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You didn't mind when things get messy. You didn't mind endless shifts and sleepless nights. You didn't mind the screaming, blood on your favorite sweater or gun powder stains on your left fingertips.
You didn't mind sinking arrows and knives and bullets into bodies that belonged to snobby businessmen or coked up politicians.
What you did mind, though, was working in company. And tonight, you were in for a very special treat.
You didn't know much about the man whispering into his walkie-talkie, kneeling behind the iron railings by your side. He was well-dressed and groomed to perfection, with effortlessly styled, brown hair, observant yet amused, steely hazel eyes, and a tall and slender figure that seemed to be molten into his fitted designer suit.
His aftershave almost made you gag with loathing when Aleksander introduced you to him, a much too posh and expensive scent for a common German terrorist. Posh and expensive, just like his cigarettes. When he offered you one, you coldly refused.
He threw you a slight smile when he took a pronounced drag, and a gentle whiff of annoying, posh perfume mixed with annoying, posh cigarette smoke hit your face by the time he turned around to leave.
His German accent made the simple word "Goodbye" sound terribly pointed and stiff, and you've never hated to hear your name out of another person's mouth this much since that day.
Your google search didn't satisfy your anger-driven curiosity, and the unanswered calls and angry voice memos you left on Aleksander's phone had no effect at all.
You were stuck with examining the only picture of him your boss had sent you and boy, you studied every pixel sixfold that night. But alas, to no avail, and so you found yourself dressing up in your typical equipment of sleek, black working clothes, the gnawing frustration and revulsion a new accessory along with your deadly ones, and made your way up to the roofs of Paris, preparing yourself for a long, long night ahead.
When you plopped down beside the annoying, posh, extremely irritated terrorist, he only acknowledged your arrival with a curt nod, and cussed into his radio again.
Your eyes were closed, your head rested against the cold iron while the chilly September wind ruffled your hair, listening to the exasperated hisses Hans sent into his walkie-talkie.
His words were a hasty mix of German swearing and English commands, and your lips could have tucked up in an amused smile if it weren't for your unadulterated aversion for this man and his dilettante crew.
It was once again a reminder why you preferred walking alone – not that you needed one, thank you very much.
Your eyes lazily opened when Hans let the walkie-talkie hit the ground with a loud clatter, followed by an utterly testy sigh.
"These bastards", he muttered to himself, and shook his head, then turned to you. "You'd think they'd never done this before. Fucking idiots."
He sighed again, this time rather close to a groan, and shifted his weight to mirror your posture.
You huffed out a sneer and closed your eyes again.
"Agreed."
You dawdled in silence after your brusque answer, listening to the howling of the wind and the occasional cracks of the walkie-talkie when one of his little henchmen would fill you in about the development of your mission.
This wasn't exactly the definition of your dream project. You were used to flying around the globe, crossing names off a list whenever your blade slit throats, and returning to your boss to exchange names for money, blood for gold, deaths for your lush life – you were a killer, a soft-footed, lethal murderer, a loner and criminal mastermind.
You never in a million years would have imagined working together with someone, less with a whole team, an incompetent team on top of that, waiting in the shadows of Paris to steal a lousy document from one of the top French politicians.
No, you were a professional assassin, not an ordinary thief.
You clenched your jaw in chagrin. Hans was moving, the fabric of his suit jacket brushed your thigh, and he slowly stood up.
The updates from his crew were decreasing during the last hour, and eventually died down completely. You breathed in.
"If anyone of these imbeciles is still alive, please shoot them."
Hans casually leaned against the railing and offered you a hand, his head slightly cocked to the left, a mildly excited smirk playing on his lips.
That was the first time he coaxed a reaction out of you besides annoyed sneers or eye rolls, and you chuckled quietly, jumping to your feet in a fluid, feline motion.
He retracted his hand and slipped it into his trouser pockets, looking amused.
"If I didn't know it any better I'd think you're glad they killed your men, Gruber", you said with an eyebrow raise, and he laughed, turning around. His attentive eyes scanned the luscious property in front of you.
"Shall we?"
"After you."
Neutralizing the rest of the security was child's play. Hans and you worked surprisingly well together, and you began to rethink your first impression. Sure, his crew still was, or rather had been, a pack of brainless idiots, and that quite literally – when you've entered the villa, you were presented with a colorful massacre of blood and guts splattered all over expensive hand-woven carpets and wooden, polished furnishing. You groaned at their obvious clumsiness.
"Damn", you muttered as you wiped your finger over an antique vase, collecting crimson, gloopy liquid on your black leather gloves with disdain.
