#IDK I DIDN’T THINK I’D GET THIS FAR | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cei1ne · 4 days ago

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—MHA men reaction to you asking them to step out so you can change!

☙◦♔◦☙◦Summary: You ask your husband/boyfriends/fiancé to step out so you can change and their reactions are to say… quite funny.

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader ; Kirishima Eijiro x f!reader x Denki Kaminari x f!reader x Sero Hanta x f!reader

꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚Tags: Cute ; Funny ; Prank ; irritation; MHA ; Couple

─⊹⊱✫⊰⊹Word-count: Idk about 8k?

✩.･*:｡A/N: Guys I know I feed you very little but I’m sorry!! I’m on vacaca rnnn and I’m enjoying it babes but I’m trying my best to fix C.ai bots and post at least once! Part 2 is getting ready rn! Enjoy xx

Part 2!!!

❀•°•════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════•°•❀

Bakugou Katsuki — “You Want Me to What?”

Sundays with Bakugou were sacred.

No early alarms. No patrols. Just the hum of the washing machine, the faint smell of breakfast lingering in the air, and Bakugou walking around shirtless with low-slung sweatpants while folding laundry like a man on a mission.

You were still curled up in bed, watching him struggle to pair socks with an intensity like he was disarming a bomb.

“These things multiply in the damn dryer,” he muttered, tossing another rogue black sock into the pile.

“You know, if you stopped wearing fifty shades of black, you might find matches easier,” you teased.

He shot you a mock glare. “You’re one to talk. You own twelve versions of the same hoodie.”

You grinned. “Yeah. But I don’t lose them to the void.”

Bakugou grumbled under his breath, tugging a fitted tee over his head. You watched his muscles flex under the fabric and couldn’t help the little idea that sparked in your brain.

Time to test his pride a little.

You stretched out with a dramatic yawn, then said casually, “Hey, babe? Can you step out for a second while I change?”

He froze.

Dead still.

Then slowly turned to look at you, blinking like you’d just spoken another language. “You want me to what?”

“Just for a second!” you laughed. “So I can change. Alone.”

His jaw twitched.

“We live together.”

“I know.”

“You’ve literally let me wash in between your pussy lips and ass crack after we had sex.”

“Yup.”

“So why the hell—”

You cut in innocently. “I’m shy.”

He stared at you for a long beat. “You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe,” you said sweetly, sitting up straighter. “But if you love me…”

He scoffs but grabs his phone and stands up “You’re ridiculous”

“Thank you!”

“I’m goin’. But only ‘cause I wanna see how far you take this dumbass bit.”

He slammed the door dramatically behind him, muttering curses the whole way. You snorted, barely holding in your laughter as you threw off the blankets and shuffled toward your dresser — still fully dressed.

You gave it a solid minute. Two.

Then crept toward the door to peek through the crack—

But he wasn’t outside.

“Wha—?”

You barely had time to blink before you were yanked back with a yelp. Bakugou had been waiting beside the frame like a gremlin, ambushing you in one swoop and throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Cheater!” you laughed, pounding his back lightly.

“I left. You didn’t say I couldn’t come back and catch you in your lie.”

You were laughing too hard to argue. He carried you back into the bedroom and dropped you onto the bed, crawling over you with a feral grin that made your stomach flip.

“You tryin’ to pull stunts like that?” he growled playfully. “What, you think I’d get all flustered or some shit?”

“A little,” you admitted, biting your lip.

“Too bad I’m not seventeen anymore, princess.”

His hands caged you in as he leaned down, voice lower now. “You’re mine. You can’t prank me with modesty. Not when I’ve helped you outta more shirts than I can count.”

You flushed. “Katsuki—”

“Nah. You started this.”

He brushed a kiss just below your ear — light enough to tease but enough to make your breath hitch.

“Now I gotta remind you who you’re tryin’ to mess with.”

You were fully prepared to tease him back — but his mouth was already on yours, hot and unapologetic. He tasted like cinnamon gum and smugness, tongue sliding past your lips with practiced ease. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough. But it was thorough.

He pulled back just a little, eyes glinting. “Still shy, sweetheart?”

You squinted at him, catching your breath. “You’re awful.”

He grinned. “But hot.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unfortunately.”

His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. “Y’know, you’re lucky I don’t make you actually change in front of me as punishment.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not a punishment. That’s enabling.”

“Tch.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “Exactly.”

He flopped beside you with a groan, pulling you against his chest.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, running a hand through your hair.

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You curled into him, heart warm, smile tugging at your lips. There was something so easy about this. Even in the teasing, the banter — there was no tension, no hesitation. Just you and him and years of learning each other’s rhythms.

You glanced up at him, feeling bold again.

“So,” you whispered. “If I asked you to leave so I could change again… what would you do?”

He looked down at you, unimpressed.

“Blow up the hallway.”

You grinned. “Fair.”

Kirishima Eijiro — “You Want Me to Wait Outside?”

It was supposed to be a lazy day.

The two of you had finally gotten a rare shared day off — no patrols, no paperwork, no surprise villain attacks — just a peaceful morning filled with pancakes, a half-watched movie playing in the background, and Eijirou lounging on the couch with his hair still damp from the shower.

You stretched with a yawn, eyeing him from the hallway with a mischievous smirk tugging at your lips. He was practically sparkling, shirtless in plaid pajama pants, glasses sliding down his nose as he flipped through a dog-eared volume of some obscure hero tactics manual.

God, you adored him.

So naturally, it was the perfect time to mess with him.

“Hey, babe?” you called from the bedroom, trying to keep your voice light, innocent.

“Yeah?” he called back, cheerful as ever.

“Can you, um… step out for a sec? I need to change.”

You heard the rustle of paper stop. Silence.

Then—

“…Huh?”

You cleared your throat, keeping up the act. “I just—y’know. Want to change. Alone. So, if you could just wait outside the room for a minute?”

More silence.

Then he appeared in the doorway, glasses pushed up, expression half-confused and half-betrayed.

“Wait outside?” He blinked. “Like… the hallway?”

You nodded, pretending to be sheepish. “Please?”

He tilted his head. “Sweetheart, I’ve literally held your hair back while you threw up on a villain’s boots. You think now’s the time to be shy?”

You bit your lip to suppress a grin. “Just… go along with it.”

Kirishima blinked again. Then slowly, dramatically, stepped back out of the doorway and leaned against the frame like he was being exiled from paradise.

“This is how it starts,” he muttered loud enough for you to hear. “First, she tells me to leave while she changes. Next, she’s locking the bathroom door and calling me ‘sir.’”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand.

“I’m just sayin’,” he added, “I thought we were at the stage where I help you get undressed. Not get kicked out for it.”

You threw a pillow at the door. “Shut up!”

“Respectfully!” he called back, dodging it. “But still!”

You held back your laughter for as long as you could, then cracked the door to peek.

He was still there.

Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Smirk locked and loaded.

“Thought you were waiting in the hallway,” you teased.

“I was. But then I remembered I’m a grown-ass man who’s seen you naked more times than I’ve seen my own abs.”

You opened the door fully. “You love your abs.”

“Exactly.” He grinned and walked in, arms slipping around your waist before you could protest. “But I love you more.”

“Even though I kicked you out?”

“Especially because you kicked me out. Little bratty.” He leaned down, voice warm and teasing. “I like it.”

You blushed. “Eiji!”

He kissed your cheek. “What? You think pulling a prank like that won’t get a reaction?”

You pouted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I was trying to be funny.”

“You were. And now…” He scooped you up suddenly, laughing when you squealed. “Now I get to be funny too.”

He tossed you gently onto the bed and crawled in after you, bracing himself above you with a crooked grin.

“You gonna try that again?” he asked, nose brushing yours.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

His grin widened. “Good.”

He kissed you — slow, thorough, all sunshine and flame — until you forgot what the prank was even about. His hands were warm against your sides, his mouth familiar and addictive. You sighed into the kiss, fingers finding their way into his hair.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing a little heavier.

“Don’t tell me to wait outside again,” he murmured.

“Why not?” you teased.

“Because I miss you after two minutes, and it’s humiliating.”

You laughed, hiding your face in his chest. “You’re such a softie.”

“Damn right.”

You both lay there for a while in silence, wrapped up in the safety of each other.

Then, he whispered—

“Still… if you do ever ask me to step out again… make sure it’s so I can walk back in and help you out of the clothes.”

“EIJI!”

Denki Kaminari — “Oh HELL NO, that’s crazy”

You knew exactly what you were doing when you called out from the bedroom:

“Hey babe, can you step out for a second? I need to change.”

The words were innocent. Casual. Delivered with practiced ease as you poked your head out of the closet and gave Denki your most angelic expression.

He was lounging on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table, fiddling with some weird-looking gadget that definitely had the potential to explode. His hair was slightly tousled, his hero jacket tossed lazily over the back of a chair, and he was wearing the oversized black T-shirt you always stole from him.

Denki blinked.

His hand froze mid-adjustment on whatever death trap he was building.

“Wait, what?” he called, leaning forward like he hadn’t heard you right.

“I said—” you repeated sweetly, “—I need to change. Can you wait outside?”

He set the gadget down slowly, like it might detonate if he moved too fast.

“Outside the room?” he asked, wide-eyed.

You nodded.

“…Like… outside, outside?”

You nodded again, trying to hide your grin.

Denki squinted, completely baffled. “Babe. We’ve been together for years. I know the freckle pattern next to your asshole better than I know my own PIN number.”

“I know,” you said, voice carefully neutral. “I just wanna change alone today.”

His jaw dropped. “Is this about the sushi thing? Because I swear, if I’d known it was your last piece of toro—”

“It’s not about the sushi,” you interrupted, laughing now.

He stood, clearly flustered, and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay, think, Denki, think… what did you do? Did you leave the toilet seat up? Did you short out the coffee machine again?”

You raised a brow. “Do I need a reason to want privacy?”

“…Yes?” he said without hesitation, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “Wait. No. I mean—no! Of course not. You’re an independent woman and I respect your privacy and boundaries and all that, but—what is happening right now?!”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “So you’ll step out?”

He pointed dramatically toward the hallway. “I guess! But just so you know, this feels deeply personal!”

With the most exaggerated sigh in the history of sighs, Denki stomped — theatrically — out of the room, muttering under his breath the entire time.

You gave it thirty seconds before peeking out.

He was leaning against the wall just outside the bedroom door, arms crossed, looking like the human embodiment of betrayal.

“Still there?” you asked.

He pouted. “I’m emotionally wounded.”

You laughed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You asked me to leave. Like I’m some random tech guy instead of your incredibly hot and loyal boyfriend who literally knows what brand of underwear you hate.”

“I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal.”

Denki put a hand over his heart. “You’ve cut me deeper than any villain ever could.”

You opened the door a little wider. “Maybe I’m just messing with you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Wait… was this a prank?!”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

Denki blinked. Then squinted. Then blinked again.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, covering his face with both hands. “I was so close to crying in the hallway. I was already texting Mina for emergency support.”

“You didn’t!”

He held up his phone. Sure enough, a half-written message read:

—🆘 babe told me to leave the room so she can change is this the beginning of the end pls help 😭😭😭

You dissolved into laughter as he groaned and collapsed dramatically onto the bed, arms flailing like he’d just survived the emotional apocalypse.

“You’re evil,” he accused, grabbing a pillow and smacking it against his own face.

“You’re easy,” you teased, sitting beside him.

He peeked out from under the pillow. “You better make this up to me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna unleash the full power of my revenge.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “That means tickles. Possibly emotional manipulation. Maybe even sad puppy eyes.”

You raised a brow. “Sad puppy eyes?”

“Don’t make me use them. I only bring those out in times of dire distress.”

You leaned closer. “Dire distress, huh?”

He nodded seriously. “Being denied access to my beautiful girlfriend while she changes definitely counts.”

You smirked. “You do know I’m literally wearing your shirt right now, right?”

“Exactly!” he said, exasperated. “It’s my shirt! I should have visitation rights!”

You pushed him back onto the bed, laughing as he sprawled out dramatically.

“You know what?” he said after a beat. “I’m not even mad.”

“No?”

He turned to look at you, grin softening into something unexpectedly sincere.

“Nah,” he said. “Honestly… I kinda like that you can still mess with me. Keeps me on my toes.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I like keeping you on your toes.”

“Even if it gives me a heart attack?”

“Especially then.”

He laughed, catching your wrist and pulling you down gently until you were curled beside him, his arm around your shoulders and your face tucked under his chin.

There was a comfortable silence, the kind that only came from years of knowing each other — of late nights spent curled up in each other’s arms, of inside jokes and shared toothbrushes and too many burned pizzas.

Then, softly, Denki murmured, “Just for the record…”

“Mm?”

“If you ever wanna play the shy, innocent ‘you can’t see me change’ thing again…”

You looked up.

“…Warn me next time, so I can record my meltdown and sell it for emotional damage compensation.”

You laughed. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“And proud of it.” He grinned, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “But seriously—next time you want to get undressed, just say the word.”

“Oh yeah?”

He smirked. “I’ll help.”

“DENKI!”

Sero Hanta — “You’re Kicking Me Out? Now?”

There were few things Hanta Sero liked more than chilling at home with you after a long day of hero work.

You made the couch feel like heaven. You made the quiet feel full. And, for the record, you looked criminally good in his oversized shirt and fuzzy socks, dancing around the apartment while brushing your teeth and mumbling some song under your breath.

So yeah, this was his peace.

You were his peace.

Which is why you decided to cause a little chaos.

He was lounging on the floor, back against the couch, halfway into a bag of chips, watching you wander into the bedroom and start rifling through your drawers.

You called over your shoulder like it was nothing.

“Hey, babe? Can you leave the room for a sec? I’m gonna change.”

Crunch.

Sero froze.

You smirked to yourself. You didn’t even need to turn around to know he had gone completely still — chip halfway to his mouth, brows scrunched in betrayal.

“…What?” he finally said.

You kept your voice casual. “I need to change. Alone.”

There was a pause.

“Alone?” he echoed, voice full of offense. “Alone alone? Like—you want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Babe.” He popped up so fast it was almost comical. “We live together. We shower together. I’ve seen you eat ramen in nothing but panties and a top that your boobs we’re practically hanging out of. Now you’re telling me I’m not allowed in my own bedroom?”

You shrugged. “It’s just for a minute.”

His footsteps padded into the doorway. You could feel his baffled stare on your back.

“…Is this a test?”

“Nope.”

“Am I being punk’d?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Nope.”

He walked in a little more. “Okay. So, you’re telling me that my girlfriend — the woman who literally flashed me by accident on a mission once and didn’t even blink — is suddenly shy?”

You turned to face him with a straight face. “Yes.”

His jaw dropped.

“Oh my god, you’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

He threw his arms up dramatically. “This is it. You’ve hit your villain arc. You’re breaking up with me in the most cruel, intimate way possible. Clothing-based emotional exile.”

You cracked — you couldn’t hold in your giggles anymore.

Sero narrowed his eyes immediately. “Oh my god. You’re messing with me.”

“No I’m not!” you lied.

He crossed his arms. “You are such a brat.”

You beamed. “I love you.”

“That’s what all the evil masterminds say before unleashing their plots.” He backed out of the room anyway, standing just beyond the doorway, leaning on the frame like he was still deciding whether to respect the prank or call you out for it.

You moved toward the door slowly, still acting like you were getting ready to close it.

He frowned.

“Wait… you’re really doing this?”

You nodded, biting your lip dramatically.

“…Babe.”

“What?”

“I like watching you change.”

You burst out laughing.

He took a step forward. “No, I’m serious. You’ve ruined me. If you take your sweater off and I’m not in the room, I get physically ill.”

“Are you quoting a fanfiction about me?”

“Probably. I’d write it myself if I could.”

You crossed your arms, grinning. “So you’re upset.”

“I’m distraught.”

“Because I’m asking for some privacy?”

“No. Because you think I’m the kind of man who will just leave without a fight.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping a few tones, his smile turning lazy, “I know exactly what’s under that shirt. I folded that lingerie last week. Don’t pretend I’m not allowed to see it.”

Your face flushed.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, okay, you win.”

He stepped into the room fully now, grin widening. “So you were pranking me.”

“Guilty”

He pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapped around your waist, voice warm in your ear.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

“…Also lucky I didn’t blow a fuse and storm the room.”

“You were close.”

“Honestly, yeah.”

He pulled back, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But for the record?”

You blinked up at him.

“If you ever tell me to leave again,” he murmured, “you better be naked by the time I come back.”

Your jaw dropped. “Sero!”

“What?” he shrugged innocently. “I’m just saying. If you’re kicking me out, I expect rewards.”

You buried your face in his chest with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love,” he corrected.

You peeked up at him. “So, I’m forgiven?”

