart and cares about them
Flynn/Eugene
Flynn wants someone who knows how to have a little bit of fun
His ideal partner understands where he's come from and wants to build a future together that means something, he wants them to truly know him
He also wouldn't mind if his partner is struggling in their own way, he wants to help them just as much as they help him. He wants the chance to prove that he's more than everyone sees him as and that he has a lot to offer
Summary: The average day with your husband and wife.
Warnings: Cursing, rocky relationship, throuple tehe, probably ooc, not proof read, suggestive language I guess at one point?
Words: 2.1k
Masterlist Taglist Navigation
Please do not copy or translate any of my work. Thank you!
---------------------------
The almost clinical smell of their lavender mister fills your nose, the dark of the wood paneling on the walls creating a sleek, welcoming atmosphere. You take a deep breath, the lavender air cooling your lungs and calming your nerves.
“See, Jane and I have been married five years. And we’ve been married to-”
“Six.” Jane's smile doesn't falter as she looks into the eyes of Dr.
John sighs softly, almost imperceptively as his hand just slightly tightens on the arm of the rough gray chair, a smile still plastered on his face despite his emotions just barely showing through.
“Five, six years. And we've been with them for 4 and a half years.” His light blue eyes flick over to you in your chair placed in the middle of theirs. “This is like.. A checkup for us. Um, a chance to poke around the engine. Maybe change the oil, replace a seal or two.”
Jane swallows. “Yeah.” She plays with her hands, a habit of hers when she's nervous and trying to mask it. Your hand easily comes to sit atop her digits, sweeping a gentle thumb over her fingers, the metal on her ring finger warming under your touch.
“Really, everything's fine. We just need a little guidance.” The words slip from your lips as you sit back in your chair, catching when your wife and husband's attention is averted over to you for a second, smiles on their lips. Their eyes twinkle with adoration before turning back to the therapist, nonchalant masks slipping back into place.
The conversation stills, the doctor's gaze flicking down to something he wrote down in his notebook earlier before looking back up. “Very well then. Let’s pop the hood.”
“On a scale of one to ten how happy are you together?”
“Nine and a half.” “Nine.” The words come out of yours and Jane's mouths without any hesitation under your words. John stalls.
“Wait.” You and your wife turn your heads over to look at him. As she turns, her jaw sets and she sighs, the exhale just a bit too sharp to be anything other than annoyed. Her shoulders tense with her action as she tries to calm herself.
“Ten being perfectly happy and one being totally miserable? And how happy all together or individually? Or..” John trails off.
“Just respond instinctively.”
“Okay. Ready?” He directs the question to us.
“Mhm.” “Ready.”
“Eight.” “Eight.” “Nine.” Your brows furrow and you look over to your spouses, but their attention is solely on the Dr.. His eyes look at all three of you before nodding and jotting something down in his notebook, the pen lightly scratching at the small pages of paper.
“How often do you have sex?”
The question is blatant and leaves no room for interpretation. Laid out on the table. And so, when you hear how Jane's answer differs from yours, confusion swirls around in your head. You knew they had their problems but you thought it wasn't like this. You were perfectly happy. More than happy.
“Often.”
Silence. “I don't understand the question.” Your wife says.
“Yeah, I’m lost. Is this a one to ten thing?”
Your palm cools around the sleek glass of cool water sitting on the table. Condensation moistens the outside, wetting your palm as the ice cubes clink against the inner rim. You take a sip, trying to keep yourself occupied with something.
“Like is one very little or is one nothing? Because, you know, technically speaking, the zero would be nothing. And are we answering like when we’re all together or just two of us or..”
You set the glass down, it clinking against the circular ceramic coaster sitting on the varnished wooden table. You settle back in your chair, adjusting your sweater, the fibers hugging the tips of your fingers.
“That’s right. And if we don’t know what one is- What's ten?”
