#that's right. weapon and handler

[8-rae-rae-8]

Price picking Simon up from the dead and sculpting him—sculpting Ghost—into what he is now. By all means, a weapon, but now it's just his hand holding the leash. It's only him brushing blond strands out of his face, never reaching with intent to harm. It's just him handing the weapons over to his ever loyal lieutenant, knowing the job would be done by any means necessary.

He molded Ghost into what they needed, what he and the team needed, while leaving Simon Riley delicately fragile underneath.

He trained him, one step at a time, keeping him fed, healthy and trained like a pup until he learned not to flinch. Until his sharpened teeth didn't instinctively bite down on John's skin. Until he could welcome the pup onto the bed and have him curl up at his side, rather than the end of the bed.

[altonhandlers]

That is fair, forgive me then; old habits, as it were. It isn't my intention, though I often come off that way.

{The figure gives an apologetic bow of sorts, the emotionless mask beneath their hood almost seeming to shift briefly to close before the stand upright once more}

Rather impressive to have gone two years without any incidents, I must say. You all must be handling things rather well to some degree then, yes?

⚠️- "I'm not sure why they decide to act up, it's mainly The doctor and Nemesis right now. It's hard to understand what's going on in their heads. Yet somehow The Doctor can perfectly understand what's happening in mine. My head hurts just thinking about all of it. Another dangerous thing about this job is that they know you. They know how to get under your skin."

She had this little gleam in her eye, a little spiral to be exact. A bright yellow clashing with her brown eyes.

"Buttt that doesn't matter- haha! All that matters is that we've been safe and nothing's going to harm us!"

It was odd. Like someone had switched something in her brain. That was a sharp turn of a mood swing.

[corvid-attano]

Something I don't think will get mentioned all that often but I really like about Wilds is that they establish very sincerely that hunting monsters is always the last resort, to be used only when it is necessary to save lives.

And nothing highlights this more than the way the game handles quests - it requires two people to say yes before you can hunt a monster. You (implicitly: if you dont take down the monster its pretty blatant you didnt sign off on it dying) and Alma, your Handler, who is the one acting on behalf of the guild to give you authorization to hunt a monster.

You're given special permission to use a weapon and to be a Hunter at all, and it will have been ensured that you will do right by the natural world, but you cannot unilaterally decide to hunt a monster, at least in canon quests. You have to have Alma sign off on it too. Every time, she has given you permission on behalf of the Guild, so that when questioned, you can both individually attest to the necessity of disturbing an ecosystem the Guild was not a part of until very recently.

I adore this level of respect - a level that's been true in Monster Hunter the entire time, but put front and center in this game for in my opinion the first time.

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) MISSION: MATRIMONY ˒˒ yjw

your handler was very clear what your mission entailed: get in, get information, then get out, no matter the cost. when you find yourself in a sham marriage to avoid suspicion from the enemy country’s government, you begin to realize the cracks in your ever-so-sweet husband’s facade. turns out, the enemy might be even closer than you thought.

pairing) spy!jungwon x spy!reader

tags) fluff, enemies to lovers, romantic comedy, action

wc) SOON

warnings) mentions of killing, injury, weapons, violence, and more.

your husband was hiding something.

whether it was a mistress, a huge debt to an evil loan shark, or a criminal record, you were yet to find out. even if your money was on the mistress. honestly, that was what landed you in couple’s therapy in the first place.

so you sat primly in a therapist’s office — legs crossed, arms folded, and the big, fat diamond itching on your ring finger itching like guilt. truly, how did you let his big secret elude you? you’re a spy, for god’s sake. you escape death on the daily, uncover national secrets, and get rid of dirty politicians, yet you can’t figure out where your husband heads on his own after dark? or why exactly he leaves no trace of his activities?

doctor kim’s office reeked of lavender room spray and he smiled like someone that reupholstered his own furniture and drank chamomile by the gallon. he adusted his glasses for a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes wander to his clipboard.

your husband beat him to it.

“that’s jungwon. with a j.”

his voice was steady, pleasant, even warm. the kind of voice that could pull you to sleep— or into your demise if you didn’t know better. except you did. your husband was lying to you, and you were yet to find out just how catastrophic the situation really was.

jungwon sat in the sad, beige lounge chair beside yours and smiled like he meant it. teeth pearly white, hair parted neatly, and not a wrinkle in his carefully ironed shirt, he looked every bit the image of a loving spouse.

you resisted the urge to douse him with kim’s steaming cup of tea.

doctor kim only nodded, humming and scribbling something down on his notepad.

“well,” the doctor started, chuckling when you and your spouse tensed up ever so slightly.”i’m going to start off by letting you both know that this is a safe space. no judging or assigning blame, and especially no hurting each other.”

the softest of laughs followed. “you’re not going to kill your spouse. neither of you are murderers.”

as if on cue, the two of you offered the oblivious man across you tight smiles and awkward chuckles.

except now, your neatly polished nails were curling into the arm rests and jungwon’s arm was twitching like he was calculating the distance between him and the nearest emergency exit.

“just to clarify—we don’t need marriage counseling. this is just… a healthy little check in.” jungwon spoke, as if the chill in the room didn’t exist.

you turned to stare at him, before slowly nodding stiffly in agreement. “right. like a dentist appointment, but for our marriage.”

the doctor only blinked, before moving to furiously scribble down notes on what you believed to be his thoughts and observations about how you were the strangest couple he’d ever given aid to.

kim nodded, likely regretting every certification framed on his wall. “you’re not alone in that mindset. a lot of couples come to me just to strengthen their bond. say, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your ability to talk through conflict?”

“7.” you said, almost immediately. it was robotic and held no emotion, like you had planned out answers for specific questions beforehand.

jungwon’s confident “9.” followed right after.

you turned to him slowly, and he tilted his head at you like this were some quaint dinner conversation and not a literal bomb waiting to detonate all over your lives.

“that’s generous,” you said.

“what can i say? i’m a generous guy,” your spouse replied smoothly, and you held his stare with an intensity that made the third party in the room begin to sweat.

the doctor cleared the tightness in his throat, the lavender diffuser puffing in the corner like it was nervous too. you and your husband stayed as cool and collected as ever, despite the fact that you were making a mental note to hide his keys later. and oh, you were going to hide them good.

“well,” he said carefully. “do the both of you feel heard by your partner?”

you really thought about this one. your husband always looked like he was listening, staring at you intently and leaning into your every word. head tilted and hands folded, you had to give it to him. he did make you feel heard.

that is, if you didn’t feel like he was calculating the pressure points on your neck half the time.

“sure,” you responded curtly. jungwon pursed his lips, looking as if he didn’t like how you were already bored of the conversation. “he listens.”

completely disregarding his previous expression, your partner smiles graciously. “and she talks a lot.”

“excuse me?” you turned to him, completely and utterly fed up with his bullshit responses as if you weren’t paying this damn counsellor 300 bucks an hour to keep up appearances. your killing and spying for a living can only make so much.

“honey,” your husband laughed. “i’m just agreeing with you here.”