He pretended to think. “Mmm… Only if I get to help you undress this time.”

You reached up, flicked his forehead, and laughed when he caught your hand and kissed it instead.

“Deal,” he said, pulling you closer. “Now change. I’ll sit here like a good boyfriend and totally not peek.”

“You’re literally staring already.”

“Because I’m dedicated.”

1K notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 18 days ago

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polite cat | oscar piastri social media au

ASTON MARTINI'S ESPRESSO SHOTS: a smaller fic!

pairing: oscar piastri x fem reader

since you guys wanted to insist

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | OSCAR PIASTRI MASTERLIST

oscarpiastri

liked by lando, alexalbon and 489,209 others

tagged: yourusername

oscarpiastri: where did you think i got it from?

view all comments

user1: i hope he only saw the polite cat tweets like that and not… the other insane things we’ve been saying

user2: girl they taught us all about digital foot prints

yourusername: you all need to touch some grass i’m being so real

yourusername: osc does NOT suit cat ears

user3: how do you know this?

yourusername: none of your business

user4: i think she’s lying to keep it from us

yourusername: so what if i am - you DEPRAVED PEOPLE WILL NEVER KNOW ANYWAY

user5: so their baby being a calico makes complete sense

user6: the orange comes from y/n and the black comes from oscar

yourusername: OMG THAT’S SO CUTE

oscarpiastri: not sure that i like that it implies you birthed buttercup

yourusername: i would’ve if necessary

lando: so…. i wasn’t invited to this baby reveal party

oscarpiastri: it was hardly a party

yourusername: you didn’t reply to my paperless invite so idk what to tell you

lando: well if i knew everyone else was going i would’ve read the invite better !

alexalbon: your loss bro the finger food slapped

maxverstappen1: can confirm

oscarpiastri: and we appreciate the gifts!

yourusername: not sure what we’re going to do with THAT many mechanical fish in a highrise but we appreciate the thought

user7: the paddock has needed some new pets…

user8: the girls have gotten stale

roscoelovescoco: watch your mouth

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, logansargeant and 201,493 others

tagged: oscarpiastri

yourusername: he’s actually not a polite cat at all he called me fatty when this arrived 😞

view all comments

user12: not reading the caption he’s fine as fuck

user13: need him to eat me like that bbq

yourusername: WE HAVE A CHILD TOGETHER? BUTTERCUP PIASTRI-YLN MEANS NOTHING?

yourusername: zero morals around here anymore

user14: i am sorry but ‘buttercup piastri-y/ln’ is wild

oscarpiastri: THAT IS NOT WHAT I SAID ???

yourusername: and now he’s raising his voice at me

yourusername: this is your ‘polite cat’

oscarpiastri: why are you slandering me?

oscarpiastri: i can hear you giggling in the bathroom ???

oscarpiastri: is this because i didn’t go out and get the ice cream you want?

oscarpiastri: it’s 11 on a sunday baby what do you want me to do

liamlawson30: i would’ve found a way but that’s just me

oscarpiastri: back off.

yourusername: YEESH

oscarpiastri: i think you like it when i’m prickly

yourusername: maybe i do. sue me.

oscarpiastri: i don’t think you could handle me in a suit and delivering a closing statement

yourusername: DON’T TEASE ME

user15: what is happening

lando: just leave them to it at this point

oscarpiastri: follow your own advice please 🙏

lando: i stay as far away from you people as possible

yourusername: you literally asked to come cuddle LAST WEEK

lando: god forbid a guy was a lil vulnerable

lando: also saying that like yall didn’t say yes - i got photographic evidence

oscarpiastri

liked by alexalbon, danielricciardo and 782,942 others

tagged: yourusername

oscarpiastri: okay maybe you guys did have a bit of a point

view all comments

user19: THAT SHOULD BE ME

user20: i actually need to be detained for my own safety

user21: i think i’d sleep as much as oscar if i had HER to constantly cuddle with

yourusername: I LOVE YOU

yourusername: YOU’RE SO CUTE

yourusername: and such a good papa

yourusername: my little polite cat 🐱

oscarpiastri: i love you too !!!!!!!!!!!!

oscarpiastri: thank you for always letting me be the little spoon

oscarpiastri: and for not breaking up with me when i dribbled on you

user22: how am i meant to believe that this guy could win the championship

yourusername: GO FUCK YOURSELF

user22: i mean… if i had oscar lying in my lap i would also shout at anyone being mean to him

user23: perhaps she should’ve even been meaner !

oscarpiastri: don’t give her a challenge

yourusername: but i’ll always defend you baby :3

oscarpiastri: <333333

lando: way to expose yourself

oscarpiastri: BOO ! I LOVE MY GIRLFRIEND AND I LOVE WHEN SHE LOVES ME

yourusername: ooooooooooo we’re instagram official … does that scare you lando?

lando: you guys are so mean on here to me when i KNOW you’ll fold if i send you a sad text

yourusername: well can you at least be a little more polite about it all

lando: oscar was just mean to me

yourusername: oscar can’t be mean?

yourusername: i think you are going crazy

lando: STOP GASLIGHTING ME

oscarpiastri: y/n can’t gaslight? she doesn’t even know what that is

yourusername: teehee

lando: so much for polite.

fin.

note: bro writers block is KICKING MY ASS SO BAD RN SO THIS IS ALL I GOT

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 social media au #f1 #f1 smau #oscar piastri instagram au #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smau

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jyunhology · 12 days ago

Text

even my enemies know how i like my batter ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ psh (m)

summary: an annoying roommate. a situationship going nowhere. heated exchanges. filthy dreams; your living situation with seonghwa is a cesspool of insults and clashes. until seonghwa’s dream and your growing, contrasting feelings has the both of you tangled in something more than arguments.

a/n: hyunjae makes a return as a situationship (but hes not as insufferable as the other fic). this is long and i went crazy idk!

word count: 9.6k

warnings: MINORS DNI. switch!seonghwa, switch!reader, non idol!au, roommate!au, sort of e2l? insufferable roommates to lovers (angst + fluff), LOTS OF PLOT & build-up, both seonghwa and reader have trauma, they both are not good people!!! but they learn along the way, reader is NOT cheating (n hyunjae is a pos), seonghwa has lewd dreams about reader, m! masturbation, oral (both m and f receiving) / cunnilingus + blowjob, face sitting, fingering, clit stimulation, deep-throating, cum shot, use of names (baby, angel, pretty, slut, cocksleeve), spitting, unprotected p -> v sex, cowgirl, creampie, implied multiple rounds, brief aftercare, sweet, sappy stuff at the end 🤍

You didn’t know whether being Seonghwa’s roommate was a blessing or a fucking curse.

But you’re willing to go with the second one especially when you’re now standing in front of your wardrobe in your towel, equal parts infuriated and perplexed at the colourful array of clothes that are ‘nicely’ arranged.

Which is something that would’ve been nice to know of, something you don’t hesitate to spout to Seonghwa with a flurry of hands that only garners a knowing smirk.

“I don’t care! If it’s nice and colour-coded! Seonghwa!” Your sentences are broken up from your efforts to search for the outfit you so carefully packed at the far end of the closet, and you don’t miss any breath to sigh.

The ‘easier time’ you thought you’d have with getting changed was clearly now wasted on searching frantically in the black and red sections of your carefully sorted wardrobe.

“But your closet’s always so untidy, I just thought I’d do you a favour.” Seonghwa clicks his tongue as he leans against your doorframe before averting his eyes to the ceiling as you change.

It’s the usual for both of you now; changing in front of each other (with your undergarments already on, of course) and manoeuvring around with ease that it irritates you just how used you are to each other’s presence.

Because while you’d love to banish him from the apartment you’re co-paying, Seonghwa has shown up at times: silent, delicious meals after bad days, new perspectives on a frustrating work project, straight-to-the-point advice with your situationship.

Though, that’s a good 20 percent. The other 80 is spent cursing him out and throwing whatever’s in your hand at him until all he can manage in the moment are smirks and scoffs.

Part of that 80 is something that seemed to be innate even prior to Seonghwa’s birth: cleaning and organising every single fucking surface until it’s sparkling clean.

It was a bearable and useful trait, even, when you first moved in, but when your art materials, tablescapes and other small trinkets go missing is when you start to feel the twitch in your eye.

It started with the small things: little decorations around the house like succulents, small figurines and wall decor going missing, finding them stuffed deep into the drawers of the TV console, replaced with his own decor, or thrown away completely.

“It’s just too messy, don’t you think?” Something goes off on you. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Settling for a deep sigh, you only hope the other could compromise. It wasn’t fun to apartment hunt, so you’d decide not to place yourself in a bad spot since you met him just a week ago.

Well, that and also the fact that Hongjoong, a mutual friend of yours, had suggested this arrangement. With you searching for a place to stay and his friend looking for someone else to shoulder the rent after the last roommate left, it was a win-win situation.

“Yeah, but it’s still a shared space, Seonghwa.” You speak through gritted teeth with a forced smile, beginning to speculate that the last person didn’t exactly have a choice in leaving. It’s like Seonghwa can see the gears turning in your head, because the sides of his mouth curl up mischievously.

“Some of those were given to me by my friends; you can’t just throw my gifts away.”

“Well. Should’ve said that before I threw it away.” All he does is shrug while you follow his figure in disbelief as he walks past you into his room, but not before throwing you a brush and dustpan. “Here. Your own personal dustpan. You— uh— left some crumbs, by the way.”

“W-What— hey!” Seonghwa is so languid in his movements, slamming and locking the door with ease because he runs this show like clockwork. It’s always an incredulous stare followed by angry muttering and compliance, betting on two days before you pack up out of frustration.

But he’s again faced with your determined face four months later when you thump on his door just as the clock strikes twelve. “Park Seonghwa! I know you’re in there doing your stupid fucking LEGOs!”

The door swings open. “What the fuck do you want now?”

“You wanna tell me why my paints are all mixed up?” It’s hardly a question when all you’re doing is screaming in his face as you gesture repeatedly to your newly revamped art room.

You were banking on the possibility that you could get some down time by angrily painting out Seongwa’s infuriatingly pretty face before adding demon horns and sharp teeth (and maybe piercing the canvas itself). But it’s difficult to start when he’s arranged your paints in the colour spectrum, mixing both your acrylic and oil paint tubes.

You’re past manners at this point.

“What’s wrong with that? C’mon, don’t tell me it doesn’t look better sorted in the proper colours?”

“Yeah, no fucking shit, Seonghwa. If you actually opened your already big eyes to read the labels, you’d see that they said ‘acrylic’ and ‘oil’, you idiot!”

Seonghwa pouted and used those big eyes exactly the way you asked him to. “Aw, you think my eyes are big and beautiful?”

“Ugh, you’re not worth my breath. I’m taking a walk outside, far, far away from you!”

He only tsk’s with a mumble of annoying, thinking you’d take the chance to leave the place for good. That’s not the case, clearly. Especially at your altercation now five months later, and especially not when you’re hopping around in your jeans and still berating him for the closet situation.

You were already overshooting the timing you promised yourself you’d leave at. “You can’t just— clean anyone’s things just because you can, Seonghwa— Fuck.”

But he can hardly take you seriously when you’re crashing into your vanity and putting your head through the arm hole instead of the neck and he stifles a laugh at your scrunched up face. That strikes a chord in you.

“And you can’t just simply laugh when I tell you things, you asshole!” Another profanity leaves your lips when you aggressively tap your phone for the time, a glaring 16:41 lighting your face with a blue hue.

You’ve never touched up your face so quickly before — a little eyeshadow there, lip gloss here — before you’re grabbing your things and bolting out your room.

Not before slamming your wardrobe doors a little harder than usual and that makes Seonghwa wince before his lips spread into a smug smile. It’s like he can’t help the smugness; not that you care, at all. He tracks your frantic movements until you’re pushing at his chest with your finger.

Hm. Too busy thinking about your lips curling to hurl insults at him. Too occupied with smelling the Black Opium Glitter that makes its appearance every time you meet your stupid situationship.

“I mean it, Seonghwa,” You huff out as you continue to puncture your words with your finger, “Stay the fuck out of my room and the art room today.” Deciding you can’t look at Seonghwa for a second longer, you turn away and lift a hand to feel for your usual pendant around your neck.

And the other checks whether you’ve got everything, but it’s also, unfortunately, to silence whatever stupid crap that’s about to leave his mouth.

“Only today? Why? You gonna bring him back and fuck him while rolling in paint?”

You swear he’s gonna make you gauge your own eyes out one day, getting one step closer with already how much you roll them. There’s no helping as you reach up to clutch at your head, both hands tensed into agitated claws while you turn around slowly.

Seonghwa purses his lip with a quick cocked eyebrow, like it’s a challenge.

“Can you shut it.” It comes out more as a statement. You wish to see it come true. “And maybe. Jealous? I wonder if you even pull with how much you’re fucking bothering me, day in and day out.”

“Unf— low blow,” He clutches at his heart dramatically and fakes a fall into the dining chairs with a pout to his voice, "Targeting my ability to woo someone. I’m wounded.”

And it’s this kind of petty, back-and-forth exchange that you can’t stand. He’s always trying to get under your skin by fighting like kids at a playground that you don’t know why you give him the time of day. It’s no use having an attentive roommate at times (keyword!) when all he does is annoy and pester you.

Yet, you let your eyes linger over his stupid styled hair and plump lips for just a second longer. Why the hell is his hair even styled while he’s in the house?

“Ugh. Annoying.” You say under your breath like you aren’t any better, securing your heels and belongings before reluctantly turning back to him. “Don’t burn down the house. And stay out!”

Seonghwa grins and doesn’t say anything to your lone finger, not catching the faint At least let me clean the paint up after!

And that’s the last you allow yourself to have of him.

Hyunjae? Not so much, not when he’s got you wrapped around his finger with his sweet words and even sweeter declarations; and yet, you can’t help but feel a twinge of hesitation when he’s kissing down your neck by the front door after your little outing, desperate to have you.

Because while you fell long ago for him on unofficial dates and promises in the form of necklaces, it’s starting to wane. You’re not sure how many more I’m not ready’s and Let’s see how things go’s you can handle. If you’ve held hands, spent mornings together, kissed and made love, what’s wrong with the extra step in labelling?

But you push down those tricky feelings for now, opting to finally say something (again) tomorrow when the mood is calmer and quieter. Now, you’re too zoned into Hyunjae’s wandering hands, making you giggle when he sweeps you off your feet easily.

Only when he turns, does he see Seonghwa mid-snack. He’s unfazed and dressed, still with the styled hair that lights a fire under you. Though, you’re not sure if it’s you getting worked up from Hyunjae or the good old irritation bubbling to the surface.

“Why’re you dressed, dude?” Hyunjae’s met Seonghwa before, so he has no qualms about speaking up when you’re lacking some clothes, but you’re surprised to see your roommate raise his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“Went for an early dinner.” Your clashes are dramatic, explosive, but Seonghwa’s never this bothered and aloof. Nor speak in short answers. You always had trouble shutting him up; this was different.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” You murmur, a little confused at the breach of loose rules you set for you and Seonghwa. It wasn’t strict, but you’d at least tell each other if you had dinner plans since you didn’t want the problem of leftover food. Hyunjae lets you down easy when you pat his back, glancing between the two of you with impatience.

“Didn’t think you needed to know since, y’know.” Seonghwa gestures aimlessly at the two of you.

That makes you recoil just a bit, eyes travelling over his outfit and appearance — a little frazzled, unkempt — before they snap back to him staring holes into you. It’s piercing, that you don’t even have the chance to tell him you already scheduled a takeout delivery for the three of you.

Hyunjae interrupts. Famous for never reading the room, he pats Seonghwa on the back with a nod and nudges him towards his room, “Well! We hope you have plans for a movie in your room, preferably with your headphones on.” Like he’s waiting for your roommate to catch on.

Of course he does, fast, daring you to say something with a stare that gets broken with Hyunjae’s touch along your shoulder, dragging down, down, down to your hand.

“Y-Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

But Seonghwa doesn’t pull up a movie, music or even his new LEGO set that he’s been itching to build, not when he knows you’re just two doors down getting it on with someone like Hyunjae.

He doesn’t have anything against the dude, truly, but it’s something to give advice to your roommate and then having that same situationship slap your back like you’re a close friend of his. When all Hyunjae does is avoid commitment and is apparently allergic to being a partner worthy of your attention.

Seonghwa doesn’t understand why he’s so adamant on driving Hyunjae away, but in that moment, any emotion — confusion, anger, resentment — is directed towards cleaning his already spotless room. Clothes sorted, figurines and LEGO sets reformatted.

He’s this close to changing the whole layout of the room (the wardrobe’s already diagonal) when he hears laughter permeating the walls, getting closer.

