Hostile Negotiations
John Smith x Reader - Mr & Mrs Smith
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.
ugh i love him xx