“i talk a lot,” you smiled, the kind that would make any normal person flinch. except, your freakishly perfect husband was no normal person. ”mind elaborating?”

he didn’t react. of course he didn’t. a lot of your inner hatred towards him was rooted from how good he was at pretending. at being a doting husband. a cardigan-wearing, camellia-watering, perfect man who never had a hair out of place during dinners at 7.

”just saying,” jungwon said, leaning back with the manly charm that had you falling into his honey trap in the first place. “sometimes i don’t even have to speak. it’s like she’s having the conversation for the both of us.

you scoffed, and something tells you your husband is well aware of how he’s irritated you.

from beside you, jungwon smirked in his seat. and you?

unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or kill him.

like 4 tag once released!

[yukkiji]

miss second place

oikawa tooru is always first — in volleyball, in school, and in everyone’s hearts. she’s second, but fiercely competitive and determined to keep up. their rivalry is electric, but beneath the teasing and tension, something deeper stirs.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers

wc: 8.9k

author's note: i'll consider this as one of my personal faves since academic rivals is one of my favorite tropes and this was so longggg but i hope you guys will enjoy it <333

the clock flashes 7:48 p.m. in angry red digits—mocking, almost. this is well past the hour anyone with a shred of sanity would still be in school, let alone buried under a mountain of paperwork.

the student council room glows in soft lamplight, golden and too calm for the storm in your head. folders are splayed out in organized chaos, pages fluttering as you scrawl in tight, no-nonsense lines. your pen moves like a weapon.

then—like clockwork, or a curse—the door slides open.

"still slaving away, miss second place?"

oikawa tooru’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and irritating, like expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. you don’t have to look to know the exact smirk on his face. you can feel it.

your pen freezes.

"get out, tooru."

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. he sinks into the seat across from you like he owns the place, his seijoh jacket barely hanging off one shoulder, hair damp and tousled just right—like some overachieving drama prince straight from practice. even now, a faint sheen of sweat clings to his neck in a way that makes you want to look away and stare all at once.

you hate him. you really do.

"this room is for student council members only," you snap, eyes still on your paper.

"good thing i’m special." he props his chin on one hand, lashes fluttering in mock innocence. "joint authority, remember? besides, aren’t you tired of playing president all alone? i came to keep you company."

you finally glance up, and yes—there it is. that grin. the one that says he knows exactly how far under your skin he is.

"you’re not helping. and your definition of 'company' feels more like pest control."

"then it’s working." he leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse twitch. "wouldn’t want you to collapse from overwork before i get the chance to beat you on next week’s midterms."

you don’t hesitate—you grab the nearest piece of scrap paper, crumple it, and peg it at his annoyingly symmetrical face. it hits him square on the cheek, and he jerks back with a dramatic flinch like you’ve stabbed him.

"get out, pretty boy, or i’m telling hajime you’re still here after hours."

that gets a reaction. he presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply—emotionally, theatrically.

"that hurts, prez," he says, lips curling into a mock pout. "using my best friend against me? i thought we had something special."

"we do. it’s called mutual disdain."

he grins wider, as if that’s exactly what he wanted you to say. "funny. that’s my favorite love language."

as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the desk. you glance down, thumb flicking the screen open.

iwaizumi hajime: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again also tell him to shower before he starts flirting, he smells like gym socks and ego

your brow twitches.

"speak of the devil," you mutter, holding the screen up so oikawa can see. "your handler says it’s bedtime."

oikawa squints at the message, then gasps—actual, audible gasp.

"rude. gym socks?" he whines, sniffing his sleeve like that’ll help his case. "i smell like victory. and maybe just a hint of mango body wash."

"you smell like someone who thinks cologne is a substitute for personality."

"you wound me again." he sprawls back in the chair like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance. "first the paper attack, now this? one day, you’ll admit you’re obsessed with me, and i’ll pretend to be surprised."

"when hell freezes over."

"can’t wait, miss number two."

he winks, and it takes everything in you not to launch a stapler this time.

she remembered the first time he called her number two.

she was six, standing next to the gold-framed board of top test scores in the elementary school hallway. his name was at the top—bold, smug, infuriating. hers was right beneath.

oikawa had turned to her with a dazzling smile and said, "you’re pretty smart, number two."

so she’d kicked him in the shin.

he cried. she got detention. balance, briefly, was restored.

but he kept calling her that. every year, every test, every time she pushed herself just a little harder—he was always a step ahead, always grinning like he knew. like it was some private joke only he was in on.

and now here he was, still grinning across a student council desk stacked with forms and expectations, like he hadn’t haunted her entire academic life.

"still holding onto that nickname, prez?"

his voice yanked her back to the present.

you glare.

"you mean the one that got you kicked in the leg? yeah, fond memories."

"worth it," he says, leaning back like he’s proud of the scar you definitely didn’t leave. "you gave yourself a villain origin story, and i got a fan for life."

"delusional. impressive, but delusional."

"comes with the genius territory."

you chuck another crumpled paper at his head. he dodges—barely—and laughs like he’s won anyway.

you hate that sound.

you really hate how much you don’t.

it wasn’t always like this. or maybe it always was.

another memory surfaces before you can stop it—middle school, kitagawa daiichi, the golden age of bad haircuts and worse attitudes.

he’d just been named volleyball captain. you’d just topped the midterms for the first time in years. for once, your name was above his on the results board. you still remembered the silence when he walked up to check the list, eyebrows raised.

"look at that," he’d said, mock-shocked. "the earth’s off its axis."

you’d smirked. "guess it was bound to happen. number one fits me better anyway."

he opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, iwaizumi’s firm voice cut through the tension.

"enough, tooru." iwaizumi stepped between you two, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "you’ve been going at this since elementary school. if you don’t stop, i’m telling coach to bench you."

oikawa scowled, but iwaizumi’s stare didn’t waver.

you exchanged a brief look with iwaizumi—part gratitude, part shared exhaustion.

oikawa sighed dramatically, but the edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. then he looked at you—really looked at you—and smiled, slow and unreadable.

"wear it while you can," he said quietly.

you’d thought about that moment more than you’d admit. not just the words, but the way he’d said them. like it wasn’t war anymore—like it was something closer, messier.

but of course, at the finals of your third year, oikawa was number one again—snatching the top spot effortlessly and infuriatingly like it was always meant to be his.

.and the rivalry didn’t stop there.

it followed you into high school like a shadow you couldn’t shake. he went all in on volleyball with iwaizumi at his side, carving out his name on the court with that same relentless brilliance that always kept him just one step ahead.

and you? you went for student council. naturally. there were fewer scoreboards, but the stakes were still high-recommendations, university prospects, the unspoken war for who would stand tallest by the end of it all.

by third year, the stage was set.

he was the captain of the seijoh volleyball team. you were the student council president.

two crowns. two thrones.

two people still acting like the world might stop turning if the other one ever admitted defeat.

and yet, somehow, despite all the years and fights and thrown stationery, oikawa tooru kept finding excuses to wander into your territory.

like now—his jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from practice, that smug glint in his eyes making itself comfortable across the desk from you.