It travels from your room to the art room just beside his and he cringes when he realises you might blow up once you realise he’s also stress colour-coded your paints, again. But all he hears are your giggles and Hyunjae’s grating voice paired with art materials being knocked over.

He can hear your voice, sort of — “The AC’s better in here. Seonghwa will kill me if he has to wash sweaty sheets again. No, no, sorry, I’m gonna keep my neckla…” — it’s drained, exasperated that Hyunjae easily distracts you with something he says.

Seonghwa has stopped listening by then. He rips his headphones from the chair, shoving it on and turning on some random song, though, even that unfortunately doesn’t block out much of your… sounds. And he stays like that, rearranging the layout of his room, dripping with sweat. But on top of keeping his pride intact, he doesn’t want to see your face.

Not the nasty scowl that’s become familiar to him, not the venom in your voice that has lost its kick.

Seonghwa doesn’t bother to find out why.

Hours after, you’re storing the last, uneaten takeout meal into the fridge.

—

A gasp, a whisper is what gets him to open his eyes. It’s not quite as he recalls, though, his walls colourful with scenery, the sheets warm under him despite sleeping on the floor out of spite the night before.

“Relaaxx, baby, dirty sheets aren’t gonna stay dirty forever.” Seonghwa feels a force on his naked chest and heat along his lower half.

But it’s not quite there, a barrier of want, desire separating him and the person on him. Head fuzzy, arms feeling like they aren’t his, wordless sounds.

“(Y-Y/N)? Wha—” Hot. On fire. It’s what Seonghwa feels. Smooth, silky — your voice curls around his skin, weaves in between his limbs and encloses around his ears. He’s drunk on you.

And floaty. You’re soft around the edges, somehow blurring into the light surrounding him.

“You need to unclench sometimes, Hwa.” You hum, moving your hips slowly to test the waters. His shaky hands scale your thighs right up to your bare ass; weren’t you clothed—?

“Always so,” you sink down, “uptight.” Your warmth around his cock is what earns a deep groan, eyes flitting between your face contorted into pleasure, the dangling pendant you always seem to wear around your neck, and the sinful drag of his length against your walls.

Good is the only thing Seonghwa can gasp out, so good, so perfect. “It is, baby. Wanna be here forever.” You whimper out. He can hardly breathe, the sensation clouding his judgement and whatever he had with you is forgotten.

Your snarl softens into ecstasy, your taut hands into feather light touches.

But that’s where it’s off, isn’t it? Skin too bright it burns wrong, heat too intoxicating it’s got his hips bucking, kiss so sloppy it sparks something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

It’s when he thinks he feels you clench around him is when his dick twitches and—

It never comes, because Seonghwa’s jolting awake with a small yelp and it descends right into a groan.

“Shit. My back…” He’s awkwardly twisted, hands braced against the floor, but also awkwardly, incredibly hard from whatever that was that he has to take a breather. But it hurts, so, so bad he wishes you—

And that’s when it sinks into him. Wanting your smaller hands around him? Craving your hot breath mingling with his?

Where was the usual provocation of his heart, if not just manifesting in a different way? That leaves Seonghwa in a dilemma, fingers aching to inch into his shorts to relieve himself with dream-you infiltrating his thoughts. But it’s you.

“This is driving me fucking crazy.” The man mutters to himself, grabbing something to hide his very obvious hard-on at least until the restroom, not aware of your predicament on the other side of the wall.

In the next room over, Hyunjae greets you with a pretty smile and a raspy voice into your neck.

You let him kiss all over your chest, but the spark inside is merely a warm, brief breeze. His hands don’t seem to make your body buzz in anticipation. And yet, you pull him closer with a carefully carved hum, with rehearsed lips.

“Hyunjae?”

“Hm?”

Here goes nothing. With a deep breath, you’re working up the courage to say the words, frankly, that you’ve already said so many times. And yet, you at least think you deserve this.

“Are we,” you sigh with a smile; you hope it’ll soften the blow, “are we going anywhere with this?”

“What do you mean, baby?” Hyunjae whispers, too preoccupied with running his hands up and down your naked sides that now feel intrusive, invasive. Even if he’s not showing that he knows, the small taps he places along your skin tells you everything; it makes the sides of your mouth twitch up.

That the tragedy of learning someone else is all on a bet, on a gamble that they’ll turn out to be a decent enough partner that doesn’t leave you hanging.

“You know what I’m talking about, Hyunjae.”

There’s a faint groan of disapproval, knowing you’d bring this up sooner or later. With a huff, he sits up to face away from you, sheets tempestuously pooling around his body so much that he feels unreachable and unscalable. And here you were, swimming in disappointment and frustration like it wasn’t the same old game.

“Sweetheart—” You hardly try to mask your scoff from behind him. Sweetheart, at a time like this, but before he can continue, Seonghwa’s interrupting the both of you with a sharp rap on the door.

“Breakfast’s ready.” It’s short and sweet, even if a little tense.

“Y-Yep, we’ll be out.” Again, you’ll let this go just as he turns back to you, a sneaky hand along your calf that immediately sends heat towards your core, sending you falling into a dizzying dilemma that eventually you find is a bottomless pit.

Seonghwa, on the other hand, doesn’t take long to fall apart once he’s slammed the bathroom door shut. The first touch along his cock makes him lean forward onto the shower wall, utterly overwhelmed with everything you that he doesn’t want to indulge himself in.

But his hand is the closest thing to your heat within the dream, the snipping cadence of your insults and your moans from last night merging and mingling until it ingrains itself in his brain, spurring him on as he strokes himself.

Soft fuck’s are all he can manage, avoiding your name like a plague as his vision of the white wall blurs and you come into focus. That flash of your fingertips, dipping into his skin and pushing; the easy, quiet yield into you. Seonghwa spills with a loud groan that’s covered by the shower, painting the walls white with a shiver.

The loud, quick pounding of his heart, the strain in his arm, your face phasing in and out of focus.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

—

It’s a while before you and Hyunjae emerge from the room, but Seonghwa’s got all the time in the world, especially when he’s cumming the fastest he’s ever done and then taking the swiftest shower known to man.

It isn’t in his genes — detailed, meticulous cleaning and all — but if he couldn’t trust his words, his actions in that… lewd dream, it wouldn’t be any different when you were in the room.

He’d cook a cordial breakfast, serve it and book it out of there, but he’s already cut his finger from cutting fruits, dripped batter all over the stove and spurted maple syrup onto the island.

Seonghwa’s troubles didn’t end there, culminating into a shattered plate on the floor when he was viciously scrubbing the dirty counter.

Despite all the chaos, he thanks whoever’s up there that the knob to the art room doesn’t budge, and gets to cleaning. Only ten minutes later, do you walk out sleepily behind Hyunjae.

“Morning.” It’s curt, but it’s the usual for you especially when you’re greeting Seonghwa. The lack of response stifles you in your tracks yet again, looking up, puzzled, to find him with an awkward smile and scrunched shoulders with a bag full of porcelain shards.

“Seonghwa…?” You trail off for any sort of reaction but his expression worsens the closer you come and all you get is a small squeak before he’s bolting off with intent. It backfires when he realises he’s briskwalking the wrong way, nodding off to the two of you before he’s out the door again.

Even Hyunjae who’s usually clueless about things is looking at you for answers, but you’re not that much more knowledgeable about his different facades (if he even had more than one, other than being a nuisance in your life). And definitely not enough to be able to explain something so out of character such as that, despite being roommates for nine months.

“Oh! Well, forget about him. Look.” that prompts your head to snap to the counter — perhaps so on edge from Hyunjae’s increasingly nasal voice, and your countless, crushing thoughts — that the little gesture of a breakfast fills your heart with uncharacteristic warmth.

“Dude made us breakfast. Dunno why yours are waffles though but, whatever.” You stifle a smile, before letting your hands guide you over the stove with a washcloth.

There’s hardly any interaction with Seonghwa for the rest of the day except for maybe the small scoff when you thank Hyunjae’s bare minimum act of cleaning up, pushing the apartment into a weird sense of calm and serenity you’ve not had for a long time.

It’s two, three, four days too long that you realise something’s off. It’s almost radio silent two doors down and has been for the past few days.

This wasn’t like Seonghwa. As much as he got under your skin, he never passed off the opportunity to piss the hell out of you, whether it’s by changing your shower head’s preferred pressure settings entirely or simply putting your favourite mug on the highest shelf.

You can still hear him usually in the form of surprise, from time to time — whether he’s gaming, watching a movie or talking on the phone — but the silence that follows is nothing short of secretive, like he’s afraid of getting caught. And you know he’s somehow getting food into his room, you just don’t know how.

It’s like you were living with a ghost who did nothing but clean, countertops still shining and floors free of dust. Anything involving you, though… nothing.

At that, you’re reaching up to cradle something usually hanging around your neck for some comfort, but you forget you’ve lost it after Seonghwa’s weird exit and isolation.

It’s late four days later when Seonghwa sees your shadow by his door, no doubt hovering and pacing that he feels something pull at his heart. Not the typical irk he feels upon sensing your presence — because frankly, he’s done anything but think about messing up your little creations lately — guilt, regret, a little mix of anticipation and trepidation?

You’ve visited twice more in his sleep over the past few days. Kissed him breathless, made him harder than he’s ever been, whispered sweet things he’s never thought you’d say.

He’s afraid. How can he even begin to redeem himself with how much crap he’s pulled on you for the past nine months? You’d look at him crazy if he even mentioned how you appeared in his dreams, let alone had some semblance of lust disguised as infatuation for you. Or was it infatuation disguised as lust? He wasn’t sure any more.

Rustle of paper, several crushed drafts and then finally slip.

Seonghwa gets up, groggy and sluggish. It’s not that he hasn’t showered or continued his hobbies, but staying in bed rethinking how he felt about his (actually attractive) roommate did things to him.

what the hell r u doing in there

There’s a weak smile on Seonghwa’s face but it drops right away when he feels the ghost of your teasing touches. He scours his mind for any reason why you’d be trying to talk to him. Was rent coming up?

Your impatience seeps through the door; the sighs, your tapping finger. Scribble. Slip.

seonghwa i can hear u. can u say smth even if its smth stupid like ‘ur mom’ or whatever. not that i gaf

You gave too many fucks, actually. The house’s too quiet without your bickering, and there’s still batter left in the fridge that you wouldn’t dare touch without Seonghwa’s permission. Well, you still would, but he’s always been a little better at putting the right amount into the waffle maker.

You liked waffles for breakfast, and you liked his aggravating voice in your ears, you guess. Those were the reasons you told yourself.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes at your persistence, heading over to his desk to get a post-it of his own. For fun, he slips it under the door without writing anything. When you kiss your teeth after turning it over and over, you ram your elbow into his door.

Seonghwa laughs. Freely. He catches himself before it can cross over the line, before it spills into the hallway and maybe, maybe into your skin.

tell me ure not dying in there, at least.

Your ink on his paper, like it’s a premonition. Your scribbles are a little messy against the stark white paper, but he likes it.

i’m not dying. don’t kid yourself into worrying about me.

who said my ass is worried about you .. whos going to pay the rent if you’re stuck there? like dude. im not exactly ceo material ..

i could always just put the money under this gap. somehow, you’ll manage.

Slip.

That’s all he says. Another thud against his door, but this time it’s your fist and Seonghwa giggles slightly to himself before there’s a small laugh emanating from the other side of the door, too.

You’re not sure what to say after, staring at his carefully written words that you don’t notice the door opening slowly. He’s cracked it open while sitting, looking at you carefully as you lean back on your hands, in shock.

For a moment, no one speaks — he’s much more disheveled than his usual self, but he looks healthy and alive — before you’re letting out a small sigh of relief.

Even as you move to look in (curiosity’s gotten the best of you, you haven’t seen his room in detail anyway), Seonghwa tracks you, albeit this time with softer, unsure eyes.

For how long he’s been locked inside, the state of his room isn’t too bad except a lingering stale smell, but it’s nothing major. You take in his written words, his room from where you were seated, noticing how they reflect the spotless apartment.

But the latter always lacked something. It was too sterile, too pure and clean that it felt unlived in. Seonghwa’s room had touches of colour from his LEGO sets, the figurines on the desk, even the slightly messed up bedsheets gave way to how chaotically he sleeps.

Seonghwa waits with bated breath as you stand up, stepping past the doorframe and into the room. He’s quick to get up, too, clearing all the paper you’ve used up in your little chat and scooting inwards, wincing when his ass bumps into the corner of the desk.

The little eye roll you do calms him down a little, “nice nerd room you’ve got here.”

Seonghwa huffs at the little jab, but nevertheless allows you to enter. Like you’re someone hunting him, he shrinks under your gaze but takes the chance to scan over you. The wonder-filled eyes, the tempting exposed skin thanks to your tank top, your… lips turned downwards?

“—nghwa. Seonghwa!” His brows furrow.

“W-What?”

He looks at what you’re holding: a plastic bowl. As you look into it, you recognise the intricate carving of your family necklace, an heirloom; the other is a bit more tacky, a gift from Hyunjae early on but it’s something you still cherish(ed).

That curiosity is gone. The desire to give Seonghwa a chance — dissolved.

“Why do you have them?” Fuck. Why’d he leave the bowl there? He was planning to put it back silently after soaking the jewellery in some vinegar and water to clean it, but he didn’t think you were gonna slip him post-its so soon like you were in tenth grade, and then come into his room.

But it wasn’t your fault. Not at all, when all you’ve done is tolerate him while he terrorises you and drives you crazy.

“Is— is this where you’ve been keeping my necklaces all this time? You know how hard I’ve been looking for these?”

Seonghwa only swallows, hands curled into fists as he resists the urge to reach out to you.

“I just wanted to… Christ.” His heart sinks even more when you open your pendant and the photograph of your grandmother is nowhere to be found. You look at him in desperate confusion. “W-Wait—!”

He frantically searches his desk for your grandmother’s picture, but it’s strangely missing. The one time he’s not neat enough, it comes at the expense of something dear to you.

Seonghwa stutters, hands out and opening drawers, checking under figurines but—

“Fucking forget about it, Seonghwa.”

“No, no, no, I had it! It was right under here—”

“I said forget it!” The loud, booming volume of your voice takes him aback. Your tone always had a sharp edge to it, but it always only had hints of passivity. Always warnings, never commands. “Can’t believe I came in here thinking I'd be worried about you. What a joke.”

“Of course you have my things, always in your clutch. You’re already always in my fucking business — what’s one more, right?! Move in, get all my shit thrown away. Transform the extra room, get my paints mixed up.”

Seonghwa scoffs. The accusations in your voice sends his initial apprehension running, and his heart burns again, except he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss you stupid or slam the door in your face. “Is it so fucking difficult to imagine someone wanting a clean, organised home?”

“No, but this is a shared space, Seonghwa!” You can’t help but echo your words from your very first conflict. “You wanna keep your stupid figurines and ‘pristine’ look, fine! But stop coming into my rooms to push it onto me.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“What don’t I understand, Seonghwa? That you can’t respect my boundaries as a roommate just because you need to fulfill your cleaning commissions for the day?”

“Cleaning commissions? You think I do this for fun?” Seonghwa huffs with indignation, crossing his arms and walking right up to you.

“It sure as hell looks like it.” He towers over you, but you stand your ground with a heaving chest and spiteful stare.

“I clean because I have to.”

“What kind of excuse is that?”

“The kind that gets you beat because apparently I ‘can’t do anything right in my life’. The kind that has your mother belittling you even as an adult because you missed a spot, (Y/N)!”

You take a step back as he takes one forward. “I clean because it’s the only way I feel control over my life! Less chaos, less calamity. Disorder. I never fucking hated it before, but now anything out of place makes me twitch.”

“And then you come into my life. Your mismatched clothing, your crumbs all over the island, your stupid little pretty face saying the meanest things.”

Seonghwa walks you into his cupboard and your breath hitches when your back meets hard wood. He tsks, “and yet, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I wanted to drive you away, I wanted to drive you to the ends of the earth and leave me with my own problems. It just happened that you’re so all-over-the-place that it was the perfect opportunity to do both. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“But you were different. You’re different.”

The laugh of disbelief you let out is deafeningly loud. You push at his chest with the bowl you’re still carrying, not knowing why your vision’s blurring. You’re just tired.

“Different? Different how, Seonghwa? How much more different can I be from every other person who you’ve driven out before ’cause you can’t face your trauma? Am I just some pawn for you to push around?”

The other simply stands dumbfounded as your words sink in. Is that why Hongjoong suggested a two bedroom apartment? He was the only one ever to know about my fractured relationship with my mother.

“No. No, you’re not but—” Seonghwa groans. “It’s just—”

“What, Seonghwa? You surely had no problem shouting earlier, but now you’re tongue-tied?”