"They really were amateurs."
Hans chuckled quietly behind you. He was studying a rather shredded piece of torn off, tanned skin.
"Not amateurs, just imbeciles. While I do like it messy during certain activities, I prefer a clean job when working."
You didn't answer, keeping your cool, unfazed facade, but your heartbeat stumbled the tiniest bit to your cunt at his words.
Much too soon, you reached the Politician's bedroom, and you were almost gutted – your blade didn't taste nearly enough blood to satisfy you, and as if Hans had seen the dull disappointment in your eyes when you opened the door and saw the Frenchman crouching in front of his window, shivering and sweating in fear, he held your wrist almost gently and tugged your body back against his, making you tense up with caution and, what was even worse, anticipation.
„Enjoy yourself", he snickered with a nod towards the panicking, begging man that neither of you really took much notice of. Your eyes found Hans' in slight confusion, but he let go of your wrist and gave you a small nudge with his fingertips, grazing your lower back, lips tucked up in a grin.
The Politician whimpered in the back, a pathetic little noise for such an influential person, and you threw him a pitying look. These men were only cocky and presumptuous as long as they could hide behind all their money, and you despised them. Statesmen, leftists or rightist, it didn't matter, they were nothing more than superficial little children, and you always took a little more time to let your blade sink into their treacherous flesh slowly, delightfully, vengefully. Your fingers gripped your knife tightly, and you took a lazy step towards the still crying men, and smiled sweetly down at him, showing your teeth. Hans opened one drawer of the secretaire behind you, but your eyes were fixed on the hopeless. His cries charged the trusty, eager blade in your hand, and you breathed in. The words Hans' muttered to himself went unheeded by the time the silver grind kissed pale flesh.
You fished the neatly folded, stark white paper out of your back pocket and dipped your fingertip into the fresh, dripping wound on his throat.
Your eyes fell onto the name hastily written under the French one you've crossed out with a swipe of blood, and you swallowed softly when you held the paper over an almost burned down candle to turn it into ashes.
The silver blade twinkled in the moonlit room when you turned around again. You would have heard the suspicious movement and the pointed clicking in the room if it weren't for the almost hypnotical tunnel vision you entered every time your blade tasted blood, so you flinched imperceptibly when you looked down the barrel of his gun. It was a stunningly maintained Luger. A mesmerizing, alluring weapon for an intriguing man.
Your heart danced a rapid tango in your ribcage, but your face was a stony mask and didn't reveal the alert that took over every fiber of your startled body.
Around his lips played a lopsided grin, and you almost envied his pronounced, calm indifference. He wasn't just a common thief, and he knew it. He was an exceptional criminal.
"I'm sorry if your death's going to be a bit dirty, darling", he sighed when he cocked his gun. "The thrill of killing tends to get me all worked up and I'm inclined to get filthy at the close." You swallowed softly, your mind speeding through every single possibility how this encounter could end while you held his interested, amused gaze with false confidence.
You were so stupid. You should have known the minute he entered the room back at the headquarters, the minute his eyes briefly scanned your face knowingly, even the minute you smelled his perfume. He was your match, your equal, an impressively astute opponent on a level playing field; your cheeks flushed hotly, your legs trembled, and your cunt pulsed in perverse, lethal wanton.
"That's a shame", you answered, your voice sounding way too rough, too needy, but you awkwardly tried to keep a straight face. Hans merely cocked a brow.
"I'd appreciate to be alive when things are going to get filthy, Gruber."
The terrorist breathed out a chuckle, your voice dropping down to a seductive purr, and Hans slightly lowered his gun. You felt your heartbeat slow, and you inwardly laughed – men. They were all the same.
You hummed absentmindedly and took a small, cautious step towards him, giving him your best bedroom eyes while still aware of the position of his gun.
"I do", you cooed softly, "find you incredibly attractive, Mr. Gruber."
Hans laughed quietly. His steely, hazel eyes flickered over your face and down to your lips for just a moment, but your heart did a triumphant little jump at that.
"Oh?", he murmured in obvious interest. A quick glance at his shoulders revealed the leaving tension in his dominant arm which made you relax a tiny bit more. He'd have to refocus if he wanted to attack you now, and that was to your advantage. It was only marginally, but it could decide whether you'd live or die tonight.
You let your hand graze your collarbones in soft motions, and you moved forwards again, slowly, surely. You were only a few feet apart now, both of your weapons dangling at hip height, and his perfume, strong and potent, was sensually dizzying and clouding your mind.
