Disclaimer: I make absolutely no claim to Desperate Housewives.

A/n: Well it's December, and I am determined to complete another fic-a-day collection from now until the 24th. The first 24 requests will get done this month. If there are any extra requests, I promise to get to them eventually (I actually still have a few leftover from last spring, which I promise I haven't forgotten about).

First up is one for Aubrey, who requested a fic where Tom and Lynette have angry sex. What a way to kick off the month. This is rated M, obviously, so if that's not your thing, turn back now. Takes place in season one after "Guilty."

Please let me know if you have a request. I am not watching season 8, so that is the one thing off limits. Pretty much everything else is fair game.

Thanks for reading!

-Ryeloza

A Second Collection

By Ryeloza

One: Bad Ideas

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing!" Lynette wrenched her arm from Susan's grip—not that her friend was holding on particularly hard or putting up much of a fight, but Lynette was too worked up not to physically rebel; that Susan was the nearest target was her own fault. She never should have propelled her into the living room. "Can we just get back to dinner?"

"No!" Susan stomped her foot and, as she always did when annoyed, flailed her arms dramatically. Her right hand smacked into her Christmas tree, ornaments rattling and one sad looking candy cane falling to the floor. "All I am asking for is a nice dinner party. You and Tom are acting like it's the Cold War all over again!"

"I told you this was a bad idea."

"And I told you I need this! Do you know how long it's been since I've been in a normal relationship? Since I've gotten to host a couples' night?"

"Susan—"

"Mike's only renting, you know. Do you think he's going to want to stay if he thinks all the neighbors are insane?"

"Well he seems awfully fond of you."

Susan scowled, and Lynette felt herself soften minutely. After all, it wasn't really Susan's fault. Beyond the fact that Susan had forced her into this over every protest she'd thrown her way, of course. "Look," Susan said before Lynette could decide if she wanted to apologize or not, "can't you two just call a truce for an hour? I promise we won't play charades."

"He's the one giving me the silent treatment."

"Oh yeah. And you're just chatting up a storm. Please, Lynette."

"Lynette?"

Susan glanced over to where Tom had appeared in the doorway, and then she swiveled back to face Lynette, whose eyes remained fixed on the Christmas tree. "Please," she repeated, voice low. Lynette groaned, more out of frustration than anything, but Susan seemed to take it as acquiescence. "Thank you!" she trilled, and she almost ran from the room.

"Are you ready to go?"

Lynette rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, slowly turning to face her husband. He had that look of impatience she rarely saw—a sign that he needed time and space to cool off. It didn't happen often; usually she was the one who stormed off; she was the one who had to have time alone to relax. That he was this pissed didn't bode well for Susan's plea for peace. "We're in the middle of dinner," she said huffily, as if she actually wanted to be here eating Susan's sad excuse of a roast. "We can't just leave."

"Sure we can. We're just making them uncomfortable."

"Susan wants us here."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Look, I don't want to be here either, but we are, so let's just put on a happy act until we get home and then you can go back to ignoring me, okay?"

Tom threw up his hands. "This is ridiculous!"

"Shut up!" she hissed. She crossed the room until she was an arm's length from him, dropping her voice dangerously low. "They're going to hear you!"

"So?" he said, raising his voice—probably just to spite her. "They already know we're fighting! Do you really think this is going to make this night more awkward?"

Lynette grabbed his forearm with ten times the force Susan had held hers minutes before and angrily propelled him down the hall to the downstairs bathroom. It was only a half-bath, small to begin with and then made nearly claustrophobic by the oppressive flowered wallpaper and cloying stench of apricots. With the door shut, she and Tom were practically standing on top of each other.

"I told you I didn't want to come here!" said Tom. He was grumbling now, his voice low and furious and no less galling. "This was a bad idea!"

"I know that!"

"Then what the hell are we doing here?"

"Because it's important to Susan!"