“You drive me fucking mad, you know that?” With hands outstretched, he looks almost crazed as if something’s been bugging him for the past few days, like something’s holding him back.

“But unlike my previous roommates, they’re weren’t and are not,” Seonghwa cradles his face, mumbles, “you. In the way that despite cleaning up your crumbs, I’d let you mess up the house all over again. Because it means I’d get one more fight with you.”

“Stop fucking lying, Seonghwa.” You don’t even have enough strength to push at his chest any more. Revealing his heavy past, dropping a line like that, the audacity is through the roof. You waste no time in taking your necklaces and leaving with badly contained sniffles. But with a hand over yours, he stops you.

“I’m not. I—I don’t know what changed, but, I don’t know how to feel about you. But it’s not whatever I felt before… that.”

You feel your heart simultaneously sink and skip. Sighing, you flick his hand off of you, not bothering to even try to find out what that means.

“I just want to be taken seriously in a house that requires the work of two people. Stop saying stupid, unserious shit like this, like— like, a simple confession would make me forget about everything you’ve done!”

“It’s not stupid when I’ve had dreams, (Y/N). Dreams.” Seonghwa almost reaches forward to grasp at your shoulders but stops himself instantly. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“What?” What kind of dreams would—

He runs his hands through his hair with fervour. “I don’t know how to feel about you because for the past few days I’ve been thinking non-stop about you. All because of a damn dream.”

“I—I can’t control dreams, Seongh—”

“I’m not saying you are! Fuck, none of this is your fault, it’s just—”

Seonghwa’s skin’s on fire, all too similar to the dreams he’s had with you, making the mistake of looking at your guarded stance of clenched fists and furrowed eyebrows.

Yet, yet, your eyes; they beg him to continue even though every fibre in his body is telling him not to.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes, unknowingly letting the tension between the both of you move entirely from unfiltered rage into something more, heated with heavy breaths. One step becomes two.

“Like you want me to undo everything I’ve ever done.”

With your necklaces in your hand, you throw the empty bowl at him with a sneer. He doesn’t catch it, letting its fall reverberate throughout his room. “I deserve at least that much, don’t you think, asshole?”

A beat of silence. “Because I will. Ten times, hundredfold over.”

The resolute firmness of Seonghwa’s voice makes you shrink back into your body, feeling like prey with the intense way he stares at you.

But the way your heart picks up isn’t just from the magnitude of his fiery gaze, devoted to his claim. You recognise it as something that has made its presence known before.

In the way you’ve had your eyes rake over his toned figure after his showers. You can’t deny following the cascade of droplets down his broad back when he picks at the hanging plants you’ve hung up. Or even the slenderness of his fingers as they flex around a rag.

And now, along the curves and dips of his arms as they rest comfortably on his hips, looking at you to say something, anything. But what do you say to that?

You gulp down your pride, directing your attention elsewhere — as if his display case of Star Wars sets are the most interesting thing in the world at the moment. He takes the chance to close in on you and your heart again.

“You can’t bring back anything that’s already done, idiot.” It’s hardly coherent with the way you’re talking more to yourself than Seonghwa.

Your eyes stay locked downwards, the scandalous hug of his tight tank around his torso now infiltrating into your eyeline. You watch, entranced, with how he takes a breath. “T—Then, let me make it up to you.”

You should be screaming, mad at him and shoving at his chest, stalking off right back to your room to sulk. But you do anything but that—

“Show me how sorry you are, then,” Your head shoots up, locking eyes with him, “Park Seonghwa.”

—and have the gall to be surprised when he lunges forward to slam his lips into yours. You stumble, eyes wide with shock but you soon receive him with moans, body staggering back into the wardrobe just as his hand cradles your head.

With his other, Seonghwa removes your necklaces timidly from your palm to place them down, but you halt him with a whispered wait.

In your needy haze, you hardly can separate Hyunjae’s cheap necklace from your family’s heirloom, throwing it over your shoulder once you feel the thin, fragile chain of it. Holding up the locket, you shake it in his face.

“I’m seriously going to kill you if you don’t find that photo.”

Seonghwa cringes, nodding quickly to your threat before you relinquish all control; your necklace in his hand which he sets down like glass, your body to his strong grip.

He pulls you in until there’s no space left between the both of you, pressing his soft lips onto yours yet again with impatient passion that it’s got you gasping. Taking the opportunity to slip his tongue in, Seonghwa walks the both of you back until his knees hit the edge of the bed and the heated kiss only increases in sloppiness.

It’s not difficult to lose your breath fast when he’s got you pressed up against him like this, traces of arousal shooting down from your neck, to your chest and straight down to your cunt.

“God, you’re fucking insane in the head.” Seonghwa simply groans out, as if he can’t believe you’re real in the flesh.

“I’ll get more insane if you continue to talk.”

Seonghwa smiles with a bite to his lip and you roll your eyes with one, too. A curious finger dips into his swollen lips, reddening from the roughness; you play with it before slipping it in and his mouth naturally parts to let you in.

He holds your fervent eyes as he wraps his tongue around the flesh of your finger. The lewd act has you squeezing your thighs together, pressing down on his jaw and he lets you.

“Hm. Pretty mouth.” A small shove and Seonghwa’s falling onto his bed and the sight makes you just a little light-headed. But you have an ace hidden, too, dipping your thumbs into the thin booty shorts you’ve got on and pulling it down, down, down your legs to reveal a light grey lacy pair.

Originally intending to call Hyunjae over to chase your worries away, you think that it’s a lucky coincidence, that you’re showing off how the fabric stretches over your skin to Seonghwa instead.

You’re quick to straddle him and you whine softly at feeling his hard-on, hands braced upon his toned stomach. “Too bad you use it too much only to annoy me.”

Feigning a pondering expression, you inch your body up with every other word that you can feel every ridge, every fold through your thin panties. Seonghwa watches you with wonder, and with hooded lids. “If only there was a way to get you to shut your mouth.”

A desperate plea leaves Seonghwa’s lips as your pussy hovers over his sternum, tilting so close into where he wants, where he needs you. There’s a damp spot staining your underwear that he can’t look away from, tugging you over with his stronger arms and begs with his wide eyes.

You can’t even finish nodding before Seonghwa’s swiping your panties to the side and latching his mouth onto your pulsing cunt, making you stutter out a deep, pornographic moan.

“So good. So warm,” It’s like something takes over him. He hums into your puffy clit, plunging his tongue right into your sensitive spots as he drinks up all your juices, “want this pussy on me forever.”

Hearing such words from the other makes you clench around nothing, a high-pitched squeal escaping from your lips when he tightens his hold around your thighs and yanks you more onto his lips.

“Soak me, angel. Want to feel you, all of you,” It’s pure agony laced within his muffled words, the vibrations sending chills up your spine, “wanna make you feel like you’ve never hated me.”

Two fingers prods at your hole from behind, entering you swiftly from how dripping wet your pussy was. You fall forward into his headboard, hands gripping it so tightly your knuckles turn white, but Seonghwa doesn’t let up with his tongue, nor his gaze.

“Sweeter, so much fucking sweeter than my dreams.” Your cunt’s gripping so intensely around his fingers as he continues to abuse your clit, circling his tongue around your bud with the same pace he thrusts into you with. And it sends your mind to another place that only Seonghwa’s eyes can anchor down, shining with a cheeky glint when you start grinding your hips into his face.

Until now, you haven’t trusted your words, but his long fingers reach places in you that you can’t even fathom and the overwhelming pressure of his mouth, sucking and sucking that you can’t help but gasp out a faint Seonghwa.

His eyes light up without fail and he only goes back to devouring you and your cunt whole — fingers keeping his consistent, deep pace and his unrelenting tongue working you to the bone — until your throat’s spilling more yes’s and please’s.

“Yes— yes, fuck, that’s it. Cum all over my tongue.” Your orgasm crests and comes crashing down over you with repeated whines, nowhere to run when Seonghwa’s got you trapped under his arms as your thighs shake around him. “Good fucking girl.”

You hate how much of an effect it has on you, looking at him from below you with a barely focused glance that it makes you shy, again.

But there’s disappointment when he looks at you like it burns him, as if he didn’t say all those filthy things just as you lift a leg off of him, transformed to the Seonghwa who was unsure before. It’s followed by a frantic swipe of his mouth like he didn’t just make you cum. You frown.

You can’t fault his… urge to feel clean, but if he’s willing to let you mess the fuck out of this apartment and subsequently, his life, then…

Wordlessly, you lower yourself to your knees on the floor with shaky legs, tugging on his legs to get him to stand up. A soft oh my god leaves his lips when you palm at the tent in his boxers, knees buckling when your fingers slip past the waistband and you pull, slowly.

“Fuck…” You watch in awe when his cock springs out, hitting his abdomen once the boxers are off. It’s pretty, and big, the tip an angry red that’s already leaking pre-cum.

“Angel,” Seonghwa whimpers when you wrap your hand around his length, giving an experimental kitten lick to his weeping tip, “you’re driving me crazy.”

“You said that, already.” You tease before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, suckling and moaning at the taste of his pre. But he’s so tense, worrying about your cum dripping to the floor, about the drool leaving the corners of your mouth. Even if he doesn’t say it, you can tell.

“Seonghwa.”

“Huh?” His eyes meets yours.

“Stop worrying about the clean-up. There’s always later, and tomorrow, and lots of time after that.”

“But—” Placing a hand on his thigh, you ground him to you.

“It’s just work that requires two people, and whatever we’re doing now; needs two people, too. Don’t worry, we’ll get it clean.”

“Y—Yeah.” Seonghwa’s still a little on edge, but he’s comforted (and a little sheepish) at the words you’d recycled from earlier. Oh, and he’s going to make sure you feel every last bit reassured after the last nine months. “Yeah.”

“Even if I’m still a little angry with you.” With a click of your tongue, you simply purse your lips and shrug. But your need for him overrides your anger for now, taking the leap of grabbing his hand and guiding it to your head. “Take charge. Use me, and later, show me how much you want to make it up to me. And let it be messy. Deal?”

Seonghwa’s gaze hardens at your proposal, deal. Slowly, bit by bit, he lets go of the pressure to be prim and proper as you take over, tapping his tip on your tongue for a bit and making sure he sees. His hands gradually tangle themselves more in your hair as you finally stop with the teasing, bobbing your head along his length while your hands stroke the rest of him.

“That’s warm, f-fuck—” His eyes are scrunched while your mouth engulfs him, swirling your tongue around his throbbing cock that only seems to grow in your hold.

You come up for air ever so often, gathering saliva and spitting all over to make it wet and Seonghwa almost buckles back onto the bed at the visual.

“Just like that, baby, what a pretty cocksleeve.” He groans out, surprised even at his own words but you love it, switching to thumbing his tip that has him whining out. With locked eye contact, you drag your tongue from the bottom of his cock to the tip before circling your tongue around it.

It’s not long until you come up with a pop, stabbing your fingers into the back of his thighs before using only your mouth, sinking deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat and your nose is buried in his pubes. You hum. Seonghwa hisses with a strain to his voice, hands tightening in your hair until there’s a sting to your scalp.

The pain only makes you moan around his cock, your sounds reverberating through his body. “That’s it, pretty. Take my cock like a good little slut.”

Needing air, you pull away with a needy moan, eyes rolling back at his words. You’re back to sucking him off sloppily, saliva dripping everywhere with strings of it connecting your lips to his tip as he guides your movements a little rougher now, no doubt desperate for release.

Seonghwa surprises you when he stops altogether, the weight on your head gone and a hand finding rhythm along his length. His other hand grabs your face, mouth parted into an ‘o’ from his fingers.

“Open.” The simple, tense command has you rubbing your thighs together, sticking your tongue out immediately. You feel dizzy, lost in the sight of Seonghwa pumping his cock and whining out your name like a prayer. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, y-yes. Such an obedient little thing.”

“Gonna give you all of my cum—!” So obsessed with the view that you flinch just a little when his cum shoots out, painting your face a translucent white and tainting your ears with his delicious moans and pleas. Seonghwa’s cumming so much, staining your features with streaks of white while dumping the leftover cum right into your mouth.

He repeats what you did before — slapping his tip on your tongue and relishing in the wet taps of your saliva and his cum, cheeks going just a bit red from everything he’s said and done.

They stay red the whole time the two of you are tangled in the slowly soaking sheets, as Seonghwa watches you climb over him. You look like a dream — literally — dripping pussy hovering just over his cock before the spark ignites.

Your skin on his is as beautiful as he imagined, burning with the same intensity that melts away that very barrier. Between your personalities, your bodies, hell, Seonghwa didn’t care any more.

Not when he had you, unfiltered, primal, raw now; he wasn’t going to let anything stand between the two of you any longer.

“This better than your—fuck—dream?” You tease, dragging your folds along the underside of him. Seonghwa’s eyes roll to the back of his head at your heat, nodding furiously to your question.

“Yes, baby, so so m—” He’s panting, looking up at you like his subconscious hadn’t planted this seed in his head days ago. The breathlessness, the heat rushing to his cock, the spill of your arousal around him — it smothers him in the best way possible when you lift your hips with a hand between you.

You don’t give him what he wants just yet, teasing your pussy along his length. Up, down. Up, down. “Please—”

“Please what, Hwa?” He twitches at that, making you giggle. “You like it when I call you Hwa?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa drags you down by your arms, “P-Please ride me.”

“Aw, when you’re begging like that…” You trail off, mouth just hovering over his, eyes flitting between his plump lips and unsteady eyes, guiding his cock to your waiting hole.

And when his tip nudges past your folds, Seonghwa shivers at your suffocating warmth, your walls clamping around him like a vice.

“S-So big—” You can’t help but gasp out, sinking down onto him until he bottoms out. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve taken, filling you up so immensely it’s got your head fuzzy.

You waste no time to start moving, palms flat against his front as you work your hips and the drag of your sopping cunt around him has him groping blindly at your sides, your plump ass.

“Wait—fuck—!” Seonghwa’s eyebrows are furrowed, mouth dropped open from the sensations. You move like the thought of stopping is criminal, giggling to yourself when you feel the other meet your thrusts from below you, “a-angel—”

“Wai—” He doesn’t have the chance to complete his sentence before his tip spurts white into your pussy, coating your walls with cum. Hips bucking pathetically, and body shaking like a leaf, Seonghwa mentions anything from your name to expletives.

Your body falters when you feel his cum flood your cunt, switching to slower movements as you feel everything spill past where you were connected and ignoring the intoxicating friction between your clit and his pubes.

“Oh, look at you…” You smirk, fingers roaming all over his body. “Baby’s cumming so quickly. I haven’t even finished yet.”

Pouting, your hips pick up the pace yet again, ignoring Seonghwa’s pleas to slow down as you chase your own high. But you’re so absorbed with the way his cock fills you up that you don’t realise he’s recovering from the intense orgasm and aiding your ministrations.

Until Seonghwa wraps both arms around your middle, causing you to fall forward with a yelp. You just manage to brace your fall with two hands with either side of his head; he would’ve liked it better for you to collide with his lips.

But he finds it better this way, especially when he plants his feet into the mattress and spreads your pussy, thrusting his length upwards into you so roughly you jerk forward again.

Seonghwa has the pleasure of seeing your expression twist into pure ecstasy, smirking when he meets your eyes. “I can be annoying, too.”

“You have been, everyday, H—Hwa…” You barely manage to get out as his hips meet your ass without any rest, sending the room into a concoction of obscene squelches and whines. “And yet, I’m still fucking you.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes in his classic Seonghwa way, but is humbled when you grab his chin like he did earlier. He’s pliant. Saliva drips from your mouth, a blob dripping right down on his tongue and you swear you feel him twitch in you.

“Swallow, asshole.” He obeys even with your dimming insult, but not before giving you a hooded glare, making your confidence wane once he continues to ram into your needy cunt.

“You forget I can just leave you high and dry, baby. Don’t test me.” Despite the way your body’s rocking, you smile back teasingly, caging Seonghwa between your arms and leaning over his mouth.

“And you forget that you’re the one who’s made my life a living hell.”

“Oh, shut up.” Seonghwa sneaks a hand towards your clit, torturing your sensitive bud before whispering against your lips. You think you fall deeper. “You love it.”

His pelvis meets yours in pussydrunk, nasty thrusts that soon turn sloppy, sinking into you with a mix of infuriation and lust. You don’t last long as the added stimulation sends you tipping over the edge, Seonghwa following close behind while he spills white again into your tight pussy.

“Is this sorry enough for you, angel?” He grunts out against your lips, the hands around you unconsciously soothing your trembling figure on him. The sheets are dirtied, soiled with sweat and cum, but Seonghwa just wants more. More messiness, more you.