"You know, Hans..." You made sure his name sounded downright salacious when it rolled of your tongue, and his eyes flashed in dark hunger. Could you dare taking another step towards him?
The black leather handle of your dagger felt hard and comforting in your hand when you drew nearer to him, his eyes never leaving yours, hard breathing caressed your face, the barrel of his gun bumped into your thigh – and then everything started to happen very fast.
By the time your blade flashed in the silvery light and desperately wanted to sink into his neck vain, his fist collided with your rips. A searing pain shot through your body, punching a gasp out of your lungs, and your vision went white – for a second too long. Another punch hit the back of hand and your blade fell to the floor with a clattering sound of black despair. You just signed your own death warrant.
His arm slung around your neck and he twisted your back against his chest, pressing you hard against the wall in front of you. The cold metal of his gun kissed your temple hard.
"Too slow, babygirl."
His ragged breath hit your cheek as it spilled over the left side of your ear and neck, hot and damp and thrilling, indulging all your senses with minty, smoky forbiddance, and between the promise of death and the omnipresence of your killer, your cunt beat in hungry, fiery desire.
"Why do you have to kill me?", you gasped out, choking on your words, and you desperately tried to draw hasty breaths, but his arm was unforgivingly tight around your neck.
"Oh, I don't have to", Hans answered in a dangerous whisper. "But I prefer not to have witnesses."
"But we work together!" Your vision grew dizzy, and you clawed at the blue wallpaper in rapidly increasing panic, but the pulsing in your cunt got exponentially harder with every helpless gasp he drew out of you.
"Do we now?" His voice dropped to a purr. "Your pretty little list is a recital of your colleagues?"
You whimpered. How did he know-?
His chest and hips pressed harder into your back, and you felt his firm erection pushing against your ass. Hans hissed in lustful arousal while he forced his gun even harsher against your temple. You were sure it'd leave an angry imprint on your skin – not that it really mattered if you were to die anyway.
"Did you accidentally murder your teammate? How clumsy of you."
His words were rough and grim when he coerced you to look at the dead, pale Politician you left to bleed dry. A jolt of want rushed through your core so unexpectedly and powerful your knees buckled, and your lips opened in a silent moan.
"Hans", you whispered, and your vision went blurry around the edges. If he didn't shoot you, you'd suffocate – but your mind was fixed on something entirely different, and it scared you more than the fatal, lethal hardship.
"What?", he snarled into your ear, chopped breath hot on your face, and you whimpered again, in desperate, tragical need of salvation. He groaned in hunger, a sound so deep it plucked all your strings to the beginning of an infernal symphony, and you mewled and arched your back like a cat, pushing your ass snuggly against his cock – fatefully cueing him to start your own, personal concerto.
Hans' arm around your neck loosened, and gasping for air, your head fell onto the wall in great relief, but you immediately gasped again when his hand harshly tore the shirt out of your trousers to grip your naked waist possessively.
"Hans-"
"Shut up", he groaned against your neck, and that sound was the last straw. You turned your head back, desperate to taste his tongue and lips and feel his short beard scratching your face open, feel his sharp bites, the drawn blood on your lips and see the crimson red on his lips and pearly white teeth. Your lust made you dizzy and your hips bucked, but Hans pressed you further against the wall, his hand gripping so hard you'd still marvel at the purple marks he left on your hips a week after.
"Do you think I'll change my mind after I fuck you?", he rasps, his hands now on your zipper, impatiently tugging on your trousers, and you couldn't help but moan abandonedly, head filled with only one thought bouncing around. Fuck me, ruin me, make me yours.
His teeth biting the delicate skin on your shoulder made you shiver with arousal, the kiss from the cool gun metal still against your head painted your black lace with wet, carnal lust.
"Do you think I'll fuck you and let you go?"
Hans panted in messy heat and laughed darkly. Another shiver sped down your spine, already chasing the next.
Your trousers and panties were violently drawn down and caught on your knees, ultimately narrowing your movement and thrilling you even more when you felt the cool autumn air hitting your bare ass, and you struggled against your restraints, testing your limited opportunities.
"Don't. Move." His voice turned into a low, predatory growl.
Sweet fucking Jesus.
A sharp slap cut through the air, making you cry out in surprise just as another strike met your ass. Your moans filled the bedroom air, bounced off the royal blue walls and vanished into the night, hounded by biting strokes and carnal, deep moans and grunts.
"Look at you, underestimating me and my intelligence by playing coy. So insulting."
His hand stopped its work on your burning flesh, changing its assault into a rough caress, a harsh kneading that simultaneously soothed and stinged your raw skin.