“Yeah, ‘cause 10, you know,”
“Yeah, I think he gets it. Please, give.. Clarification.” You cut through their rambling, the cheeks of your face feeling slightly warm.
“Well, you’ve already given your answer. How about you, Jane? John? How often do just the two of you have sex?”
The silence is louder than anything they could have said. His words hang in the air, anticipating some type of response.
“How about this week?”
..
“Including the weekend?” “Sure.”
…
The quiet settles in your bones. The hesitation and the admission of something unsaid, the confirmation that things are more dire than initially stated.
Never once did you ever think- they kiss and smile at each other every day. Not to mention you are beyond happy. Just the sight of them brings a warmth to your chest, a feeling indescribable other than the word infatuation.
They never told you they weren't happy or whatever was going on here. The two people you love more than anything on Earth, the people who are your home, aren't each others.
“Really? You guys never told me- I mean I thought we all.. I have sex with you all the time. I didn’t know you weren't..”
Summery light streams in through white curtains covering large windows, the faint scent of linens and something uniquely Jane fills your nostrils as your eyelids flutter open.
Warm air caresses your shoulder in long breaths. Brown silky hair frames Jane's face from where she lays hugging you. Her arm lays over your waist, yearning to be near you even in sleep.
You look down, her long eyelashes laying over the soft curve of her cheek. Her face is devoid of any wrinkle or crease, and the line of her shoulders slouched and relaxed into you.
She's so beautiful like this. A natural beauty that you have trouble even comprehending sometimes. Truly breathtaking, and even better as the first sight you see after waking up and dreaming of her and your shared husband.
A hum comes from her throat, a smirk stretching across her plump lips, your first and only sign that she wasn't sleeping. “Finally awake?”
You huff a laugh and press a soft, chaste kiss to her forehead. “Mhm.”
She finally opens her eyes, the blue of them taking your breath away. Like the sky on a sunny day, a bright blue lake rippling under the sun's rays. “Goodmorning, love.” “Morning, sweetheart.”
The soft blankets shift on your skin as she leans in and presses her lips to yours, the warmth of it making the moment all the more sickly sweet. You two meld together and she moves just enough to ghost her tongue across the seam of your lips.
The touch of her palm travels to your cheek. She lets it move and tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck.
It’s like she wants to be as close to you as possible, content with just laying here and letting you caress each other. She hums against your lips, the vibration welcoming.
It's deep, and content, and perfect. You let your teeth just barely brush her bottom lip as she pulls away.
She sighs against you before moving to sit up. You whine, immediately wrapping your arms tighter around her. She laughs in surprise, her body pressed snugly to yours. “What? I have to get up. I have work, honey.”
“What? And leave me? You get to leave as I sit in this big house all by myself missing you all day?” You give your best imitation of puppy eyes at her, your bottom lip pouting just so. The sight makes you look all the more kissable in her eyes.
The smile on her lips light up her eyes, her cheeks perking up round with her delight. “No! Well maybe. But you can read or write or draw to your hearts content until I come home. And when I do, we can cook dinner together and bathe and do.. other activities to each other."
“...Well I can’t pass that up when you put it that way.” “That’s what I thought.”
Her smile quirks up on one side, the glint in her eyes morphing and becoming sharper, contentment in her gaze.
She moves to get up and you begrudgingly let her, your arms loosening slipping from her skin, letting them dramatically plop onto the bed.
“Do you think John’s made coffee yet?”
The smile on her lips sobers a bit at your question but she tries to keep the smile for your sake, a mask you know all too well slipping back into place.
“Probably. I’ll get you a mug.”
She slips her baby pink silk robe over her shoulders as she walks through the room, tying it into place. Her footsteps fade as she walks out of the room and down the hall. You try to steal just a few more minutes to face the day.
You let your eyelids slide close, not sleeping, just basking in the warm rays of the bright sun.