"you’re really going to keep pretending i don’t make your evenings more exciting?" he stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual. "i bet the paperwork misses me when i’m gone."

you give him a flat look. "i bet your team does too. shouldn’t you be terrorizing first-years or something?"

"they’re fine." he leans in, eyes dancing. "besides, this is way more fun. watching you pretend you don’t enjoy the company."

you toss another crumpled paper at his head. he doesn’t even flinch this time.

and still—he doesn’t leave.

"you know," oikawa says, tapping his fingers against your desk, "you’ve never denied having a crush on me. statistically speaking, silence is admissi—"

the door slides open.

"knew it."

iwaizumi stands there with a look that could flatten a first-year.

"my gut told me you weren’t home yet and i was right." he steps fully into the room, arms crossed. "why am i not surprised you’re harassing the student council president after hours again?"

"harassing?" oikawa gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "i was keeping her company! she's lonely—"

iwaizumi walks over and grabs him by the collar.

"no, she’s busy. you’re the lonely one."

"rude!" oikawa protests, letting himself get hauled up like a sack of potatoes. "at least let me say goodbye!"

iwaizumi ignores him completely, nods politely in your direction.

"sorry. won’t happen again."

you raise an eyebrow.

"it will."

iwaizumi sighs. "yeah. i know."

oikawa, being physically dragged out of the room like some overgrown cat, turns his head with a grin and calls out:

"goodnight, number two~!"

you chuck a pen at the closing door. it bounces harmlessly off the frame.

you don’t miss the way your lips twitch—just barely—before you shake your head and dive back into your paperwork.

oikawa trudged down the hallway, iwaizumi’s grip still firm on his collar.

"you really don’t know when to quit, do you?" iwaizumi muttered, voice low but steady.

oikawa shrugged, flashing that trademark grin. "where’s the fun in quitting? besides, she was actually... tolerating me tonight."

iwaizumi scoffed. "tolerating you is the bare minimum. you’re lucky she didn’t throw a stapler."

oikawa laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "true. i’ll take it as a win."

they slowed near the exit. iwaizumi glanced over, eyebrows raised.

"you’re really still hung up on her, huh?"

oikawa’s grin faltered just a bit, eyes darkening with something more complicated. "yeah."

iwaizumi shook his head, a rare softness in his voice. "just don’t mess it up, crappykawa."

oikawa smirked again but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as they stepped out into the cool night.

the next afternoon, you stood just outside the gym doors, clipboard in hand, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. you needed to watch their practice—study their form, their movements, everything—so you could finalize the program for the upcoming school festival. it wasn’t like you wanted an excuse to see oikawa again, but if you did, this was as good as any.

oikawa was in the center of the court, barking orders with that usual mix of charm and command. iwaizumi was by his side, steady as ever.

the moment oikawa spotted you by the bleachers, his whole aura shifted—like a dog finally spotting its owner after a long day. his usual confident grin softened into something warmer, and his eyes locked onto you with unmistakable recognition.

iwaizumi, noticing this change, let out a long, exasperated sigh. he glanced sideways at oikawa, who was already weaving through the players and heading straight toward you without a second thought.

iwaizumi muttered under his breath: "here we go again."

“oi, miss number two, you’re here to watch me?” oikawa called out with a cheeky grin as he closed the distance.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “tooru, where’s the form? i’ve told you so many times to get it to me for the festival.”

he scratched the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish smile. “well, you see... i haven’t finished it yet?”

your patience snapped. “are you serious, tooru? i reminded you all last week.”

he held up his hands in mock surrender. “i’ll give it to you personally—later. or tomorrow.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s exactly what i’m trying to avoid. i don’t want to deal with you more than i have to.”

“promise, i’ll give it to you.” oikawa said, his grin softening just enough to sound sincere.

you let out a long sigh, feeling like you’d run out of options. it took every ounce of patience not to strangle seijoh’s volleyball captain right here in front of his teammates.

“i’m dead serious, tooru.” you warned, eyes locking with his. “this is the last time i’m asking.”

“not gonna stay to see my greatness?” he teased, voice dripping with mock confidence as you reached the door, already turning to leave.

“heck no,” you shot back without missing a beat, pushing the door open with a smirk.

as you stepped out of the gym, the cool air hit your face, a welcome relief from the noisy chaos inside. just behind you, iwaizumi barely held back a grin as he grabbed a volleyball and flung it straight at oikawa.

“stupid,” he snapped, voice low but amused, “you already finished the form last week.”

oikawa caught the ball with an exaggerated wince, clutching his chest dramatically. “that hurts, iwa-chan,” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “and besides, it’s kind of cute to see her reaction.”

iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing another ball and launching it at him without hesitation. “yeah, well, quit wasting time and give it to her already.”

oikawa dodged the second ball with a laugh, shaking his head. “fine, fine. next time, i swear.”

iwaizumi’s glare softened just a little as he watched his friend, then glanced after you, who was already walking away, clipboard pressed to your chest.

from the sidelines, hanamaki and matsukawa leaned casually against the gym wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with amused grins.

hanamaki nudged matsukawa, smirking. “so this is what it feels like to watch a romcom with a slow burn,” he said, eyes following oikawa’s playful dodges and iwaizumi’s half-exasperated throws.

matsukawa chuckled, shaking his head. “yeah, all the teasing, the back-and-forth… i swear, if they had a soundtrack right now, it’d be some dramatic love theme playing nonstop.”

hanamaki laughed softly. “and you just know they’re both secretly enjoying every second of it, even if they’d never admit it.”

matsukawa’s grin widened. “at this rate, the whole school’s waiting for them to actually drop the act and say what’s really going on.”

they shared a glance, silent agreement passing between them, like two longtime spectators watching a match far more interesting than any volleyball game on the court.

“slow burn or not,” hanamaki said with a sigh, “this is definitely one for the books.”

as dusk settled over the school, the student council room lay bathed in the soft glow of fading daylight. the usual hum of activity had long since faded, replaced by a stillness that felt almost sacred. papers were strewn across the desk, pens resting where they had been abandoned. and there, slumped over the wood, you were fast asleep—exhaustion having finally claimed you.

outside the sliding door, oikawa stood quietly, the folded form clutched carefully in his hands. the room was unusually silent, heavier than usual, and for a moment he hesitated. but then, with slow deliberate steps, he pushed the door open, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.

he found you exactly as he’d expected—head resting on your folded arms, chest rising and falling in steady, tired rhythm. something softened in his usually mischievous grin. without a word, he shrugged off his seijoh jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders. the fabric settled warmly around you, a quiet shield against the chill of the evening.

unseen by oikawa, hanamaki and matsukawa lingered just beyond the doorframe, having followed him silently. hanamaki’s eyes widened in surprise as he whispered, “did you just see that? tooru put his jacket on her.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “he’s got layers, huh? who knew?”