"Did you think I'd be this naïve? Dropping my intentions for a pretty girl?", Hans murmured roughly, and his teeth nipped at your ear. You sobbed in need, but another slap silenced you. You've never felt this compliant, this submissive in your entire life, but the gun at your temples and the simple, natural, almost logical dominance of the terrorist behind you made your body willing and your mind pliable. You were putty in his hands, and your will to live was violently buried under your maddening libido.
Hans growled again.
"How the tables have turned, my sweet girl." His hand suddenly dipped between your thighs.
"Now look who's the helpless one. So wet for me, it's pathetic."
You screwed your eyes shut, your head lolled back against his shoulder as his fingers sunk into your beating, sopping cunt, charming a broken moan from your lips and a burst of fire through your core.
"I could kill you right now and you wouldn't care", he whispered, his lips grazing your temple on your left, the barrel of his gun on your right, reminding you of that.
"That's how needy you are. That's how much you want me."
Yes, you wanted to scream, yes, now fucking take me, but your words betrayed you and you could only whine, moan, sob in sensual devotion to the brutal speed of his fingers pushing in and out of your gripping pussy, a merciless, inciting pace that brought you right to the edge.
"Hans", you gasped, but he shushed you harshly and kicked your legs apart with his foot, pressing his narrow hips harder against you and his wrist even closer to your cunt, his fingers even deeper, and your orgasm crushed down on you with such sudden and unexpected force you saw stars. You gasped out a sobbing cry and your body slumped against the tall frame behind you, but Hans just scoffed and pushed your chest and arms roughly back against the wall, bending you at your wrist with determination, and before you even came back to your senses, he had opened his suit pants and pushed his hard, silky cock into your dripping pussy.
You let out a moan at the same time, a high-pitched, low duet of wantonly fervor.
"That's right", Hans groaned and buried his hand in your hair. "That's fucking right. Just like that, babygirl."
His fingers tightened painfully, but the punishing rhythm of his cock claiming you, stroking you, wrecking you filled you with a cathartic force that when he yanked your head back, forcing your whole back to straighten against his chest, the tears that streamed down your face were pure surrender to the pleasure he allowed you to feel.
"Is this good?", Hans rasped, his nose pressed against your burning cheek, hips snapping mercilessly, gratifying. "Does my cock feel good inside of your needy little cunt?"
"Yes", you sobbed, "yes, please."
He scoffed in dispraise.
"Are you begging, my sweet girl? Begging me to fuck you harder? Deeper?"
You cried out at his words and nodded ferociously, squirming and moaning in his arms, when he abruptly gripped your chin from behind and yanked your head around, your body following. You were eye to eye with the deathly terrorist, his hazel eyes almost black, pupils blown wide, and around his lips played a dark smile.
"Well", he purred, backing you against the wall again. He pressed his gun under your chin. "Since you asked so nicely."
His lips crashed down onto yours, finally, finally, and you both gasped into the kiss. It was all teeth and tongues, messy and wet and so good. He urged you back into his arms, propped you up against the wall, and your thighs opened for him to impale you.
You were addicted.
His cock filled you up, first-class aptitude in fucking women senseless, well-endowed satisfaction spread your cunt deliciously, and you mewled into his mouth.
"Good little girl", Hans cooed, and the praise went straight to your pulsing clit, having you moan against his lips. His tongue traced your bottom lip and dipped into your mouth, stroking yours sensually while his cock coaxed waves of pleasure through your body.
"Do you want me to fill you, baby?", he growled against your skin, his rhythm growing faster, rubbing inside of you, each stroke burning hot and cold all through your lower stomach.
"Do you want my cum so deep inside of you you'll be dripping with it for days?"
His filthy words drove you over the edge once again, and you screamed out his name into the darkness like a prayer to a god nobody dared to know.
"That's it, darling. Come for me."
Your pulsing, fluttering cunt felt like it might implode, the center of the universe and a dark hole all the same, hugging his cock impossibly tight, and when Hans pressed the barrel of his gun deeper into the soft flesh under your chin and his cock deeper into your cunt, you came again, silently, violently, redeemed.
When he disappeared into the night, soft-footed and swift, your fingers shakily fumbled with your holster to put the blade and your assassin instincts away for the night. But your dagger bumped against the bottom too soon, so your fingers dipped into the holster to probe for the strange barrier. They found a smooth bullet. 9mm, Parabellum.
Your eyes flickered back up into the solitary darkness hugging the lonely rooftops of Paris. If you want peace, prepare for war, you thought, and a gentle, content smile played around your bitten lips.