"Ooh, well if it's important to Susan," said Tom, and the jeering quality of his tone made her stomach drop and blood boil at the same time. "Let's drop everything if it's important to Susan, right?"

"Okay, fine! Let's hear it, Tom! Go ahead and get it all out of your system now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh cut the bullshit. This has nothing to do with Susan—nothing to do with being stuck here tonight! You've been pissed at me ever since I told you about taking the boys' ADD medication. Go ahead. Just say it."

Tom ran his hand over the back of his head; in a desperate moment, he looked like he was going to back away from her only to realize that he was trapped with nowhere to go. She glared at him, waiting for the explosion she'd been expecting for days, almost tapping her foot in impatience. This had gone on long enough.

"Well?"

"God—You—" He shook his head, and in one sudden moment, his hands were on her hips, shoving her back against the door as his mouth crushed into hers, his teeth hitting hers, nose pressing into her cheek. For a second, she was breathless with surprise, and it wasn't until he nipped at her lip, hands tightening almost uncomfortably on her hips that she awakened to him. Angrily, she pushed him back into the sink and wrapped her hands around his neck, nails digging into the sensitive skin there as she held him captive against her lips. His mouth was hot and insistent against hers, demanding in every movement, reminding her with every bite and stroke of his tongue that he was only looking to punish her.

Without warning, his hands drifted to her ass, hoisting her up. He turned and jammed his shoulder against the wall as he tried to maneuver her onto the sink. "Shit," he growled against her mouth, but the pain seemed the opposite of a deterrent. His hands groped at the hem of her skirt, shoving it up, nails dragging over her thighs and leaving behind angry red marks. At the same time, his mouth left hers and began to trail down her neck toward her chest. His teeth scraped over her collarbone, and she dropped her hands to the fly of his pants to hastily undo the button. She could feel him hard against her hand, and she didn't hesitate to draw him out, stroking him hard and fast, reaching down and palming his balls less-than-gently.

"Fuck!" He breathed the word into her chest as his hands fumbled with her panties. He shoved them down just far enough to be out of the way, and then his hand was on her. Instantly, he pressed two fingers up into her, pumping them in and out with a feverish intensity, crooking them inside of her so they kept hitting that one spot where the world seemed to brighten and dim at the same time—the one that made her eyes fall shut, head dipping back as she panted wildly. Her body was trembling, feverish with sweat, and then his fingers were gone. His hands hooked under her knees, dragging her to the edge of the sink until she was practically falling off, but it didn't matter because a second later his cock was inside of her, pinioning her against the cold marble surface. There was no hesitation, no moment for her to catch her breath; he fucked her hard and mercilessly, already so unhinged that his rhythm was erratic. She moaned loudly, dug her fingers into his shoulders, let him pound into her without any show of tenderness. It was dirty—nearly degrading—desperate in some way, but her body hummed in response, unrepentant in its need for this.

"Don't you ever, ever do anything like that again," he growled. The words were disjointed, burrowing through the fog in her brain like she was lost from all rational thought. "Fuck—I don't know what the hell I would ever do if I lost you! Do you understand that? Do you?"

She shook her head, unable to understand, unable to comprehend anything but the feel of him inside of her. Every inch of her body felt on fire—every nerve tingling with an inexpressible pleasure. Her hips bucked against him, her mind lost to anything but feeling, and her shriek was only silenced by one sloppy kiss as he lost complete control.

As they stilled, the silence was finally, strangely comfortable—welcomed in a way that it hadn't been in days. His hands stroked her thighs, hers gently brushing his neck and shoulder; it was soothing after a moment devoid of any tenderness.

"I'm sorry."

The words came softly, not from her but from him, breathed into her mouth like oxygen she didn't realize she needed. "I'm sorry. You can't…You don't know…"

"I do." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "And I'm sorry too."

"You have to talk to me."

"I know. I…will."

He nodded, raising his head to look down at her. His thumbs ran over her cheekbones, dipping down and grazing over her bottom lip. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around the collar of his shirt, tugging him back down and kissing him again.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.