You hear the footsteps of someone entering the room, they walk across the hard wood in a lazy stride. “Thought you might still be in here.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth when a large hand cups your cheek. You let your eyes open as your husband lovingly looks down at you.
“Gonna lay here all day?” “Don’ know. Still debating i-”
Your words are cut off as he puts his hands on your thighs, pulling you down the bed as he plops down on it to position himself between your legs.
“Jesus-”
He leans down in the midst of your surprise, dramatically making a growling sound as he buries his head in the crease of your neck. You squirm and try to pull away, shocked laughter being punched from you as his barely-there stubble scratches your skin.
Johns fingers dig at your sides, finding places you didn't know you have as cackles force their way from your lungs.
He pulls back swiftly, a large smile stretching his lips. You both pant for a second.
“What the fuck? You’re using your powers for evil, you know that right? You’re lucky I love you so much.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You like it.” He leans his body over yours, resting his left elbow down by your head, using his other hand to cup your jaw in his hand.
He gives you a kiss, gooey and quick. Your lips smack in protest when he pulls back just enough to mumble into your lips.
“You have to get up-” kiss “at some point, honey.” smack “You do know that right?” He backs up a little more, mischievous eyes looking into yours.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” You throw his words back at him. He rolls his eyes, backing up to sit on his knees overtop the plush bedspread, pulling on your arms to pull you up with him.
“Go brush your teeth. You have morning breath." He gets up, his white robe lazily opening at his movement. He starts to walk across the room, his socks and the rugs Jane picked out laying flush on the floor softening the sound of his steps on the hardwood.
“Oh shut up.” You lug yourself out of bed, slipping on the slippers they got you with the fluffy lining as John slips through the doorway to the master bathroom, disappearing from your vision.
That morning was filled with tense words and short answers, the silent aggression louder than any quiet. They talked but it was all unaffectionate, like speaking to a distant relative. No “I love you”s, barely even touching each other. All disguised by smiles and the illusion of being a happily married couple. Well, that all was between John and Jane. With you, they acted completely differently.
They put warm hands over your waist, smiles and soft eyes. With you, they were almost completely different people. And, of course, with you around they tried to be more civil and warm to each other, even though it was just imitation. Maybe they didn't even realize it was fake. Maybe the lines just started to blur along the way.
Jane and John loved each other. They really did, and wanted the other to be happy. They said pet names and gave the other smiles, but it wasn't the same as how they treated you. Sometimes, there was a bite underlying their words.
Their looks turned into glares at a moment's notice. Words turned to venom on their tongues. They had no guilt for lying about their lives to each other. But with you? They felt a pit in their stomach and minds, telling lies was ripping you apart. Everything you knew about them was a lie.
But they wanted to keep you safe. And nothing would come between that.
Saw Batman: B&B in the tags of your list and am stoked!, could I request Red Tornado x Hero!Reader (platonic or romantic, whichever you prefer for the relationship, I loved the robotic dork when I was younger and look forward to seeing any hc you have!)
I loved Red Tornado when I first saw him, I hope I did him justice!
• He's pretty self conscious about himself, he's not exactly human, or organic. Those anxieties would be eased if his s/o was also non-human, but an organic s/o will need to work on that anxiety with him.
• He's not.. the best at cuddling? A cold metalic body isn't exactly most peoples ideal cuddle partner, but being in his arms feels comforting regardless.
• His favorite part of his s/o is their eyes!
• If you want to go out on dates he's willing to use his John Smith disguise, but it feels weird being in the costume for too long when his s/o knows he's Red tornado.
• He's gotten used to his body being repairable, and he's willing to take a hit for pretty much anyone, so I hope your ready to see your boyfriend nearly torn apart in a fight. (He gets repaired he's fine)
I’ve been mulling around the idea and decided I wanted to open requests; however, I am setting up some boundaries to keep things interesting. In order to continue to grow as a writer, I want to try and capture the personalities of various characters who a) I haven’t seen a lot of writing for and b) I have never written for.