before they could say more, iwaizumi appeared, arms crossed and wearing his trademark disapproving glare. “cut it out, you two. give them some space,” he ordered, tugging them gently away.

back inside, oikawa carefully placed the folded form on the desk beside you. he lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the peaceful lines of your face. then, with a faint, almost shy smile, he quietly stepped out, sliding the door softly behind him.

the sound of the door clicking shut stirred you from your sleep. you blinked blearily, the room still dim but quiet once again. then, a soft warmth caught your attention—a weight across your shoulders that wasn’t there before.

you lifted your hands, fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of oikawa’s jacket wrapped gently around you. a slow smile spread over your tired face, the silent gesture lingering in your mind as you reached out to the neatly folded papers beside you.

the rivalry, the teasing, the endless back-and-forth—it all melted away in that moment, replaced by something quieter, something real.

and for once, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the hardest battles led to the sweetest victories.

midterms season finally arrived—the unavoidable trial before the school festival’s bright chaos. you barely remembered what a full night’s sleep felt like, caught between finalizing festival preparations and cramming for exams. exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, but beneath it all, a quiet confidence simmered.

this time, you told yourself, it would be different.

you were pumped, ready to finally see your name soaring above oikawa’s on the class rankings—a victory long overdue. every sleepless night, every rushed note had been worth it. today, you thought, today would be the day the score finally tipped in your favor.

well, that was what you thought.

now, here you were—standing in front of the cold, unforgiving bulletin board, eyes scanning the list you’d been waiting for. your heart sank the moment you saw it: your name, again, just below oikawa’s.

but what stung the most wasn’t that you’d lost—no, it was the margin. one point.

one. single. damn. point.

a flush of frustration and disbelief rushed through you, hot and sharp. you had pushed yourself harder than ever this time. late nights, skipped meals, endless revisions—all for this? to fall short by a fraction that felt like a cruel joke?

you clenched your fists, the bitterness bubbling beneath the surface. how did he do it again? how did he always manage to stay one step ahead, grinning like he owned the game?

the weight of the rivalry pressed down on you heavier than ever. and in that moment, the silent promise you’d made years ago—to beat him, no matter what—felt more urgent, more necessary, than ever.

fuck.

from behind you, the murmur of students drifted over—mostly girls, their voices bright with excitement and praise.

“oikawa’s number one again! no surprise there.” “he’s amazing, isn’t he?” “i heard he stayed up all night studying for this!”

their words stung sharper than you expected, a chorus of admiration that only deepened the ache of coming in second—again.

you forced yourself to breathe, to steady the storm inside. but the familiar voice cutting through the noise was unmistakable.

“hey, number two,” oikawa’s teasing drawl came from just behind you, his grin smug as ever.

and just like that, the tension that had been building snapped into something sharper, more combustible.

“don’t talk to me, oikawa,” you said sharply, your voice low but slicing through the chatter like a razor.

without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and strode away, each step heavy with the weight of frustration and bitter disappointment. behind you, oikawa stood frozen for a moment, his usual cocky smirk fading into a flicker of confusion.

hanamaki appeared beside him, arms crossed and wearing an amused yet knowing grin. “i guess the prez finally broke down, huh?” he said quietly, nudging oikawa with an elbow.

oikawa ran a hand through his tousled hair, his grin slowly returning but tinged with something softer, almost reluctant.

“yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “maybe this time, it’s not just a game to her.”

just then, iwaizumi and matsukawa joined the group, having caught up after following the scene. iwaizumi’s usual stern gaze softened as he looked at his two friends.

“you’ve been pushing her for years, tooru,” iwaizumi said, arms crossed, voice steady. “maybe now she’s finally pushing back.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile on his lips. “she’s tougher than she looks. and she’s not someone you just toy with.”

oikawa’s eyes flickered back toward the direction you’d gone, narrowing thoughtfully. “for me, it’s never been just a game. it’s how i make sure she always notices me.”

hanamaki shook his head with a chuckle. “you’ve been poking the bear for so long, tooru. you might finally find out what happens when she fights back.”

iwaizumi added, “you might want to be ready for that. she’s not the same girl you knew in middle school.”

there was a pause before hanamaki nudged oikawa again, a teasing grin on his face. “because you should’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

oikawa’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure, a mixture of admiration, respect, and something almost like awe settling into his eyes. “i don’t know if i’m ready for that,” he confessed quietly.

but even as he said it, the weight of the rivalry hung heavy in the air—an unspoken truth between them all. a fragile line between competition, irritation… and something far more complicated.

instead of heading to practice like he usually did, oikawa found himself walking toward the student council room, a strange pull guiding his steps. the hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. when he pushed open the door, you weren’t there.

he frowned, then glanced at the small window near the ceiling. without hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the rooftop—because he knew you.

he knew that when the weight of everything got too much, this was where you’d retreat. where you could breathe, away from deadlines, expectations, and the constant pressure to be perfect.

when he reached the rooftop, he found you sitting alone, legs drawn up to your chest, eyes staring off into the distance like you were somewhere far away.

for a moment, oikawa just watched, the usual confident grin replaced by something softer—almost protective. he wasn’t sure if you wanted company, but he wasn’t about to leave you here alone. not today.

“leave me alone, oikawa,” you said without looking up, but you knew it was him.

he froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—because you usually called him tooru, not by his last name.

the shift in tone, the distance in your voice—it hit him harder than he expected. for once, he wasn’t sure how to break through the wall you’d put up.

“are you—”

he barely got the words out before you cut him off, sharper this time.

“i said leave me alone, tooru.”

you finally looked up at him then, eyes tired, voice strained—not angry, but worn down, like something in you had finally snapped under the pressure.

and oikawa—he wasn’t used to that tone from you. not the teasing, not the competitive spark. just… exhaustion. disappointment.

for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words died in his throat.

you stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open—because he was just standing there, still looking at you like you were supposed to be fine. like you could keep doing this. like you hadn’t been breaking little by little.

“you know what’s worse than losing to you?” you said, voice trembling at the edges. “it’s how easy you make it look. like you don’t even try. like you don’t lose sleep. like you’re not terrified of not being enough.”

oikawa blinked, stunned silent.

you looked away, laughing bitterly. “you walk around like everything falls into place for you. and maybe it does, maybe it always will—but i have to fight for every little thing. i have to be perfect or it's not enough. i have to keep up or i’m a disappointment.”

your hands curled tightly into fists.

“so yeah. maybe i get annoyed when you call me number two. maybe i’m tired of always coming in second to you. maybe i’m just—” you swallowed hard, voice dropping, “—tired. of being not enough.”

you didn’t mention the way your parents' voices echoed in your head when you saw the results. you didn’t say how silence at home cut deeper than any scolding. you didn’t say how that one point wasn’t just a number—it was everything they’d use to remind you you weren’t quite there yet.

you just sat there, all of it pressing down on your shoulders like stone, unable to look at him anymore. afraid that if you did, the whole damn dam would burst.