“Not even close, Hwa.” You laugh breathlessly, his breath hot on your lips and you can’t get enough, “give it to me. Fuck me like you hate me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

Seonghwa never truly rests for two, three more rounds until he’s got your body limp in his hold as he cleans you up. Movements slow and gentle, and so unlike the man who liked to piss you off. Even the way he talks—

“I got you, baby, know you’re sensitive.” Touching you like you’re delicate lace, he parts your legs to wipe up your ruined cunt. But you’re suddenly shy, exposed and all.

“(Y/N)? Needa clean you up, angel.” You mumble out a sleepy, cute It’s messy, before retaliating with a You asked me to be messy!

“Shut up, Hwa.” He looks up from his task to see a pout, before hiding your face into a pillow and letting him move your legs. He pretends not to notice your intake of breath when he mutters an Attagirl under his breath.

“What are we?” It’s the dreaded question you’ve come to ask, always at the breakfast table, always in the morning. You watch Seonghwa’s back nervously, admiring how his muscles move and yet, mourning the fact you might not get to learn every dip, every crevice in this weird, fucked up relationship you’ve got.

You’re still harbouring grudges, still mad about the little gifts he so carelessly threw away, still angry about the decal he peeled away that left adhesive marks. You’re still hurt on the words he’s flung at you, at the loathing he brings out of you.

But within Seonghwa’s exasperating, peeving personality accompanied by his unwanted affinity for neatness, you can see the care, the adoration he has for you. Maybe you wouldn’t move past infatuation, maybe not even past lust. You’re not sure yourself.

Seonghwa meets you halfway. Unlike Hyunjae, he grasps that uncertainty and holds your hand through it. He doesn’t let you wade through the dark alone.

He takes the troubling act of gambling of learning someone for the first time and gives you a challenge. You’ve played that challenge, you’ve crossed paths, you’ve butted heads, except now, instead of colliding with unmoving egos, you melt, soften into each other like the syrup on your waffles.

“I… don’t know.” Seonghwa turns around with your waffles and his pancakes, cooked to perfection with syrup and strawberries. He comes around the island with eyes locked on you — he doesn’t need to do that — to place your breakfast down, to stand between your legs.

It makes your stomach stir that you clutch at your newly cleaned locket, but your heart’s snug when his lips meet your forehead. Gentle, like the sun’s first kiss upon the moon during an eclipse.

“But, I know that whatever happens, I want it to be with you.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡

1K notes · View notes

creativriot · 1 year ago

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Idk some fun idea I came up with simply because they’re both ~gween~

EDIT: for everyone asking “what about Sonia?” I don’t know this was just a doodle I didn’t think I’d get this far 😭

#sonic #sth #sonic the hedgehog #sonic fanart #sonic au #sonic fandom #sth fanart #sth au #sth fandom #sonic the hedgehog au #sonic the hedgehog fanart #scourge #scourge the hedgehog #archie sonic #sonic underground #manic the hedgehog #they made a vow their mother #was never found damn

6K notes · View notes

fastandcarlos · 11 months ago

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Personal Photographer : ̗̀➛ Daniel Ricciardo

summary: when daniel’s feed suddenly becomes much more aesthetic, the fans are intrigued to find out who’s behind the sudden change

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by yukitsunoda0511, maxverstappen1 and 792,726 others

danielricciardo: another great weekend in monza, thanks to my photographer for making sure to capture all my best angles 🏎️🏁

37,058 comments

username1: his account is getting suspiciously aesthetic these days 🤔

oscarpiastri: this is an upgrade even compared to daniel.jpg these days!

username2: tell us rb has hired a new photographer without telling us they’ve hired a new photographer…

georgerussell63: omw to come and steal this photographer asap!

landonorris: as far as I was aware you didn’t actually have any good angles 😳

danielricciardo: @/landonorris no one asked for your opinion here!

username3: such a great race weekend daniel, so proud of you ❤️

alex_albon: that third photo has me in the feels ngl, talk about man of steel 🥺

username4: whoever this photographer is they deserve a pay rise for blessing us with these!!

lewishamilton: great race aside from the fact you knocked me out the points 🙄

danielricciardo: @/lewishamilton I’d love to say sorry…only I’m not 😂

username5: now these photos are serving 🔥

yukitsunoda0511: a great race for the team, let’s keep going for the rest of the season 💪🏻

username6: this high standard better stick around when it comes to the gram daniel!!

maxverstappen1: a match made in heaven daniel in a red bull suit ❤️

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liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 629,059 others

danielricciardo: got told to hire a photographer for the latest enchante shoot, little did they know I had my own photographer already right by my side 🌿💯

34,085 comments

username7: well these photos are enough to convince me to buy enchante 😂

alex_albon: bet you’re feeling pretty smug with these photos right now!

danielricciardo: @/alex_albon told you this girl knows all my good sides 😊

username8: idk who this photographer is but I’m begging you to keep her forever daniel

maxverstappen1: saving that third photo to be my new lock screen asap

username9: have you ever seen three photos that scream boyfriend more than these???

georgerussell63: damn these photos should come with a warning or something danny ric 😍

oscarpiastri: did you use enchante as an excuse for your own personal photoshoot???

danielricciardo: @/oscarpiastri don’t reveal all my secrets like this!

username10: apologies to the neighbours for the yell I just let out opening my phone to this 😂😂

charles_leclerc: who knew green was your colour after all!

username11: stop I was not prepared for this in the slightest 😭

landonorris: heartbroken you didn’t invite me to come and be part of this photo shoot too 😭

danielricciardo: @/landonorris the photographer only wanted handsome models 🤷🏻

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by lewishamilton, oscarpiastri and 694,208 others

danielricciardo: wondering if these photos make me boyfriend material yet…🤔☕️

41,959 comments

username12: can 100% assure you these are the hottest boyfriend material photos I’ve ever seen!!!

lewishamilton: I think that caption alone makes you boyfriend material 🤢

username13: I wonder if these are courtesy of his photographer friend again 🤔

oscarpiastri: there’s a strong it girl vibe coming from that first photo my friend

danielricciardo: @/oscarpiastri grandpa is too old to know what even means 😂

username14: something tells me this photographer might be more than just a photographer…

landonorris: I don’t even recognise you anymore, so cheesy and soft 😂

username15: I knew there must’ve been a reason behind these sudden aesthetic snaps 🙄

sebastianvettel: wondering when you’re going to bother meeting up with me and take me out for coffee too.

username16: I can’t cope with how adorable this man has been recently 💓

maxverstappen1: you’ve always been boyfriend material to me 😘

danielricciardo: @/maxverstappen1 stop flirting with me in public ☺️

username17: boyfriend material and seemingly now a boyfriend too…

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liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 728,057 others

danielricciardo: the perfect weekend off with my favourite human adventuring around yet another new part of the world ☀️🌊

48,472 comments

username18: not the fact daniel even carried her bag around for her 🥺

landonorris: *second favourite human after lando norris

danielricciardo: @/landonorris I cannot stress how untrue that statement is

username19: the cutest surfer in the world 🫠

georgerussell63: you know its love when he carries her bag for her 😂

danielricciardo: @/georgerussell63 who knew that girls needed so many things 🤦🏻

username20: pls don’t tell me this isn’t his photographer and she actually there as a third wheel 😂😂

oscarpiastri: as long as I’m still your favourite aussie idc 🤔

username21: do we need to remind you daniel how much we hate these soft launches???

yukitsunoda0511: does this mean that I don’t have to be the only one to listen to you talk about her anymore??

pierregasly: I bet you didn’t take much persuading to take that photo with your shirt off either 🔥

username22: I’ve already decided that these two are my favourites and I don’t even know who she is yet!!

maxverstappen1: impressed you’ve finally managed to get yourself a girlfriend after all these years 👏🏻

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and 719,058 others

danielricciardo: a dream weekend with my personal photographer giving me enough photos to send the fangirls wild 🔥🍃

42,059 comments

lewishamilton: these posts feel like you’re finally tryna mature or something, this girl must have you pretty in love…

username23: is this the reveal??? is it her??? pls tell me it it’s she’s beautiful???

maxverstappen1: don’t worry about the fangirls, you drive me crazy honey 🫠

danielricciardo: @/maxverstappen1 you always know the right thing to say! ☺️

username24: was she ever a photographer or just a proud girlfriend 🤔

alex_albon: you can’t just pay people to run around after you with a camera in their hands all the time, we’ve talked about this 🤦🏻

danielricciardo: @/alex_albon don’t you start, I was relying on you to be on my side!

username25: damn sleeping with your own photographer daniel 🤨

landonorris: she’s too hot to be your gf, nice try ricciardo 🙄

username26: can confirm that the fangirls are indeed going wild about these updates!!

carlossainz55: these photos remind me why I’m secretly so in love with you 😂

username27: everyone say thank you to her for loving daniel and blessing us with all these photos!

charles_leclerc: look at you with two hands on the wheel 🤨

danielricciardo: @/charles_leclerc definitely not just to make people think I’m safe for a photo!!

username28: a beautiful girlfriend with photography skills, you’re really winning at life ricciardo 👏🏻

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, yukitsunoda0511 and 788,472 others

danielricciardo: thought I’d finally share with you my little snapper…keeping me looking fresh on the gram and never found without a camera in her hand 💞📸

59,472 comments

username29: “little snapper” omg they’re just the cutest 🥺

landonorris: wait I thought you were joking about the fact you had a girlfriend 😂😂😂

georgerussell63: you guys look so good together, happy for you my friend!

username30: they’re smiles together they seem so well suited!!

iamrebeccad: vogue are looking for a photographer to shoot me next week, send me her details asap!

ynusername: @/iamrebeccad stfu are you serious!?!?

username31: I’m already obsessed with these two my heart just can’t cope 💕

maxverstappen1: omw to steal your girl and hire her to make my social media look better too 🏃🏻

username32: pls never let her go daniel, for your heart and our satisfied insta scrolling too 😂

oscarpiastri: if yn ever gets bored I will happily pay mclaren to steal her from you and snap us instead!!

mclaren: @/oscarpiastri we’ll take her for free with photos that good 🧡

username33: yn isn’t gonna be out of a job with all the boys wanting to hire her out too 😂

ynusername: I’m not gonna lose that nickname, am I??

danielricciardo: @/ynusername it’s adorable if you ask me 💕

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by ynusername, maxverstappen1 and 748,069 others

danielricciardo: take her to play basketball once and look at us now (can we also appreciate the fact that I took that selfie too, see yn, I’m learning 🥺) 🏀

47,058 comments

username34: if yn took that photo we wouldn’t have that lighting in the background 😉

alex_albon: I’ve played basketball with you and refuse to accept someone is worse than you 😂

username35: not the way he’s holding her up on his shoulders so she can score 🥹

lewishamilton: I was at that game too, wish I’d have known and we could’ve hooked up!

ynusername: played basketball once and still better than you at it 🤷🏻‍♀️

danielricciardo: @/ynusername tell that to the slam dunk that dunked straight onto your head!

username36: patiently waiting for the next daniel.jpg update after meeting yn…

username37: have you ever met two people happier with each other in your life???

landonorris: don’t only the cool kids go to the basketball!?

danielricciardo: @/landonorris guess what that makes us then 😎

username38: these two are such couple goals they make me feel single in my own relationship!

liam.lawson: looks like I’ll have to teach you a thing or two as a definite cool kid ⛹🏻

username39: whoever introduced these two together I owe my life to you now ☺️

maxverstappen1: secretly only took that first picture to flex your muscles anyway 😏

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by sebastianvettel, oscarpiastri and 802,488 others

danielricciardo: took my photographer to the zoo for the day, turns out she makes a pretty hot date too 🔥🦥

51,959 comments

ynusername: did I teach you nothing about photography over the past few months?? 🤦🏻‍♀️

danielricciardo: @/ynusername I think these photos are great what are you on about!? 😂

ynusername: @/danielricciardo just gonna look past the sideways head are we?!

username40: maybe let yn stick to being the one behind the camera daniel 😂

landonorris: you belong in the zoo if you ask me 🤫

danielricciardo: @/landonorris don’t worry I said hi to your siblings for you 🐷

username41: the way his head pokes out in the first photo is just typical daniel 🙄

yukitsunoda0511: you guys are too cute!!

kellypiquet: pls bring her back to monaco in one piece 🙏🏻

username42: idk who’s cuter, the animals or daniel 🤔

maxverstappen1: offended that you’ve never taken me on a date to the zoo ngl

oscarpiastri: one of my fave places ever, hope yn enjoyed the zoo!!

username43: pls make sure she stays by your side forever daniel, we adore her ❤️

username44: he took her home that means things must be serious 😅

georgerussell63: still not as hot as you tho ☺️

danielricciardo: @/georgerussell63 stop it you flirt 😍

username45: everyone needs their own personal photographer if they’re as amazing as yn 🥺

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

2K notes · View notes

piastriprincess · 2 months ago

Text

if i wanna stay alive (you should never cross my mind) ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , spy au , fake dating tw blood , weapons , character injuries , minor character deaths word count 11.8k author’s note LANDO NORRIS MONACO GP WINNER WAOWWWWW !!!!! i have about a billion requests in my inbox but idk . something about this artwork of lando by @artist173 made my brain go brrrr and suddenly i had almost 12k words of agent lando norris . this was genuinely a feverish write and i hope everyone enjoys this as much as i enjoyed writing it ! please come tell me what you think or send in a request <3 also hoping to have the birthday build - a - fic up sometime next week ! title is from killshot by magdalena bay .

You’re not surprised he’s already here. In fact, you kind of expected it. There’s something about him that suggests he’s always just arrived before you, just finished charming his way out of a dilemma he created for himself, just smirked like the world is a game and he’s two steps ahead of whoever he’s playing.

You enter the briefing room, and right on cue, Agent Lando Norris spins around in one of the swivel chairs, holding a paper cup of burnt coffee like it’s a martini (shaken, not stirred). “Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyes bright. “If it isn’t my favorite rival.”

You’re not rivals, not really — just trained together, sparred and surveilled each other too many times to count on your way to becoming full-fledged agents. The joke is still funny, though: a reminder that you’ve both made it, as concrete and tangible as the shiny access badges clipped to your clothes. So you just grin and play along, raising an eyebrow as you drop into the seat across the table from him. “This is awkward. I have at least three other rivals I like more.”

He gasps, faux-devastated. “And here I thought I was your number one boy. You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, checking your watch. You’re right on time, meaning your handler is late. She’s never late, which means something is up. Something big. You’re trying to figure out what it is, what you could possibly be here for, which you could probably do better if Lando wasn’t flirting your ear off.

“Come on. You know you missed me,” he says, chin in hand, leaning against the table with far too much amusement flickering in his eyes for an 8 AM briefing.

“I saw you last Monday at the mass casualty response training,” you respond dryly, leaning in to mirror him across the table.

“Exactly. Last Monday,” he emphasizes, like it proves something. “If I didn’t know any better, Agent, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

You smile, saccharine. “If only I could be so lucky.”

“Stop being so mean to me, or I swear to God I’ll fall in love with you,” he replies lightly, ridiculous grin on his face. Something warm blooms in your chest, which you promptly stamp down until it can never reach your brain again.

“Good, you’re both here,” Agent Beatrice Hale says as she walks into the room, and you and Lando both straighten up in your seats immediately. You’ve been through eight months of grueling training, nearly two years now in the field executing the most dangerous missions in Europe, and the sight of your handler’s sleek grey bob and crisp pantsuit is still the scariest thing you’ve encountered on the job. “Let’s get started.”

The high-tech glass screen behind her flickers to life with a photo: a man, mid-fifties judging from the salt-and-pepper hair. Heavyset, with a slight paunch that not even his exceptionally tailored suit can hide. His smile is too white, almost wolfish. It’s the kind of face you instinctively don’t trust.

“This is Gabriel DuPont,” she says, dropping two thick dossiers on the table. “Publicly, he’s the billionaire tech CEO of DuPont Industries. Humanitarian. Philanthropist. Privately? He’s running one of the most sophisticated arms smuggling operations we’ve seen in the last decade.”

“We have a team on him, don’t we?” Lando asks before you can open your mouth to say the same thing. He flashes a quick smile at you, like he knows you’re going to be irritated that he beat you to it. “Russell and Hamilton.”

“Had a team,” Hale says matter-of-factly. “They’ve gone dark. Haven’t checked in for forty-eight hours. HQ is assuming they’re compromised.”

The room falls into a tense silence. Lando’s jaw ticks, and the strangest memory floats to the front of your mind: an early day in training, Lando much smaller and skinnier than he is now, practically getting pulled through an obstacle course by a tall, lanky guy.

George. Compromised. You blink, hard, and the memory’s gone.

It’s part of the job. You all knew it when you signed up. But something about Hale’s businesslike tone makes your heart twist in your chest a little bit.