So, with that being said, below is a list of characters (all of whom I find ridiculously attractive, if I may say). Select one character and submit a request with that character’s name and one line or one song to be used to inspire a one shot.
This could totally flop, but I think it could be fun to write for some new men!
Summary: You find yourself trying to kill your impossibly hot and competent husband, who is apparently an assassin and trying to kill you too. What are the chances?
Warnings: SMUT 18+ basically just smut with fighting as foreplay, p in v, unprotected sex, violence, blood, rough af, he's also hot af, oral, maybe some emotion at the end?
A/N: since yall are desperate and horny, apparently, this was finished very quickly, so don't be surprised if you find any spelling mistakes or illegible grammar. (without being silly tho i lowkey love this sm), based on a req :)
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 2.5k
The vase explodes against the wall where your head was a split second ago. Porcelain shards rain down as you roll across the hardwood floor, your hand closing around the leg of the coffee table.
You swing it up just in time to block John's boot as it comes crashing down toward your ribs.
"You lied to me," you snarl, kicking out and catching him in the knee. He stumbles back, and you're on your feet, the adrenaline singing through your veins.
"You lied first," he shoots back, and there's something in his eyes, fury, absolutely, but something else too. Something that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with the fight.
You launch yourself at him, and he catches you mid-air. You grapple, bodies pressed together, both of you trying to gain the advantage.
His hands are on your waist, your throat, and yours are clawing at his shoulders, his face.
You manage to hook your leg behind his and send you both crashing into the bookshelf. Books tumble down around you as you roll, each fighting for the top position.
He pins you for a moment, his weight pressing you into the scattered hardcovers, his face inches from yours. You can feel his breath, hot and ragged, smell his cologne mixed with sweat.
Your heart hammers.
You bring your knee up hard into his stomach, and he grunts, loosening his grip just enough for you to twist free. You scramble toward the kitchen, knowing there are knives there, weapons, anything-
His hand closes around your ankle and you go down hard, chin cracking against the floor.
Stars burst behind your eyes, but you kick back blindly and feel your heel connect with something soft. He curses, and you crawl forward, fingers stretching toward the kitchen doorway.
"Where do you think you're going, Mrs. Smith?" His voice is rough, mocking, and it sends a shiver down your spine that you refuse to acknowledge.
You grab the doorframe and pull yourself up, spinning to face him.
He's already on his feet, a thin line of blood trickling from his lip. His shirt is torn, revealing the muscled chest beneath, and his eyes are wild, dangerous, alive in a way you've never seen before.
"Away from you," you say, but your voice doesn't sound as convincing as you'd like.
He advances slowly, predator-like, and you back into the kitchen. Your hand finds the knife block behind you, and you pull out a chef's knife, holding it between you like a promise.
"You going to use that?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice that makes your blood boil.
"Try me."
He does.
He lunges, and you slash, the blade whistling through the air. He dodges, barely, and grabs your wrist. You struggle, both hands on the knife handle now, his hands over yours, forcing the blade away. You're chest to chest again, straining against each other, muscles trembling with effort.
His face is so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, can count his eyelashes. Your lips are inches apart, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the hard planes of his body pressed against you.
"Let. Go," you grit out.
"You first," he growls.
The knife clatters to the floor between you, neither of you sure who released it first. For a heartbeat, you just stare at each other, chests heaving, and then-
You don't know who moves first. Maybe you both do.
Your mouths crash together with bruising force, all teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands are in your hair, pulling, and yours are tearing at his already ruined shirt, ripping it open completely.
Buttons scatter across the tile floor like tiny casualties of war.
He lifts you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, never breaking the kiss. He slams you against the refrigerator, and the magnets and photos cascade down around you. You bite his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your entire body.
"I hate you," you gasp against his lips.
"I know," he says, and kisses you again, deeper, hungrier.