“so tooru,” you muttered, each word sharper than the last, “if you’re just going to stand there to make fun of me…”

your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, jaw clenched as you finished, “just leave me alone.”

you didn’t even have the strength to look at him as the words left your mouth.

oikawa stood there, frozen. every instinct in him screamed to pull you into a hug, to tell you he wasn’t here to tease you, that he never meant to push you this far.

but he knew better.

this wasn’t the moment for that—not when you were breaking, not when the weight you carried wasn’t his to fix.

so, for once, oikawa tooru said nothing.

he stepped back.

and left.

the days leading up to the festival were unusually quiet. for once, no one barged into the council room with a smug grin and half-finished forms. no teasing voice echoing down the halls, no smug remarks about “miss number two.”

just silence.

just… peace.

and it was unbearable.

at first, it was a relief—you had time to breathe, to focus, to finalize the logistics of the festival without anyone pestering you. but the silence kept stretching. and it started to feel less like peace and more like absence.

you hadn’t seen oikawa since that day on the rooftop. no smirks, no casual visits, no fake apologies to buy himself more time on deadlines. he wasn’t even showing up to drop off paperwork anymore. it was always iwaizumi now. and while you appreciated iwaizumi’s quiet efficiency, the lack of chaos—the lack of him—gnawed at you.

and maybe, just maybe, you regretted it.

not the part where you said what you felt. but the part where you pushed him away like it was all his fault. because deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

you were tired. you were under pressure. and he’d just happened to be standing too close when everything finally boiled over.

so now the silence didn’t feel like peace anymore. it felt like distance. and maybe, just maybe… that hurt more.

on the other hand, oikawa wasn’t doing much better.

he tried—god, he really did. he showed up to practice on time, yelled at his team to run blocking drills again and again, even flashed his usual smile at underclassmen when they passed by the gym. but it was hollow, all of it. like watching a performance after the actor forgot his lines.

he hadn’t seen you since the rooftop and he hated how much he noticed.

every time he walked past the student council room, his eyes would flicker to the door, just in case. every time someone mentioned the festival, he half-expected your voice to cut in and scold him about paperwork, about deadlines, about how he was being irresponsible again.

but it never came and the silence started to echo.

his teammates were the first to catch on.

“you’ve been setting like a demon,” matsukawa groaned after taking a ball straight to the chest. “and not in a cool, cinematic way. in a ‘tooru’s got trauma’ kind of way.”

“did you two fight?” hanamaki asked, handing him a water bottle like he was ready to stage an intervention. “or did she finally punch you in the ego like we always hoped?”

oikawa didn’t answer. he just took the water bottle and drained half of it in one go, muttering something about increasing practice intensity.

but they weren’t wrong.

he was more irritable, more tightly wound. the usual charm that masked his stress was cracking around the edges.

iwaizumi, always the most observant, cornered him after practice. they sat on the bench outside the gym, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon.

“you want to see her, don’t you?”

oikawa didn’t look up. he just ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “of course i do. but…” he exhaled slowly, voice quieter, “she told me to leave her alone. and she meant it. i know she did.”

iwaizumi studied him for a moment before replying. “you’re not as good at backing off as you think.”

“yeah, well,” oikawa muttered, giving a weak smile, “turns out i’m even worse at staying away.”

silence settled between them for a few moments.

“you think i’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“always have,” iwaizumi said dryly. “but this time, it’s not because you’re stupid. it’s because you think not showing up is what she needs, when what she probably needed was for you to just be real with her.”

oikawa looked over, eyes flickering with something sharp.

“you think i don’t want to be real with her?” he said, frustrated. “you think i haven’t wanted to tell her everything since—” he cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. “but i never know how. with her, it’s always been this game. this rivalry. it’s the only way i knew how to stay close.”

matsukawa, who had wandered over quietly behind them, chimed in, “you could’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

hanamaki followed soon after, tossing a towel at his captain. “maybe if you stopped flirting with sarcasm and actually said something genuine for once, you wouldn’t look like a kicked puppy every time someone says her name.”

“shut up,” oikawa grumbled, but the towel stayed draped on his lap, unmoved.

he leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky as it deepened from orange to dusky purple.

“i screwed it up, didn’t i?” he said softly.

iwaizumi didn’t say no. instead, he stood up, clapped a hand on oikawa’s shoulder, and said, “not yet. but if you keep doing nothing, you will.”

and with that, the rest of the team walked back into the gym, leaving oikawa alone with his thoughts, a half-empty water bottle, and the hollow ache of wanting someone who asked him to leave.

two days before the festival, the student council room buzzed with low conversation and rustling papers. you were buried in a stack of checklists when the door slid open with a quiet thunk.

“knock knock,” iwaizumi said, holding a folder in one hand and a slightly apologetic look in the other.

you looked up, immediately straightening in your seat. “hey, hajime.”

“here’s the paperwork for the volleyball booth,” he said, placing it gently on your desk. “updated layout, activity proposal, and the final sign-ups. all signed and stamped.”

you blinked. “he actually finished it?”

iwaizumi nodded, then hesitated. “yeah. he did. few days ago, actually. i’ve just been delivering it.”

your hand paused mid-reach over the papers, fingers hovering. “…oh.”

for a few seconds, the room was too quiet.

then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you asked—softly, almost too casually,

“how’s… oikawa doing?”

iwaizumi looked at you for a moment, unreadable. not judging, not surprised. just watching.

“same as usual on the outside,” he said finally. “but quieter. doesn’t talk as much unless it’s volleyball. hasn’t been teasing the first years. or us. which is how we know something’s off.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a line.

“he hasn’t come by.”

“he’s giving you space,” iwaizumi said. then, after a beat: “and it’s killing him.”

your eyes dropped back to the folder. the clean signatures. the neat organization. it wasn’t like oikawa to be so tidy. it wasn’t like him to be distant, either.

and even though some part of you still felt the sting from midterms, another part—a bigger part—missed the way he filled the room with noise.

you cleared your throat. “thanks for the update.”

iwaizumi nodded, already heading for the door.

but just before he left, he paused, looked back, and said, “if you’re still mad, that’s fine. but if you’re not… maybe let him know.”

you looked down at the folder on your desk, running your fingers along its edges, thoughts swirling like an untamed storm. hajime was halfway to the door when you called out quietly—almost too quietly.

"iwa."

he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

you swallowed, eyes still fixed on the paper. "i'm not… really mad at him."

the words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting on your chest for days.

"i was frustrated. overwhelmed. with everything. the festival, midterms, and…" you exhaled, shutting your eyes for a moment. "it wasn’t about him. not really. i just… took it out on him. and i hate that i did."

iwaizumi stepped back into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. he didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you with that quiet, grounded calm he always carried.

"he knows," he said simply.

your eyes flicked up to meet his. "what?"

"tooru. he knows it wasn’t really about him," iwaizumi said, walking closer. "he gets it. probably more than he lets on. you think he doesn't notice when someone’s under pressure? he does. especially when it’s you."

you let out a shaky breath, blinking faster now. “he must think i hate him.”

iwaizumi’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “he’d let you kick him in the shin and still ask if you wanted his last milk bread. you think he’s scared of you being angry?”