“Okay. So what’s the new plan?” you say, exhaling through your nose slightly to calm your heartbeat.

Hale just smiles, clicks to the next photo. It’s a sprawling oceanside estate, all floor-to-ceiling windows and smooth white stone. “A softer approach. DuPont is hosting a weekend-long charity gala at his estate in Monaco. The guest list is small — business partners, old-money moguls, politicians with questionable morals. Headquarters has arranged an in: a wealthy couple, invited last-minute after a strategic seven-figure donation.”

You look at Hale. Then the twin dossiers on the table in front of you. “No,” you say. “No, no, no.”

Lando, of course, is beaming, leaning back until his chair nearly tips onto two wheels. You have to fight the urge to kick it out from under him. “Well. This is the best mission I’ve ever been assigned.”

“No arguments,” Hale says, and you groan. “You’re the only pair of agents who fit the profile. We have enough archived photos of you together from training to build a record. You have chemistry —”

“We have history,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Hale smiles, and it’s ice. “It will read as familiarity, comfort, trust to the outside world. That’s all we need,” she says, voice clipped, and you sink back into your chair.

“You’ll be posing as newlyweds. Wealthy, nauseatingly in love, enough money and clout to catch DuPont’s attention,” she continues, sliding the files across the table to you both. She doesn’t say the words, but all three of you know what’s implied. And enough attractiveness to keep it, should it come to that.

“Newlyweds? Wow,” Lando says. “Should we get matching pajamas, babe? Maybe a couple’s massage?”

“I will strangle you in your sleep,” you say flatly, opening your dossier and pointedly not looking at him.

From the corner of your eye, his grin gets even wider. “That wouldn’t be very wifely of you.”

You flip through the dossier, pages and pages of a life carefully constructed for the two of you. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. Young heir to a telecommunications empire and his aristocratic wife. Just the right amount of wealth and pedigree. Vacation home on Lake Como. A cocker spaniel named Beckham.

You can’t do this. You’re going to vomit.

“You’ll have twenty-four hours to prepare before you fly to Monaco, and twenty-four hours to prepare there before the gala. Any questions?” Hale asks, and Lando raises his hand like a schoolboy. She gives him a look. “There are three people in this room, Agent. Don’t make me call on you.”

He turns to you, his smile slow and so obnoxious. “I’ll accept the mission on one condition.” He pauses dramatically, and you raise your eyebrows at him as if to say get on with it. “You have to promise not to fall in love with me for real.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t worry, Norris. I think I’ll manage.”

“Honeymoon?” you say, throwing a stress ball at Lando.

“Oi. Don’t damage the asset!” he laughs, catching it a second before it smacks into his face. “Maldives, two weeks. Cheval Blanc. Waterfront villa, of course,” he says automatically, tossing it back to you. You’re sitting on the floor of a briefing room you commandeered earlier in the day to practice your covers, a sprawl of Chinese takeout boxes between the two of you. “What are my hobbies?”

You grab the ball out of the air with one hand, the other preoccupied with taking a bite of your sesame chicken. You think as you chew, swallowing down the bite before you answer. “Golf. Collecting expensive cars. You’ve recently started playing padel, getting pretty good. Where’d we meet?”

He catches the ball and falters, massaging it between his hands. “It was that bar, um…”

“Lando,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We met at Claridge’s. I was there for an engagement party for my cousin, the earl, and you were there for an after-work drink. I spilled champagne on your leather briefcase and offered to buy you a new one. You said no, but asked if you could have a drink with me anyway. You’ve messed it up three times now. Go read the paragraph on it in the file.”

“I hate us,” Lando says in reply, kicking aimlessly at his dossier. “Like, sorry, but our covers are such wankers. Claridge’s? That place is so posh.”

“Okay, Glastonbury boy,” you snort, and he chucks a pen at your head.

“I mean it! We’d never go there,” he protests as you dodge it, giggling. “I’d take you on a way more memorable date than that.”

“Right. I know you, Norris. You’d take me to Mother Kelly’s pub down the way because it’s close to the office, make me split the check for two pints,” you deadpan as someone knocks on the door.

You stand up, missing the way Lando’s eyes dim slightly at your words. But there’s no one there when you open the door. Just two stupidly expensive pieces of luggage, stuffed to the brim.

“Oh, mint,” Lando says enthusiastically, scrambling past you to pull his inside and unzip it. Clothes practically spill out of the aluminum suitcase, overflowing with silk shirts and brand-name leisurewear. He whistles lowly, pulling a button-up polo out of the bag. It’s a white crocheted thing, red and blue piping on the collar and sleeves. “Look at this.” He strips his standard-issue black tee over his head, unbuttoning the polo and slipping it on.

You’d left your suitcase by the door, completely unexcited to look at whatever trophy-wife designer dresses the costuming department had chosen for you. You’d do every mission in your own beat-up jeans and a tank top if you could. You wish you had it in front of you now, though — wish you had anything to distract from the way your mouth goes dry at the smooth, muscular expanse of Lando’s chest, the white a brilliant contrast against his tanned skin.

He grins at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, the shirt settling around his torso with a lazy flourish. “How do I look?”

You swallow hard. “Like you’ll threaten to call daddy’s lawyer if the caviar on the yacht is lukewarm.”

He does a slow, exaggerated spin on his heels. “Admit it. Your husband is hot.”

“Eat your dinner,” you say fondly, tossing a fortune cookie at him.

He catches it, cracks it in one hand as his eyes flick down to read the message. “Ooh. ‘Romance may be closer than it appears.’” He waggles his eyebrows at you.

“That is not what it says,” you laugh, getting to your feet to try to snatch the paper from him. He’s too quick, though, holding it above your head with one hand and grabbing your wrists with the other.

“Maybe not on paper,” he grins, eyes flashing with amusement, “but definitely in the room.”

You have to admit, being a nepo baby’s wife isn’t so bad.

You knew MI6 had money, but you’d never seen them spend it like this. When the taxi came to pick you and Lando up from headquarters, you thought they’d taken a wrong turn before they got to Heathrow. Instead, they directed you to a small terminal, ushered the two of you onto a literal private jet. Buttery leather seats, personal TVs at every angle, the works. Neither of you are new to the agency anymore, but you couldn’t help your excitement, playing poker and raiding the gourmet snack drawers for the entire flight. When you landed, a shiny silver exotic convertible was waiting for you at the hangar; you know next to nothing about cars, but Lando spent about five minutes circling the thing, telling you every spec, and you could have sworn you heard him squeal like a little girl when he finally settled behind the wheel. Even the clothes they’ve given you for the day aren’t nearly as bad as you expected — a pair of designer jeans, platform sneakers, and the softest sweater you’ve ever felt. Although there is the ring to contend with, a solitaire diamond that must be at least five carats ostentatiously set high on a silver band. It feels weighty on your hand; you keep spinning it around your finger like it’s going to ground you, a real reminder of how unreal all of this is.

But the hotel trumps it all.

When you first pull up to the historic building, you’re mostly just glad to be out of the car. Lando drove like a complete maniac, fast and fearless, and the roads from the private airport in Nice to Monaco weaved through the mountains in a way that made your stomach twist. You step out of the car, catching your breath, and let Lando lead you with a hand on the small of your back into the hotel, where you promptly lose it again.

The lobby is stunning, low-slung red velvet couches scattered around the circular room underneath a chandelier that’s bigger than your apartment hooked to an intricate stained-glass domed ceiling. It feels like you’ve stepped into a bygone age, or a work of art, or maybe the drawing room from Titanic. You clutch Lando’s arm a little tighter as you walk together to the reception desk. This is it. The first test.

“Normally I’d be all about you marking your territory, but your nails are kind of cutting off my circulation right now,” Lando whispers in your ear. You giggle and blush, playing it off as a sweet nothing from your husband, and loosen your grip.

“Bonjour,” the front desk clerk welcomes you. “Name, please?”

“Sinclair. Shouldn’t you already know that?” Lando tosses off casually, with all the unearned arrogance of the idle rich, and you stare. He’s good. Better than you expected him to be, even. “We have the — it was the Diamond Suite, wasn’t it, baby?”

At the pet name, you step on his toes hard, and he somehow manages to turn the grimace into a smile. “I think that’s right,” you drawl poshly, not even looking at the poor desk clerk. “But the butler did the bookings.”

The clerk offers you a polite smile, white-gloved fingers flying over his keyboard. “Ah, oui. I see your reservation here,” he pronounces, Monagesque accent rounding the vowels in an unfamiliar way as he slides two keys across the marble counter. “Here are your room keys. Bienvenue à l’Hermitage.”

“Baby?” you hiss under your breath as you thread Lando’s fingers with yours and make your way to the elevators, pulling your suitcase behind you. “What are you playing at, Norris?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, with the tone of someone who is absolutely not sorry, not even a little bit. “Would you prefer sweetheart? Muffin? Snugglebug?”

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and you yank Lando into the elevator. Lovingly, of course — like a newlywed who can’t keep her hands off her husband, not like a girl trained in six different martial arts styles. “I thought we said no pet names,” you say through a blinding smile as the doors click shut.

“It’s for authenticity,” he says, all innocence. “I’m newly married to my beautiful wife. It would be weird if I didn’t call you something sweet.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you relax against the velvet-tufted wall. “Baby is fine. Maybe love. But if you call me snugglebug during the gala, I will push you off the balcony.”

The soft smile that crosses his face is enough to make you instantly regret what you’ve agreed to. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

The hotel room is, predictably, absurd. Polished wood floors, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling French doors that frame the harbor like a million-dollar painting leading to a balcony that spans the length of the suite. There’s a fireplace. A grand piano that you know damn well neither of you can play. And in the middle of the room, the biggest, most opulent bed you’ve ever seen, stacked with pillows and enough throw blankets to outfit the entirety of your agent class.

You both stand there in silence for a moment. Then you clear your throat, dropping your bag. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“No way,” Lando says, pouting as he runs a hand through his dark curls. “C’mon. We’re two ridiculously attractive, very emotionally mature adults. We can share.”

You snort, looking at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Lando. What would give you the impression that I’m going to share a bed with you?”

“What if the room’s bugged?” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Or what if DuPont’s got drones outside, or something? Doesn’t exactly sell the cover if you’ve got me curled up by the fireplace like a golden retriever.”

You open your mouth to respond, then pause, because — well, he does have a point.

“It’s for the sake of the mission,” Lando tries like he still needs to convince you, looking at you with wide eyes, and you promptly shut your mouth again. You don’t say anything, technically, but it’s like he can read you like a book, smiling triumphantly in the face of your silence.

“You could at least pretend to be disappointed,” you say evenly. An admission of defeat if you’ve ever heard one.

He flops on the bed, starfishing his limbs over the expensive mattress and grinning up at you in a way that makes your heart do something annoyingly unprofessional in your chest. “I’m heartbroken, baby. Truly.”

“That’s it. We’re making a pillow wall tonight.”

The rest of the day is quiet, the kind of day you normally hate on missions. You’re a field agent — every second of inactivity feels torturous, precious time you could be saving the world that just slips through your fingers. You can tell Lando feels the same, if his relentlessly bouncing knee is anything to go by. So the two of you go over the mission plan until the words begin to blur together. Exit options. Likely locations of incriminating evidence. The note on the final page: In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

Lando reads the note, promptly slams his dossier shut, and insists on ordering one of everything on the room service menu just to piss off Hale. You don’t argue, especially not when truffle fries and miniature cheeseburgers start showing up at the door every fifteen minutes. Somewhere in between the lobster and the lava cake, you admit you’d never seen the Mission: Impossible movies, and Lando, eyes bright, declares you have to have a marathon. You end up sitting on the bed for hours, pillows between you as you eat popcorn, mocking the ridiculous CGI and the fact that the movies get absolutely nothing right about your line of work just to annoy Lando. But he’s a good sport about it, even joins in after a while as the TV light flickers off your bare legs and the moon rises over the harbor.

You must have drifted off some time during MI:3, because when you open your eyes next your side is pressed against the pillow wall, there’s a crick in your neck, and your head is resting on Lando’s shoulder. He’s still asleep, curls slightly mussed and lips parted, brows furrowed the way they are when he’s concentrating on a mission briefing. He must have slept that way all night, you realize, just so he didn’t disturb you.

Something about the idea makes your heart ache in your chest.

“Fifteen minutes before we need to leave for the gala,” you call through the door, applying your lipstick with a practiced hand. “Please tell me you’ve at least started to get dressed.”

You’d commandeered the bathroom nearly an hour ago under the pretense of complicated hair and makeup — costuming had left detailed instructions in your suitcase, and you were expected to pull them off effortlessly. Lando, of course, could probably start putting on his suit five minutes in advance and still be fine. It was infuriating sometimes how easy it was for men.

Still, when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel like the extra time was worth it. Your hair, normally pulled back neatly, tumbles in voluminous waves over your shoulders. The subtle hints of makeup accentuate your face, making your eyes more luminous, your cheekbones sharper. The delicate earrings and necklace catch the light, make you sparkle. And the dress. Oh, the dress — a floor-length, fitted black velvet creation with a shocking slit up the side, tailored to perfection on your curves, equal parts structured and sleek.

You look dangerous. You look like someone else entirely. Or maybe like a version of yourself you don’t let out very often.

“Almost ready. Can you help me with my tie?” Lando calls back through the door, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah, one second,” you reply, grabbing your holster and snapping it around your thigh, just above the top of the slit. The perfect finishing touch. You blot your lips once in the mirror, then push the door open, heels clicking against the floor with a purpose. That is, until you stop short, breath catching in your chest.

Lando’s standing near the window, half-turned towards the setting sun, pulling the bow tie around his collar. The tux fits him too well, all clean lines on broad shoulders and crisp black on white that makes his tan skin glow. He’s freshly shaven, jaw sharp, and his curls are gelled back in a way that makes him look older, more polished.

You’ve always known Lando was attractive. It’s not news, but it’s not something you let yourself dwell on. Not in your line of work, when letting your guard down even for a second can cost more than you’ve ever been willing to give. But this — the tux, the hair, those eyes that can’t quite decide what color they want to be? The effect is striking. You sort of can’t stop looking at him.

“Still need help?” you croak, voice hoarse for some reason, and when he turns at the sound of your voice he straightens so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.

His mouth opens, then closes again. “Whoa.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to look as pleased as you feel. “That all you got?”

“I just…” His eyes drag down your body for one excruciatingly slow moment. Then he blinks, shakes his head slightly like he got hit. “Shit. You look stunning.” There’s none of the usual flirtation or teasing in it. Just something quiet, awestruck, and it makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Don’t get sentimental on me now, Norris,” you say, voice as light as you can possibly make it as you cross the room, hands reaching up for his tie. It’s muscle memory at this point — the back-and-forth fold, the loop, the gentle tug. You’ve done it before for other missions, with other partners, but never quite like this. Never with his eyes tracing over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Never when you’re standing so close you can smell his cologne, something spicy and ineffably Lando. It’s intolerable, really. You wish your heartbeat would calm down a little bit.

“There,” you say, straightening the stupid tie slightly as you finally, blessedly pull the knot tight and step back from him. “Now you look somewhat presentable.”

His mouth quirks up at the side, like he can hear your thoughts. “High praise.”

You don’t respond, hands clammy as you turn towards the door. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

You should be nervous. It’s natural. In fifteen minutes, you’re going to walk directly onto the home turf of a very dangerous man, a man who compromised two of the finest agents in Britain.

But you know your pulse is thrumming under your skin for an entirely different reason.

The moment you and Lando step into the place, you kind of want to gag. The mansion is modern, clearly expensive, and a pantheon of bad taste — all ugly pop art and tributes to the genius that is Gabriel DuPont. After the third lifesize ice sculpture of the billionaire in as many rooms, you’re wondering how nobody has investigated him sooner. The place just feels dirty, illicit somehow. Like underneath the shiny exterior, there’s something rotten waiting to be unearthed.

You know what the two of you are looking for: offshore account statements, connections with other known underworld figures, money that disappears in your fingers like invisible ink. Lando’s meant to distract DuPont, keep him talking for long enough for you to make your way to the office and copy as much of the information as you can find.

As you approach the door to the main ballroom, Lando rests his hand on the small of your back. “You ready?” he ducks his head, speaking into your ear, and your skin prickles at the sensation.

You nod. “Let’s do this.”

His grin washes over you like the nicest kind of champagne buzz as he pushes the door open and guides you into the room. The place is teeming with Europe’s elite. You recognize several heads of state and at least three kingpins on the MI6 Most Wanted. Lando laces his fingers with yours, squeezes your hand tightly, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You do your rounds, fake laughs bubbling from your mouths like the golden liquor in your flutes. Lando plays the room like he was born to it, that smooth, relaxed charm of his illuminating every conversation. He brushes your hair out of your face, dances close to you, rests his hand low on your back when you pose for photos. When someone asks how long the two of you have been married, he leans in close again, like it’s gravity. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it, baby?” he says lowly, in a way that makes your breath catch.