His hands are everywhere, sliding up your thighs, gripping your ass, pulling you harder against him. You can feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against you through far too many layers of clothing. You grind against him, and he breaks the kiss to drop his head to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there.
You should stop this.
You should push him away, grab another weapon, finish what you started. But your body has other ideas. Your hands are in his hair now, pulling him closer, and you're arching into him, offering more of your throat for his mouth to claim.
He carries you out of the kitchen, your legs still locked around him, and you barely register the journey before your back hits the dining room table. The centerpiece crashes to the floor, even more collateral damage, and then he's on top of you, his weight pressing you into the hard wood.
You reach between you and palm him through his pants, squeezing hard. He hisses, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and you smile against his mouth, victorious. But your triumph is short-lived because his hand is sliding up your thigh, under your skirt, fingers hooking into your panties.
"These are in my way," he murmurs, and then there's the sound of fabric tearing, and cool air hits your heated skin.
"Those were expensive," you manage to say, but your voice is breathy, unconvincing.
"I'll buy you another pair," he says, and then his fingers are on you, sliding through your wetness, and you can't form words anymore.
You're so wet it's almost embarrassing, but you're beyond caring. His fingers circle your clit, and you buck against his hand, shameless, desperate.
He watches your face as he touches you, his eyes dark and intense, and you've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so completely seen.
"Look at you," he says, his voice rough with desire. "So wet for someone you hate."
"Shut up," you gasp, but you're grinding against his hand, chasing the pleasure he's giving you.
He slides two fingers inside you, and you cry out, your back arching off the table. He pumps them slowly, torturously, his thumb still working your clit, and you can feel the orgasm building fast, coiling tight in your belly.
"John," you whimper, and you hate how needy you sound, but you can't help it.
"What do you need?" he asks, and there's a hint of smugness in his voice that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
"More," you demand. "Faster. Harder. Just- more."
He complies, his fingers moving faster, harder, curling inside you to hit that spot that makes you see stars.
Your hands scrabble at the table, finding nothing to hold onto, so you grab his shoulders instead, your nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice low and hypnotic. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
And you do.
The orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and you cry out, your body convulsing around his fingers. He works you through it, drawing out every last tremor, every last spark of impossible pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.
But he's not done with you.
Not even close.
He withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight is so obscene, so hot, that you feel a fresh wave of arousal flood through you.
"Delicious," he says, smirking, and you want to kill him all over again.
Instead, you reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your haste. He helps you, and together you get his pants open, shoving them down his hips along with his boxer briefs. His cock springs free, hard and thick and already leaking at the tip, and your mouth waters at the sight.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking from base to tip, and he groans, his head falling forward, forehead resting against yours. He's hot and hard in your hand, velvet over steel, and you can feel him pulse with every beat of his heart.
"Need to be inside you," he grits out, his hips thrusting into your grip. "Now."
"Then what are you waiting for?" you challenge, and he doesn't need to be told twice.
He lines himself up and pushes inside in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You both freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation. He's big, stretching you, and it burns in the best way.
You can feel every inch of him, hot and hard and utterly perfect.
"Fuck," he breathes, his lips brushing against your temple.
He starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The table creaks beneath you with every thrust, and you briefly wonder if it's going to hold, but then he hits that spot inside you and you stop caring about anything except the pleasure building inside you again.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to take him deeper, harder. It's rough and desperate and nothing like the careful, controlled sex you've had before.
This is raw, primal, two predators claiming each other.
He leans down and captures your mouth in another bruising kiss, swallowing your moans. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit again, and you break the kiss to cry out, the dual stimulation almost too much.
"You feel so good," he groans against your neck. "So tight, so wet. Like you were made for me."
"Don'- don't say things like that," you gasp, but your body is betraying you, clenching around him at his words.
"Why not? It's true." He punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust that has you seeing stars. "You can hate me all you want, but your body knows what it wants."
You want to argue, but he's right, and you hate him for it.