“…i did kick him once,” you muttered.

“he still brings it up,” iwaizumi said dryly, a trace of amusement in his voice. “point is, he’s not mad either. he’s just waiting. giving you time. because, you know…” he paused, shrugging a little. “he cares.”

you sat back in your chair, heart squeezing at that.

you weren’t ready to face tooru yet—not completely. but knowing he understood, knowing he was waiting…

it softened something in you.

"thanks, hajime."

iwaizumi nodded, then turned for the door again.

this time, before stepping out, he added without looking back, “just don’t take too long. he’s unbearable when he’s love-sick.”

you blinked. “love-sick? impossible. this is oikawa tooru we’re talking about.”

iwaizumi let out a soft snort. “yeah, well. apparently it’s a condition reserved exclusively for you.”

your breath caught just a little at that. but iwaizumi didn’t linger—he slid the door open and stepped out, leaving you with a folder full of finalized volleyball booth forms, a heart that beat a little too loud in your chest, and the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

when the next day arrived, it was your job to make sure everything was in place—from the booths to the decorations, from the schedules to the last-minute details. the entire school buzzed with energy, but you moved through the halls with a sharp, watchful eye, checking and double-checking every corner of aoba johsai.

you stopped in front of the classroom assigned to the volleyball club. their booth was set up like a cozy cafe, the sweet scent of cakes and fresh breads wafting through the door. colorful signs and neatly arranged pastries made it look inviting—and, knowing oikawa, probably perfectly planned to attract as many visitors as possible.

“iwa, i’ll be ba—” oikawa’s voice stopped abruptly as the door swung open and he caught sight of you standing there.

his usual confident grin flickered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something unreadable.

you met his eyes without hesitation, your clipboard lowered by your side as the buzz of the festival preparations faded into the background—just for a moment.

“hi prez, iwa’s inside if you want to check the booth,” oikawa called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

before you could say anything, he was practically sprinting down the hall, leaving a faint trail of his usual confident energy behind him—but this time, tinged with something like nervous excitement.

from the side, you caught the familiar voices of his teammates chuckling.

“he’s hopeless,” hanamaki muttered, shaking his head.

“always running away when it counts,” matsukawa added with a grin.

iwaizumi just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s tooru for you.”

you stepped into the classroom, taking in the cozy setup. the tables were neatly arranged with trays of cakes and breads, decorated with colorful signs and cute little details that only oikawa could come up with. the volleyball club members were bustling quietly, making final adjustments and sharing quick smiles.

everything was in place—ready for the festival.

you let out a small breath of relief. it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough for now.

as you scanned the menu, your eyes caught a particular cake that hadn’t been on the original list they’d given you.

“hey, haji,” you called softly, “did you add a new cake to the menu?”

iwaizumi glanced over your shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “oh, the strawberry cheesecake? that was tooru’s last-minute addition. said he knew you liked it.”

you couldn’t suppress a small smile, a mix of annoyance, flattery, and something softer swirling inside you.

“everything looks good. i’ll swing by again tomorrow to check on things. good luck,” you said, patting iwaizumi’s shoulder before turning to leave.

unbeknownst to you, oikawa had been quietly lurking in the back, slipping in through the other door just in time to catch your entire conversation. his eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something more vulnerable.

just then, hanamaki and matsukawa appeared around the corner, grinning as they noticed oikawa caught off guard.

“look at captain,” hanamaki teased, nudging matsukawa. “caught red-handed.”

matsukawa laughed softly. “he’s hopeless, but you gotta admit, it’s kind of sweet.”

iwaizumi shook his head, a smirk on his face. “yeah, and now he’s stuck with us watching his every move.”

oikawa shot them all a playful glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. beneath the teasing, there was an unspoken hope—that maybe, just maybe, she noticed the little things after all.

the day of the festival came with bright skies, loud chatter, and students from different schools pouring in through the gates. the energy was high, the booths alive with color and movement. everything was in place and no major disasters were happening—no missing materials, no last-minute emergencies, no clubs on the brink of combustion. for once, things were smooth.

you could actually breathe.

you allowed yourself to think—just for today—this might actually be a success.

as promised, you made your way to the volleyball team’s booth. it was buzzing with activity, a line stretching outside the classroom door. inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hung in the air, warm and inviting. students sat at desks turned café tables, enjoying cakes, drinks, and breads with cute handwritten menus propped up in front of them.

when it was finally your turn, you scanned the menu only to frown slightly.

“strawberry cheesecake’s sold out already?” you asked.

hanamaki, who was manning the small counter for now, gave you a cheeky grin. “sold out in the first hour. some girl bought two whole slices just because tooru made it.”

you rolled your eyes. of course.

“fine. i’ll just get the milk bread,” you muttered, fishing out your ticket stub to pay.

before hanamaki could ring it up, oikawa appeared from behind the divider with a tray. “make that one milk bread,” he said, carefully placing the warm pastry down, “and one iced choco.”

you blinked. “i didn’t order a drink.”

“but you like it with milk bread,” oikawa said with a soft grin. “iced choco, three cubes of ice, no whip, no syrup—just the way you like it.”

your lips parted slightly in surprise, caught off guard by the memory he held onto so casually. before you could speak, he added, “on the house. it’s festival day, after all.”

from the side, matsukawa leaned toward hanamaki and whispered, loud enough for you both to hear, “and the captain strikes again with his signature move—attention to detail.”

hanamaki fake-gasped. “devastating. truly swoon-worthy.”

oikawa shot them both a glare, but his gaze flicked back to you, a little more unsure now. “i mean, only if… you want it.”

you stared at the tray for a moment. then, with a soft sigh, you took it from his hands.

“thanks… tooru.”

and just like that, his smile returned—easy, bright, and just a little shy around the edges.

when the night had long fallen over aoba johsai, the warmth of the festival fading into the cool hush of a late autumn breeze. students gathered around the bonfire in the courtyard below, laughing, dancing, soaking in the final moments of what would be their last school festival. you should’ve been down there too, smiling with them, celebrating a job well done.

but instead, you were on the rooftop—your usual place of quiet, a little peace above the noise. it had been your biggest undertaking as student council president, and now that it was done, the adrenaline had left you all at once. the silence wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. you let it.

the door creaked open behind you.

you didn’t even need to look.

“oh. you’re here,” oikawa’s voice broke the stillness, a little softer than usual.

you turned slightly, surprised to see him holding a white pastry box, tied with a neat ribbon—turquoise, like your school color.

“i come bearing gifts,” he said with an awkward little smile. “not to bribe you. well… maybe a little.”

he handed it over. curious, you undid the ribbon and opened the lid.

a whole strawberry cheesecake. not a slice. not a portion. a full, homemade cake.

“you made this?” you blinked, brows raised.