It’s easy, pretending like this. Maybe a little bit too easy. You keep catching yourself smiling at him in a way you don’t have to fake at all.

“This isn’t working. We should split up. We’ll cover more ground,” you say quietly after your third turn around the room. After all, a girl can only take so many inane conversations with tech-bro CEOs who think NFTs are a personality trait before she starts to crave a little action.

Lando, to his credit, doesn’t fight you. He just nods, taps his ear lightly, and a burst of static explodes somewhere near your temple. “Comms on, yeah?”

“Comms on,” you reply, tapping your ear back and nearly managing to tamp down your giggle when you see him flinch.

“I’ll get you back for that,” he warns, but he’s grinning.

You smile back, peeling off into the crowd without a backward glance. “I’d like to see you try,” you tease through the comms, making your way to the bar.

You settle there, watching Lando thread his way through the crowd towards the east wing and DuPont’s private rooms. You’re just turning to order a drink when you see him.

Gabriel DuPont is standing on the balcony, overlooking the back garden like he’s surveying his kingdom. His hands press against the railing with force, knuckles white. There’s an anger you recognize there, a rage that unsettles you. The other thing you recognize is that this is the best chance either of you will get.

“Target spotted. I’m going in,” you speak, walking purposefully towards the other side of the room.

Lando’s voice is in your ear almost immediately. “What do you mean you’re going in? Where is he?”

“Balcony. South end, facing the garden. I’m fine. Just — execute Plan B. His office, now,” you whisper through your teeth as you approach DuPont.

“Copy,” Lando mutters. There’s a pause, static echoing in your ear, then: “Be safe, yeah?”

“Always,” you murmur as you step through the double doors. Showtime.

“Excusez-moi. You wouldn’t happen to be the host tonight, would you?”

DuPont turns, and for the briefest moment his eyes drop to your exposed leg. You hold your breath until he smiles, sharklike, and you know you have him fooled. To him, you’re just another bored housewife with a little too much money to spend. If only he knew. “Oui, c’est moi. Enchanté. Sinclair, yes?”

You blink, surprised he knows you enough to recognize you by face. Headquarters have clearly done their job. You laugh politely, stick out your hand to shake. “That is my better half, I suppose.”

“And where is your mysterious husband tonight?” he asks silkily, lifting your hand to his mouth and kissing your knuckles. You try to ignore the way your skin crawls.

You inch closer, touch his chest lightly, fingers brushing over his lapel. “With all his time spent at the office, I stopped asking that question a long time ago.”

Lando’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “You don’t need to remind me. I’m already there. Got some stuff already.” He chuckles. “This shit is too easy.”

DuPont watches your face, cruel eyes darting over your features, and you school your expression into something neutral, presentable. “He is a silly man, to leave you alone looking like such a vision.”

His hand falls heavy on your waist, and you manage not to recoil at the touch. You giggle, instead. “You’re too kind, sir.”

“Tell me,” he purrs, inching closer, “do you dance?”

You smile, sultry. “I used to, before I married a man with two left feet.”

“Please, allow me to prove myself,” he smirks, guiding you back into the ballroom. “I promise not to step on any toes.”

“I hope you didn’t intend that double meaning,” you say as he pulls you too tight to his body, waltzing slowly to the string quartet’s music. He merely laughs in response, a hoarse sound, like he’s not quite used to doing it.

There’s a crackle of static in your ear. Then Lando’s voice, tight through the comms unit: “Well. Don’t you two look cozy.”

Your jaw ticks, concentrating on the steps. “I’m sure my husband would know it’s extremely valuable for us to make this connection. So he wouldn’t mind,” you add, like it’s an afterthought to your earlier comment. It’s for Lando’s benefit, of course, but DuPont can’t know that.

He smiles, eyes narrowed. “Well. You may want to keep him on a tighter leash,” he says softly into your ear, turning you so you have a perfect view of Lando at the bar. A gorgeous, leggy blonde in red is smiling a little too brightly at him, touching his arm like he belongs to her. Something hot and ugly coils in your stomach at the sight.

You force a smile. “Oh, she’s just a shiny toy. I’d just hope he’s not too distracted to do what we came here for.” Lando looks up then, hearing your words in his ear, and your eyes lock for a moment over DuPont��s shoulder. The moment feels charged, electric — like you can’t be the first to look away, or something will snap.

“Thank you for the dance,” DuPont murmurs in your ear, smile tight, and you nearly jump. To be honest, you’d half-forgotten he was there. Didn’t even hear the music stop, too busy staring into someone else’s eyes from across the room.

“Of course,” you say, eyes fixed solely on Lando and the blonde. DuPont kisses your hand again and walks you off the dance floor to the bar, offering to get you a drink. You nod, and as soon as he steps away, you hiss into the comms. “Wow, Lan. Red really suits you.”

“You seemed busy,” he snarks back to you. “Practically on top of DuPont. Had to entertain myself somehow.”

“It wasn’t real, Lando. It’s the plan,” you say, voice clipped.

“Yeah. Mine was, too,” he replies, all innocence.

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Whatever. Do you have the drive or not?”

There’s a long pause. “Uh, yeah. But we may have a problem,” Lando says tightly. “Security guards by the main entrance clocked me, I think.” You scan the room, watching the way the guards are speaking low and urgent into their walkie-talkies, and swear under your breath.

“Yeah, you’re burned. DuPont must have said something. Fuck.”

“Thought you had eyes on him?” Lando asks, voice low as he heads towards you. When he glances over his shoulder, the guards begin to follow him, walking slowly like there’s nothing wrong.

You grimace, smoothing your dress. Glance over to the bar, even though you know DuPont won’t be there. “Got distracted.”

“Really? By what?” he says, and even though he’s walking full speed towards you trying very hard not to get noticed by several highly trained security guards, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You’re insufferable,” you say through a blinding smile when he reaches you, linking your arm around his. “Best exit’s the kitchen, I think. Through the north corridor.”

The two of you make your way there quickly but casually, guards following at a steady distance as if to avoid a scene. You push through the swinging kitchen door, and the second it closes behind you, Lando grabs a frying pan off a rack.

The first guard bursts through the door seconds after you. You take him low, sweeping his leg and smashing the butt of your gun into his temple when he loses his balance. Lando catches the second one in the jaw with the pan, then follows up with a right hook that sends him crashing into the prep table. Another crashes through a side entrance. You turn and kick hard at his chest, stiletto digging into his skin, and he staggers back with a wail.

The guards keep coming, but you’re holding your own. You and Lando move like a well-oiled machine, practiced and precise, backing each other in the carefully choreographed routine of combat. You’re steps from the back stairwell, from freedom, when a guard you’d taken out earlier comes charging forward, something silver glinting in his hands. You’re a second too late realizing it’s a knife.

You’re turning to the side, calculating the best place for you to take the hit and keep moving, when Lando shoves you out of the way, swinging wildly towards his temple. The guard falls hard, and Lando flinches backwards, something clattering out of his hand to the ground and skittering across the tiles. You barely have time to turn and lunge for the drive before the last guard is scooping it up, running full speed back down the corridor and disappearing through the swinging doors.

“Fuck,” you say, running a hand over your face. “We lost it.”

“No time. We’ve got to get out of here,” Lando replies, pulling you down the back stairs and out the door into the quiet night. You run all the way down the moneyed gravel driveway toward the car, breath burning in your chest and ankles twisting beneath you.

You don’t realize anything’s wrong until you round the corner, the silver car gleaming in wait for you, and Lando stumbles against you. You catch him like a reflex, and he exhales sharply. When you pull your hand away, it’s red with blood.

“Yeah,” he grimaces sheepishly at the look on your face, cheeks pale in the moonlight. “I may have gotten a little bit stabbed.”

You limp back into the darkened suite, shutting the door quietly behind you and leaning against it to catch your breath. Lando’s already making his way to the bathroom, shrugging off his jacket as he goes. His dress shirt is sliced open where the security guard’s blade caught him — a clean slash to his right ribs, fresh blood still staining the expensive linen a bright crimson.

“Counter. Shirt off,” you call over your shoulder, kicking off your heels and rummaging through the minifridge, cold fingers closing around one of the tiny bottles of vodka. You slam it shut behind you, follow him into the bathroom where he’s obediently stripped off the shirt. You kneel to inspect the cut, hands tracing delicately over the edges of the wound; thankfully, it’s shallow enough that your extremely limited medical skills can fix it.

“You know, if you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask,” he grins down at you, voice thin but cocky as ever. “Didn’t need to nearly blow our covers to do it.”

It’s not funny. You don’t know why he’s smiling. You snatch a cotton pad off the counter, douse it in the vodka, press it to the cut hard. He hisses, jaw clenching, and something about the reaction eases a little of the tension in your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, fixing your eyes on the cut so you don’t have to look at his face, the way his eyes are laughing even now. “Taken the hit for me.”

“Right, next time I’ll let you get stabbed, then,” he replies lightly.

You slap the gauze to the cut more forcefully than necessary, just to make him feel the ache. “He was my guy. I could’ve handled it. You can’t put the mission in danger just to keep me from getting hurt.”

Lando flinches, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the pressure or from your tone of voice. You want to shrink away from it yourself when you hear it — the sharpness, the tender underbelly of it threatening to claw its way to the surface. “I get hit and I’m the one getting yelled at? Not even a thank you for my heroic sacrifice. Chivalry really is dead,” he sniffs.

You look up at him incredulously, tearing the bandage open with your teeth and smoothing it across the gauze. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I mean, a little,” he shrugs, smirking. You get to your feet, backing away from him like the separation will give your lungs the room they need to breathe. “I know we lost the drive, and I’m sorry, but we’ll get it back, and I’m fine. All’s well that ends well, yeah?”

“You don’t get to say that. You could have been killed. What, do you think if you bleed enough for me I’ll be impressed?”

“Dunno. Would you be?” he teases, eyes bright.

“Jesus,” you hiss, cheeks burning, and his smile grows impossibly wide.

“Relax. I’m kidding,” he rattles on, swinging his feet against the counter like he doesn’t feel the way the walls seem to be closing in around you, breath heavy and aching in your chest. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about, it was barely a scratch —”

“Because I thought I was going to lose you!” you snap without thinking, the uncomfortable truth scratching out of your throat like a shard of glass.

The room keeps the words alive, sound echoing over and over off the tiled walls. At least they finally, finally knock the smile off his face. Instead he just stares at you, eyes wide like you’ve sucker punched him. And then, before you do something stupid like cry in front of Lando Norris, you storm out of the bathroom.

You’re in your pajamas under the covers by the time he comes back to the bedroom a few minutes later, joggers slung low on his hips and toothpaste flecking the corner of his mouth. He walks around the bed without a word, grabbing the remnants of the previous night’s pillow wall off the floor.

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, and Lando just looks at you, something unreadable brewing in those stormy eyes. “We don’t need to. I don’t want it to crowd the cut,” you add, as if it’s purely logistical. “Medical exemption for one night.”

It’s a weak excuse, probably the worst lie you’ve ever told, and both of you know it. Lando drops the pillows in his arms, and you can see his soft smile even in the twilight darkness of the room. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

The adrenaline thrumming through your veins is wearing off, leaving exhaustion in the empty space it abandons. You tell yourself that’s why you don’t have the energy to roll your eyes at him, as he slips underneath the covers carefully, trying not to disturb the bandages. Despite the lack of pillows between you, the bed feels smaller than it did before, warmth radiating off his body. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, not touching him, trying very hard not to unravel the fragile composure you’ve managed to hold on to.

“You know, people typically close their eyes as a prerequisite to going to sleep,” Lando’s voice sounds teasingly from somewhere beside you. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on your face. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you say, throat croaking for some reason.

His face softens. “No, you’re not.”

He inches hesitantly toward you, like if he goes too fast you’ll bolt, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. You exhale shakily against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat and cologne and the unmistakable coppery scent of blood. You don’t cry, won’t allow it. But you let yourself lean into him a little more, enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest all over your body. Enough to remind yourself he’s still breathing.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers tracing small circles on your back soothingly. “I’m okay. ‘M not going anywhere, yeah? Gonna keep annoying you for as long as I can.”

You huff out a small sound, half laugh and half breath hitching in your throat. “You say that like it’s something for me to look forward to.”

“Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he says as his fingers brush over your bare shoulder.

You pull back just enough to see his face, eyes searching over the small, pleased smile you find there. “I could live without the stab wounds.”

“Couldn’t live without me, then?” he says, voice low, tongue pushing against the corners of his mouth the way it always does when he’s being cheeky. You wish your eyes weren’t following the motion.

Your cheeks heat in the darkness, like he’s discovered something you should be embarrassed of. “Don’t push your luck, Norris.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, grinning that ridiculous grin as he rolls back onto his back. You stare back at the ceiling, pretending not to hate the space between you. “Just… glad you’re okay.”

That should be the end of it. You should close your eyes, go to sleep, pretend his ridiculous flirting doesn’t affect you. Pretend you know exactly what’s been for the mission and what’s real. Pretend you never let the tiny part of your heart with his name on it crack open in front of him tonight.

“Lando?”

He turns back to you, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath out of you. “Yeah?”

That’s when you kiss him. It’s hesitant at first, more of a question than anything, like all the uncertainty you’ve been carrying all evening has no place else to go. But then Lando sighs against your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your cheek in a gesture so sweet that it makes your heart ache, and assurance settles in your chest like it wants to make a permanent home there. He tastes like peppermint, mouth warm and soft against yours, tongue pushing at the seam of your lips. As your mouth moves slowly against his, your hand traces gently down his side, and he winces as your fingertips graze over the cut. But then you pull your hand away like an apology, and he fucking whines against your lips like he’ll die if your hands aren’t on his skin.

“Lando,” you breathe into the sliver of space between you, nose brushing against his. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His pupils are blown wide, black bleeding into watercolor irises. “Please,” he whispers back, so reverent that it shatters something inside you. “You can hurt me however you want.”

So you pull him on top of you like it’s something inevitable, like the mission was always leading here: to his hands braced on either side of you, to the low throaty sound he makes when you wrap your legs around his waist, to the way his breath hitches against your mouth as you roll your hips against his. You let him take you apart, all mouth and hands and an impossible sort of tenderness; let yourself fall to pieces underneath the warmth and the weight of him, over and over again.

Afterwards, when the silence settles between the two of you like gunsmoke after a shootout, Lando falls asleep almost immediately, face pressed against your shoulder and arm flung across your waist like it’s second nature. You lie there perfectly still, your chests rising and falling in sync, letting the weight of giving him something you can’t take back settle into your bones.

You’re awake before the sun. Really, you’re not sure you ever fell asleep, hovering fitfully in that twilight zone where everything feels like a dream or maybe just a warped version of reality. You wish that was the case — you keep pressing your eyes shut like if you try hard enough, you can erase the entirety of last night, like you can just take back the biggest liability you can imagine. Like you can go back to a world where you didn’t admit that Lando Norris means something to you.

But when you open your eyes again, you’re still there, pressed to Lando’s side. His breath is warm on your neck, lashes brushing against your shoulder, the sunlight glowing golden on his bare skin. He’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Suddenly, his arm around your waist feels less like care and more like another restraint you have to work your way out of. You slip out of the bed, extricating yourself from his embrace as delicately as you can. Put on your MI6 t-shirt and make coffee on autopilot. When you take the first sip, you wince at the bitterness. It tastes like punishment, the type you deserve for letting yourself want something you can never, ever have.

The sheets rustle lazily behind you, and when you turn, Lando’s already propped on his elbows looking at you, eyes crinkling at the corners with affection and something that looks a little like triumph. “Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the grin he gives you is blinding. “Just checking — does this mean I get to kiss you without a cover story now, or do I have to call you Mrs. Sinclair to get you to come back to bed?”

You can hear the mattress creak as he shifts, sitting up a little more, and for a moment you picture what it could be like if you were a different girl. You could make him a cup of coffee, crawl back into bed, kiss him and let it mean something without risking his life and yours.

“Funny,” you say instead, voice tight. “Just part of the mission, yeah?”

Confusion flickers over his features, and you force your eyes away. You can’t look at him. Won’t. “What are you talking about?”

You keep your eyes trained on the horizon, grip your mug tighter so he can’t see your hands shake. “I know it’s nothing special, so let’s not make a big deal out of it. You flirt with everyone, Lando. It’s, like, your thing.”

He laughs, sharp and disbelieving. It’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “I really, really don’t.”