You hate how good he feels inside you, hate how perfectly your bodies fit together, hate how close you already are to coming again.
"Harder," you demand instead, and he complies, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. The table is definitely going to break, but you don't care. All you care about is the feeling of him inside you, the pressure building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.
He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot with every thrust, and you're gone. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, and you scream his name, your body clamping down around him like a vice.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, and you can feel him swelling inside you, can feel him getting close. "Where-"
"Inside," you gasp, still riding the waves of your orgasm. "Come inside me."
That's all it takes. He thrusts deep one last time and stills, and you can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with his release. He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel his harsh breaths against your skin, can feel his heart hammering against your chest.
For a long moment, neither of you moves at all. You're both just trying to catch your breath.
The house is a disaster around you; broken furniture, scattered weapons, evidence of your battle and its unexpected conclusion.
Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you.
His eyes are softer now, the fury replaced by something more complex, more dangerous in its own way.
"So," he says, and there's a hint of his usual cocky smile playing at his lips. "Does this mean you're not going to kill me?"
You consider this, your hands still resting on his shoulders, his body still buried inside yours. "I haven't decided yet," you say, but there's no heat in your words.
"Okay," he whispers, and kisses you again, softer this time, almost tender.
You kiss him back, and you know that everything has changed.
He pulls out slowly, and you both wince at the loss. He helps you sit up, and you look around at the destruction you've wrought together.
The house looks like a war zone, which, you suppose, it is.
"We should probably clean this up," you say.
"Probably," he agrees, but neither of you moves.
Instead, you just sit there on the broken table, looking at each other, trying to figure out what happens next.
Because killing each other is off the table now—at least for tonight.
"Round two?" he suggests, that stupid grin gracing his features again, and there's this glint in his eye that sends heat pooling in your belly again.
You should say no. You should get dressed, grab what you need, and get out of here. You should report back to your agency, complete your mission, do your job.
But instead, you find yourself smiling, slow and dangerous. "Bedroom this time," you say. "I'm not breaking any more furniture."
"Deal," he says, and sweeps you up into his arms.
You wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you toward the stairs, and you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
But as he lays you down on the bed and covers your body with his, as his mouth finds yours again and his hands start exploring the body he technically knows so well, you realise that maybe this was inevitable.
Maybe this marriage built on lies wasn't such a lie after all.
He kisses his way down your body, and you arch into his touch, already aching for him again. Your hands play with his hair as his mouth moves lower.
"John," you breathe, and this time his name sounds different on your lips. Not angry, not hateful, but something else entirely. Something that feels dangerously close to affection.
He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with renewed desire, and smiles. "Yes, Mrs. Smith?"
You just stare at him, how the light plays over the solid lines of his back, how it catches his jaw, makes his blue eyes somehow even bluer.
"Nothing," you murmur, and he raises an eyebrow. "Shut up and put your mouth to better use," you say, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and then his tongue is on you, and you're lost again.
While his mouth works magic between your legs and your third orgasm starts building, you find that you're quite happy the knife you swung at him missed its mark.
You don't regret the marriage.
Not even a little bit.
Tomorrow, you'll deal with the agencies and the lies and the complications. Tomorrow, you'll decide if you're partners or enemies or something in between.
Tonight, you're just a man and a woman who've finally stopped fighting long enough to admit they probably do love eachother.
You come apart again under his skilled tongue, gasping out his name into the darkness.
Maybe this is the most honest you've ever been with each other.
I’m so gay for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in Mr. And Mrs. Smith. They’re just so hiebfucons 😩
I won’t be speaking on real life situations with them two for obvious reasons, however they are so HOT in that movie.
Would you guy be down for a fic with them or are you not interested? Also, I’ve never made a poly fic before so would you want one or the other, or both? 😏 I obviously have a preference but I wouldn’t mind either way!
Also, if you would like a specific gender for the reader to be, please comment that below!