“kind of.” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away for a second. “i had help. but most of it’s me. i remembered you liked it, so…”

you stared at the cake, then back at him. your lips tugged into a small, exasperated smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

he gave a tiny, nervous laugh, stepping beside you to look out over the bonfire-lit courtyard. for a moment, you both just stood there, watching the flicker of the crowd below. no teasing. no snark.

then he spoke again—quieter this time. “i wanted to tell you something.”

you turned your head slightly, his profile silhouetted by the soft lights coming from below.

“this might sound… stupid, and honestly, i probably should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered. “but i like you.”

you froze.

his voice didn’t waver—but it was gentler than you'd ever heard it.

“i’ve liked you for a while now. probably since you started beating me in rankings,” he added, with a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “you’re smart. and annoying. and really, really good at making me want to try harder.”

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. the words landed somewhere deep in your chest.

“i’m not asking for anything. i know you’ve got a lot going on,” he said quickly. “but i just… i didn’t want to end high school without telling you. no pressure. take your time, or don’t say anything. i’ll be okay.”

you looked at him, really looked at him—his stupidly pretty eyes, the nervous line of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the railing like it was keeping him steady.

and for the first time in weeks, your heart wasn’t tangled in frustration.

it was warm. uncertain, but warm.

“okay,” you whispered.

you didn’t need to say anything else.

he smiled, and it was softer than any expression you’d ever seen on him.

maybe it wasn’t the beginning of something.

but maybe, just maybe, it could be.

oikawa’s confession stuck with you for weeks.

he didn’t bring it up again—not once. he didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t even hint. he went back to being his usual self: annoying, dramatic, always flashing you that ridiculous grin whenever you passed by. and yet… somehow it felt different now. like there was a second meaning hidden under his usual antics. a quiet kind of hope he carried behind every smirk and every stolen glance.

but his presence started to thin.

with the spring qualifiers looming closer, the third-years of the volleyball team were drowning in practice. late nights, early mornings, extra laps, countless drills. it felt like the whole team moved like a single heartbeat—driven and relentless. tooru, especially, seemed to be running on nothing but sheer will and obsession. and just like that, he became harder and harder to catch.

then the match against karasuno happened.

the result hit like a brick to the chest. aoba johsai lost. after everything—they lost. and with that, their journey as third-years was over.

you didn’t go to the game.

you wanted to, but duties piled up and the nerves clawed too sharp in your stomach. but when the final score came in, when you saw the hushed disappointment written across the school’s group chat, the ache bloomed deep in your chest. not because they lost—because you knew how hard they worked. especially him.

so you went to the gym that evening, hours after the game had ended.

it was dimly lit, with only a few lights turned on above the court. you stepped inside quietly, heart hammering in your chest.

the third-years were still there.

iwaizumi sat on the bench, towel around his neck, staring blankly ahead. matsukawa was on the floor, lying on his back with an arm covering his face. hanamaki was tossing a volleyball up and down without really looking at it. sawauchi and yuda were leaning against the wall in silence. shido sat by the door, legs stretched out and eyes shut like he was trying to block the world out.

and oikawa was in the center of the court, kneeling beside a ball, head bowed. still.

none of them noticed you right away.

not until your footsteps echoed.

iwaizumi looked up first. "hey," he said, voice hoarse.

"thought i’d check in," you said gently, eyes sweeping over them. "i figured you’d all still be here."

matsukawa let out a dry chuckle. “we don’t know what else to do.”

hanamaki offered you a half-hearted smile. “hey prez. sorry you had to see us like this.”

you shook your head, walking slowly across the court. “no. you don’t have to apologize. you all did your best.”

oikawa hadn’t moved.

your eyes landed on him, and something in your chest twisted.

“tooru,” you said softly.

his head lifted slightly at your voice, eyes dull with exhaustion and something heavier. pain, maybe. disappointment. loss.

you knelt in front of him, lowering yourself to his level.

“you played great,” you murmured. “all of you did.”

he shook his head, voice barely audible. “it wasn’t enough.”

you reached out and gently placed your hand over his, squeezing. “it mattered. to all of us. to me.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment the weight in his eyes cracked just a little.

“you came,” he whispered.

“of course i did.”

from the bench, hanamaki cleared his throat. “i swear to god if you cry, i’m leaving.”

“shut up,” oikawa muttered, his voice cracking anyway.

matsukawa smirked. “don’t act tough, we’ve all cried already.”

iwaizumi stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “c’mon. let’s go get something to eat. my treat. we’re not dying here in this gym.”

as the others got up slowly, gathering their bags and their broken spirits, oikawa remained where he was for a second longer.

as the gym slowly emptied, one by one, the third-years dragged their bags over tired shoulders and shuffled toward the exit. the sharp echo of footsteps and the soft scrape of shoes against polished floorboards filled the space before fading into the distant hum of the overhead lights.

iwaizumi gave you a subtle nod as he passed, the kind that said take care of him, a quiet trust passed between you without words.

hanamaki and matsukawa lingered by the door for a moment, exchanging glances full of knowing amusement and concern. hanamaki smirked and whispered something to matsukawa, who snorted softly. you caught the words—rom-com timing—and it made you smile despite the heaviness hanging in the air.

sawauchi, shido, and yuda trailed after them, their footsteps gentle and respectful, fading down the hallway until it was just you and oikawa left in the cavernous gym.

he hadn’t moved from the center of the court. the dim lighting cast long shadows over his hunched frame, kneeling on the hardwood with one hand curled lightly around a scuffed volleyball as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

his back was tense, shoulders tight as if carrying the weight of disappointment itself. his gaze was fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin, strained line that barely contained everything he wasn’t saying.

you crouched beside him again, this time closer—close enough to feel the slight tremor in his breath, the faint pulse of his wrist beneath your fingertips.

“tooru,” you said softly, barely louder than the quiet hum of the empty gym.

he didn’t look up. didn’t even flinch.

“i know this isn’t what you wanted,” you whispered, voice steady but tender. “and i know how much you gave—how much you always give.”

his fingers twitched. slow and uncertain, you reached out, letting your hand cover his. the warmth of your skin was a small lifeline in the vast silence.

“you don’t have to smile right now. you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt—not with me.”

his breath hitched slightly. “it’s just—i tried so hard. i really tried.”

you squeezed his hand, slow and reassuring. “i know.”

his voice cracked like a fragile thread. “i wanted to make it. for us. for iwa-chan. for the team. for—”

“for you,” you finished gently, your voice catching with the weight of the moment. “and you did. you made something incredible.”

finally, his eyes met yours.

they were rimmed red, eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from him before. his face was a map of heartache and stubborn pride, and your chest tightened as empathy and something deeper welled up inside you.

“i lost.”

“you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in just a little, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “you gave everything. that’s not losing, tooru.”

his breath hitched again, eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of truth to hold onto. and for once, he didn’t have a witty comeback or a sharp retort—just silence.

and so you closed the distance.

your lips pressed to his—soft, tentative, trembling slightly with all the words you hadn’t spoken, all the feelings you’d kept locked away. for a heartbeat, he froze, caught off guard by the gentle weight of your kiss.

then he melted into it, his hand lifting to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into the strands of your hair like he never wanted to let go.

the gym around you faded—no cheers, no confetti, no grand finale. just the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts finding each other in the dark.

when you pulled away, his eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the moment again.

you smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“no pressure, right?”

a soft, raw laugh escaped him. “right.”