His voice is heavy with the self-defeat you recognize from a particularly bad score in training, when he’d get in a mood so black he’d swear he wouldn’t make it to the agency. Back then you’d comfort him, help him train, get him out of his head. Anything to keep yourself from hearing the way his voice shattered around the edges.

You don’t know what to do when you’re the one who’s caused it.

The silence between you stretches for another long moment. Lando runs a hand through his messy curls, expression shuttered. “Is that what you really think of me? That I just — shag my way through missions?”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” you say, trying very hard to keep your voice level. “I get it. We made a mistake, got carried away. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to you,” he mutters, and it lands like a kill shot.

“Lando,” you try, but he interrupts you before you can finish.

“I knew you would do this, you know? Knew the second it felt real you’d fucking — shut down, like you always do.” He laughs helplessly. “Couldn’t stop myself, though, could I? ‘Cos I’m such a fucking flirt that I just fall into bed with everyone who looks my way.”

You step forward, and he flinches away from you. “Lan, I didn’t mean to —”

“Yes, you did,” he snaps, eyes alight. “You freaked out and couldn’t handle whatever this is, so you decided to make it feel small for yourself. Make me feel small, too. Well, congratulations, agent. You fucking nailed it.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, not even bothering to turn it right side out, and gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” you say, voice small as you watch him move.

“Anywhere but here,” he mutters back, stalking towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him so hard it makes the crystal in the chandeliers tremble. You stare at the door frame, listening to the shower run until the coffee goes cold in your hand.

Wonder if when he said you could hurt him however you wanted, if he ever pictured this.

The invitation arrives a few hours later, a personalized summons on heavy ivory cardstock that feels like wealth beneath your fingertips. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, you are cordially invited to an exclusive dinner on the Kickback this evening, hosted by Gabriel DuPont in recognition of your generous support.

And at the bottom, a note, inked in the cruel, thick penstrokes of your target himself: I truly hope to see you both there.

“It’s a test,” you say, pacing back and forth from one edge of the bedroom to the other, bare feet sinking into the rug like quicksand. Lando’s perched on the edge of the bed, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. “He suspects us.”

“Or a trap,” Lando mutters, tossing the card at the nightstand. “Yacht anchored in the middle of the harbor? No one to hear us scream?”

“It doesn’t matter which one of us is right,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “We have to go. It’s our only chance to get the drive back. We don’t have a choice.”

“We never do,” he says quietly. His hair is still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and he looks exhausted. Not in a way that shows, not to anyone else. But you’ve known him long enough to know the tired set of his jaw, the red-rimmed eyes that make your chest ache to look at.

You turn, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you going to be able to do this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

You look out over the water, not sure you can face him when you ask what is sure to rank as the most pathetic question of your life. “I mean are you still mad at me?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste copper.

When he answers, it’s completely devoid of emotion. “Why would I be mad at you?”

It’s worse than if he’d shouted. You’ve screamed and bickered and fought over the years enough times to know Lando’s dramatic reactions down to the letter, know the way his moods rage intensely and then dissolve like a summer storm. This — the cool detachment, like you’re a stranger he happened to stumble into a mission with — this is new. It lodges somewhere behind your ribs like a lingering bruise.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, standing up and grabbing his watch off the dresser roughly. You’ve seen him handle a Glock with more tenderness. “I’m not going to let you down.”

The words, unspoken, hang in the air between you two. Not like you did to me.

When you pull up to the harbor, the yacht looms ahead of you, a sparkling vision of teak and chrome. Staff in creamy white jackets hand you champagne flutes the second you step off the dock and direct you to a table at the bow of the boat, where DuPont is holding court with the other couples. It’s a small party, full of people wearing designer labels and icy smiles, sipping expensive wine and pretending to be relatable.

The two of you mingle. Lando kisses your cheek when someone makes a joke about newlywed bliss. You laugh and rest your hand on his chest — if the phrase includes sleeping with the best friend you have and then shutting down emotionally to keep you both safe, then sure, it’s newlywed bliss. Through it all, Lando keeps his hand wrapped together with yours, like he’s trying to remind you he’s not going anywhere. You’re grateful for the kindness, even when it feels like twisting the knife of guilt that’s already stuck in your chest.

You’re introduced to another couple, an American CEO and his third wife, very blonde and very surgically enhanced. She eyes Lando like he’s on the menu, makes a teasing comment about how lucky you are. You laugh and blush as Lando says he’s the lucky one.

“How did you two meet?” the woman asks, and your stomach drops. You’re on thin ice already, DuPont’s security team watching your every move. You’re sure they’ve noticed the tension between the two of you already. If he hesitates, even for a moment —

“We met at a pub, actually,” Lando says casually, not missing a beat. “This place called Mother Kelly’s. It was the day before I started my job, and I wanted to scope out the neighborhood a bit. Walked in, and there she was — this girl sitting at the bar, hair pulled back, no makeup on, drinking a Guinness. Most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I offered to buy her a drink, thought I was being really fucking smooth. And she looked me dead in the eyes, pointed at the pint and said ‘Open your eyes, mate. I’ve already got one, don’t I?’” He huffs out a laugh. “Cheeky as anything.” He pauses for a moment, and his voice is softer when he speaks again. “And then she smiled at me, and that was pretty much it. I’ve been gone for her ever since.”

The women at the table coo, marveling over the sweetness of the story. But you just stare at him dumbstruck, your heart hammering beneath your ribs.

Because that’s not Claridge’s. That’s not Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair’s story.

It’s you and Lando’s.

You remember everything about that day. Lando, scrawnier then, a rush of dark curls and that heart-shaped smile, lounging on the barstool next to you after five minutes like you were the best of friends already. The London rain came down hard just as you were settling your tab, so you ended up staying for another drink — he could talk you into anything, even then. The two of you played darts for hours, and you won every time until the last game, when he suggested a friendly bet and then proceeded to hit six bullseyes in a row. He’d hustled you for hours, just for a tenner and to hear the surprise in your laugh when he beat you.

I’ve been gone for her ever since. Suddenly, you feel dizzy, sick to your stomach at the way he’s steadfastly refusing to meet your eyes.

“Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” Lando murmurs to the women beside him, color high in his cheeks, and you’re too slow to stop him. He slips away with the easy charm of someone who’s been doing it his whole life, like he didn’t just turn your entire idea of him — of the two of you — inside out without a second thought.

You know in your bones what he’s doing. Playing the hero. Finishing the mission himself because he can’t bear to see your face after he bared his soul. You’d do the same, if you were him. Two sides of the same coin, always have been.

You watch the door like a hawk. Ten agonizing minutes pass. Then fifteen. And Lando doesn’t come back.

In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

Fuck that. You’re going in.

You push your chair back, ignoring the way it scrapes against the deck, and walk with purpose towards the cabin without even bothering to excuse yourself. You can hear the shocked whispers behind you, and a thought tugs at the rational part of your brain that it’s not how Mrs. Sinclair would ever leave a room. But if Lando’s been gone for as long as he has, your cover’s certainly been blown, anyway.

You let the sliding door slam shut behind you, press your eyes shut for a moment. The yacht blueprints are still burned in your mind from the night the two of you watched movies together, as clear as the sound of Lando’s laugh. You have to press your hand over your mouth and stifle a gasp at the thought you might never hear it again.

The yacht is labyrinthine, all twisting corridors going down multiple floors. If you were DuPont, and you’d caught Lando, you would put him in the engine room on the bottom floor, deep beneath the waves. You head for the emergency stairs, at the back of the ship. As you walk, you pass a nondescript door. You keep walking, glancing through the porthole as you go, and stop dead.

Clearly, you were wrong about what DuPont would do. Because Lando is inside, tied to a chair, arms behind his back, flanked by two guards. His nose is bleeding, one eye swollen shut and purpling rapidly. The billionaire stands facing him with his back to the door, calmly smoothing something at his breast pocket and swirling a tumbler of amber liquid, with a third guard standing ground behind him.

“Where’s your wife?” he says mildly. Somehow, it’s more frightening than if he was screaming. “Not coming to save you?”

“She’s not involved in this,” Lando lies through his teeth, words slurring together slightly. Protecting you to the bitter end, even after everything you’ve done. “She’s not like me. She doesn’t know what I do.”

DuPont laughs, that strange, raspy sound again, and it sends a chill down your spine. “Agent, I didn’t think you’d lie to me.” He walks closer to Lando, fluidly pulls something out of his pocket. Blind fear envelops you when you realize it’s a gun, aimed at your partner’s head. “Tell me who she is, and I’ll let you walk.”

Lando turns, spits blood onto the floor. Then slowly, deliberately leans forward until his mouth is pressed against the barrel, the cool metal pulling at the plush pink of his bottom lip. “Go ahead. Kill me,” he grimaces, looking up at DuPont through his eyelashes. “I’d die before I let you hurt her.”

DuPont cocks the gun, and that’s when you strike.

One guard crumples before the door swings open fully, your shot blasting cleanly through his forehead. You don’t wait to see him hit the ground; you’re already whirling around, a swift kick landing squarely to the chest of the guard backing DuPont. It stuns him enough for you to swing your arm around hard, cracking the butt of your pistol against his temple. He stumbles, back hitting the wall as he begins to slump. You grab for DuPont, but you’re off balance, and you only manage to pull his jacket off as he flees out the door.

Regroup. Two down. One to go. You turn, but the other guard is already waiting for you, hands steady and gun aimed at your heart. You raise your hands, like you’re caught, and he relaxes slightly. Your eyes flick over to Lando, who kicks his legs out hard and knocks the guard to the floor. You don’t hesitate before you put a bullet in the guy’s chest.

The room would be silent, if you couldn’t hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You scan the room, grab a pair of scissors out of a desk drawer and start hacking at the zip ties on Lando’s wrists.

His head lolls towards you, blood spattered at the corner of his mouth. “You weren’t supposed to come back for me.”

You keep trying to cut through the last zip tie, but your hands are shaking too badly. “Don’t be an idiot,” you say, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let you down.”

His smile is soft, trained on you. “You never have.”

You finally cut through the plastic, catching him just before he slumps forward entirely. Immediately, you know he’s worse off than you thought; your arms go around his torso on instinct to hold him up and he yelps, sharp and broken, like you’ve smacked him.

“You okay?” you ask, trying to shift his weight carefully.

He groans anyway, face pale. “No. But thanks for asking,” he grits out, somehow still flirting even with what feels like multiple broken ribs. “Let’s get DuPont.”

You balance him against the desk, pull out your walkie. “HQ, this is beta team. We need extract,” you say clearly, sliding it back into your pocket. Five minutes, and you’ll be on the first helicopter back to London. “We’re not getting DuPont. We’re getting you out of here alive.”

Lando coughs, and there’s something wet behind it. “We can do it,” he insists, stubborn to the end. “Walk me up to the upper deck.”

“Lando,” you sigh. “What’s the point? We need to cut our losses here. We don’t even know where the drive is.”

“Jacket,” he says, eyes catching yours, almost too sharp for someone who looks like death warmed over. “Inside pocket. Saw it when you pulled it off him earlier.”

You blink once, then dive for the crumpled clothing, hands raking over the fabric. Sure enough, there’s a little pocket stitched into the silk lining. You rip it open, pull out the unmistakable sleek black drive, stuff the thing in your bra for safekeeping.

“Okay,” you say, convinced. “Let’s get that son of a bitch.”

He grins back at you, only the slightest bit unfocused. “Help me up, Mrs. Sinclair?”

You drag him back up the stairs one step at a time, his arm slung around your shoulders, your free hand gripping your pistol tight. The harbor air hits your skin like a slap, salty and electric. When you get to the upper deck, DuPont is at the bow, trying to activate the emergency launch controls on the tender. Trying to make a coward’s escape.

You prop Lando against the first railing you can find. “Stay here,” you warn. Then you run at DuPont, tackling him before he can lower the boat into the water.

The fight is messy, brutal. Your gun clatters out of your hand as he backs you into the rail. The poles clatter against your skull, vision flashing white, but you hit back harder. He swings at you, wild, but you’ve been hit worse, by people better trained. You twist, knee him in the ribs, elbow up under his chin. He staggers. You drive him back with everything you’ve got.

And then there’s a pair of hands grabbing his arms from behind — not steady, not strong. But enough to buy you time.

Lando.

You snap the cuffs onto DuPont’s wrists and slam him to the deck, and it’s over. Or at least it would be, if your extraction team was here, and if Lando wasn’t collapsing on the deck in front of you like the effort might well kill him.

“Fuck, did you hear me? Extract extract extract,” you scream into your walkie again, voice hoarse, then toss it aside, turning back to Lando. His skin is paling rapidly, breathing shallow. “Stay with me, Lan.”

“That takedown was pretty hot,” he rasps weakly, head lolling to the side.

“Shut up,” you say, voice cracking in a way you can’t even pretend to control. “You just gotta hold on for a couple more minutes, okay?”

His fingers find yours, grip loose like he doesn’t have the strength left in his hands. “We got him.”

“Yeah,” you nod, sniffling wetly. “Yeah, we got him. And we got the drive. And you’re gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head, and you can see him fading. “Was a good last mission,” he says quietly, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Liked being your husband.” His eyes slide shut, and you shake him slightly, but he doesn’t respond.

“You can’t die, Lando, please,” you try to speak, but it’s interrupted by the tears that have started to pour down your cheeks. You press your forehead against his, let the warmth of his skin comfort you. “You stupid idiot pain in the ass, I love you. I’m sorry I was scared before, but I love you and you can’t die before I get to tell you that. Please. Just — don’t let me down. One last time. Don’t you dare fucking die.”

No answer. All you can hear is the soft sound of the waves crashing against the hull, drowned out by your own sobs.

And then finally, finally, the sound of helicopter blades whirring above you.

The fluorescent lights hum like the world’s most annoying hold music.

You’re seated at one end of a long, steel table in a debrief room, a folder full of mission notes and clearance forms spread out in front of you. The same stale coffee is in a cup in front of you. You’ve let it go cold, same as your nerves.

“All in all, despite the... irregularities, the mission was quite the success,” Hale says, looking incredibly pleased with herself. “Gabriel DuPont is in custody. The drive is secure, and the information you collected has helped us pinpoint several other arms dealers in the European market. Only three dead, no civilians injured.” She clears her throat. “We’ll discuss the breaches of protocol another time, given that your quick thinking likely saved each other’s lives.”

Across the table, Lando grins at you with the air of someone who narrowly escaped death and is prepared to make it your problem. The bruise on his eye has faded from brilliant purple to a sickly yellow. There’s stitches across his side and his arm is in a sling, but he looks unfairly good for someone who nearly bled out on a superyacht less than a week ago. “Thank me later.”

“I saved you last,” you counter, raising an eyebrow. “Technically, you owe me.”

“One near-death experience and suddenly she’s keeping score,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and smiling that stupid, ridiculous smile at you.

“I’m thrilled your trauma hasn’t impacted your ability to bicker like twelve-year-olds,” Hale says dryly. “But it will affect your working hours. For now you’re both on administrative leave. Two weeks’ recovery time, minimum. Please try not to cause any international incidents in that time period,” she sighs.

Lando looks at her innocently. “No promises.”

Hale dismisses you, and you focus your eyes on your folder, neatly stacking everything. You haven’t really had the chance to speak to Lando since the mission ended. The ground feels unsteady between you two, tension pulling taut like a trip wire. But he doesn’t seem to be interested in speaking, and you don’t want to push, so you head for the door after your handler.

“So, about what you said earlier,” Lando pipes up, and you turn back.

“About owing me? I’ll take a pint, when you’re healed up,” you say as lightly as you can, eyes tracing over his face.

“Actually, I was talking about on the boat when you said you loved me,” he replies casually, grin on his face, and your stomach drops. “But I’ll go for a pint whenever you want.”

“It was — I was trying to keep you conscious,” you stutter, unprepared and voice hoarse.

His smile grows. “Well, it worked. I’ve been very conscious of it ever since.”

“Oh, shut up,” you groan, but there’s a laugh behind it somewhere.

He stands up, limping towards you until he’s close enough that you can see the raised pink scar by his lip. “So, did you mean it?” His tone is still light, teasing, but you can see the question in his eyes, the way something real hangs in the balance of your answer.

You let your eyes flit over his face, one you know better than your own reflection. One that became your friend, your partner, your shield. One you nearly lost, that you couldn’t walk away from even when every protocol told you to run.

You sigh, looking down. “I failed the mission.”

He scrunches his nose, and you fight the urge to kiss the wrinkle. “What do you mean?”

“You told me you’d accept it as long as I promised not to fall in love with you,” you shrug. “Really messed that one up, didn’t I?”

He beams at you like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “Well, it took you long enough.”

“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?” you tease, and he doesn’t say another word. Just steps forward, cups your jaw with his good hand, and kisses you like it’s the only order he’ll ever follow again.

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