“good,” you murmured. “but next time, let me cheer for you before the game.”

“deal,” he breathed, voice thick with something like hope.

and this time, he leaned in first.

bonus scene.

hidden just outside the gym door, hanamaki, matsukawa, and iwaizumi leaned casually against the wall, trying to keep their expressions neutral—but the amusement and relief were obvious in their eyes.

hanamaki was the first to break the silence, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “finally. about time those two stopped dancing around each other like it’s some kind of complicated volleyball drill.”

matsukawa chuckled, nudging iwaizumi with a grin. “guess that means we can officially retire from matchmaking duty, huh?”

iwaizumi gave a tired but genuine smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, i can finally live in peace… at least until the next disaster.”

hanamaki smirked knowingly. “don’t get too comfortable, hajime. now that they’re official, you’re basically their go-to therapist for all the drama.”

matsukawa laughed, crossing his arms. “and oikawa? he’s probably gonna come back swinging with ten times the teasing. no way he’s letting this slide quietly.”

iwaizumi sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “i’m doomed.”

they shared a look, the quiet camaraderie between them filling the space. then, breaking through the muffled sounds from inside the gym, came your sharp, amused voice.

“hey! i can hear you, you know!”

hanamaki’s grin faltered for a moment. “oh, busted.”

matsukawa laughed openly. “guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”

iwaizumi threw his hands up, chuckling. “and here i thought i was done with the chaos.”

the three exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling between them as the gym’s silence returned. footsteps echoed softly inside, and through it all hung the unmistakable warmth of something finally falling into place—something worth waiting for.

[frostgears]

gardening

you did something stupid and now you're here in your itchy twice-a-year dress uniform in this bright busy room in the regimental HQ trying to figure out if you're going to be yelled at, shot, or promoted. the room's full of folding chairs. apparently not enough furniture in here normally to contain all the suits and all the brass.

your "ops coordinator" ("we don't say 'handler', grunt, it gives the civilians weird ideas") got pulled off for a side conversation two minutes after you got here and you haven't seen her since. you're looking anywhere for a familiar face. you're coming up empty. at least the woman next to you looks equally stressed. she must be civvie, some consultant or other; soft face, masses of curly hair. she's wearing a blazer and slacks with big round dataframes.

"hey," you elbow her. "what are you in for?"

"gods above and below." she sighs. "everything. but today mostly Neryx-9."

"the ag research station. you were there?"

"hardly," she says. "just came up on my huge list of problems."

"creepy shit. i was front and center for it…"

she cocks her head to listen. you explain.

Neryx-9 had been a cluster of greenhouses on the surface. supposed to be vacant, powered down — actually they'd said "mothballed", then looked at you like you were stupid when you asked what a moth was and what they did with their balls. but not vacant. far from it. you went in with a miniframe. first thing you found was the bodies of the grid authority techs that had called it in. purple mold already growing over them.

"it was wrong," you tell her. "not like that white stuff you get when an open nutripak sits in the fridge too long. i mean, i don't know if that would have been better. i just, i don't know, i didn't want to get any of that stuff on me. frame or no. maybe there was some already on me, but didn't want to get it on anyone else. so i backed out, sat in the airlock, thought about calling for extraction. thought better. backed to the wall, cycled my flight jets until it was starting to get warm even inside the frame, thought maybe i'd cook it off me. my ha– ops coordinator asked me what the fuck i was doing. snapped me out of it, i told her, i need fire. incendiaries."

they'd found them, somewhere. support rigged another airlock outside of the main airlock after you'd yelled at them to keep that shit inside. a miniframe-scale plasma cutter for outside construction work, and some purpose-built low-velocity liquid pyrophoric agent rockets.

the woman in the blazer made a face. "we just have those sitting around?"

"starship boarding actions. when we don't want to breach the hull but we do want to use all the oxygen. splashes around, gets everywhere, but nowhere near hot enough to melt anything structural. only used 'em in sims, of course, not like we get a lot of star traffic. horrorshow shit. or i thought it was, before this."

the outside airlock door opened and you'd taken up what they'd brought you.

you stepped over the bodies of the grid techs into hell. purple and orange jungle everywhere. insane external humidity and particle count. dome after hallway after dome of the shit, growing over the grow lights, growing up the walls, into the vents. you could feel it through your frame, through your suit. it was hungry. it wanted in.

"ma'am, compared to that feeling, that pressure, the first giant critter trying to eat my frame was a relief."

six thick legs, triangular jaws, scales and plates all over, massive paddle tail. it had reared out of a pond and tried to drag you back in with it. it wasn't as heavy as you, maybe, but it was mad as hell and a fast mover, and fuck, what right had anything like that to exist in an abandoned greenhouse? you knew you didn't want to be in that filthy water. who knew how deep it was? it'd clog your exhaust, choke your radiators. you twisted around as best you could in its grip, armed your wrist weapon, and blasted a thousand flechettes directly into its face.

"and that stopped it?"

"well, wasn't much left to be stopped, but yeah. and that's when i found it that it had friends and they could smell blood in the water."

she wrinkled her nose in a way that was either a dataframe input gesture or genuine surprise.

"why not just depressurize the domes, at this point?"

"thought about it. i had breaching charges. but… like i said, this stuff felt like it shouldn't get out. there's not much out there, yeah, but i just couldn't. and i had the cutter, and the rockets. so i decided to make it too hot on the shore for them to get me so easy."

you'd turned the artificial jungle into curtains of flame. the big creatures dove back into the water, giving you a narrow path to keep going. in the burning canopy, smaller things flared and dropped; you hadn't seen them moving until they died.

your handler had been screaming at you to get clear, get back to the airlock, but the flames made that a losing proposition. so you kept going in. Neryx-9 was roughly linear. there was another lock on the far side.

"past the labs, it turned out. and maybe some of those corpses in there had been growing these things, but it looked like the shit got away from them and was growing on them. there were these ribbons of orange moss, growing everywhere, out of containers, branching into foam and fabric and dead flesh — i tried to pull it off someone, before i realized they were all dead, and their skin came off in sheets, brown-black and full of tiny holes. charred, but not. think it was acid."

"something like a lichen."

"yeah, maybe? i learned about those in school. you can see 'em out the windows in a lot of places. they grow on rock, right?"

"they do," she says. "useful. so what did you do then?"

"i set the cutter to max spread and i torched a path through to the far airlock. and i don't mind saying, when i noticed the cutter battery and gas cylinder were doing okay, i started spreading it around a lot more. i just. i had to burn it."

"happens that was the right move," she said. "good instinct."

"please tell me someone did something about that shit."

"well," she smiled, "there's you. you know, you're refreshingly simple. like a cat that somehow had the sense to eat an invasive lizard. and since you didn't drag the bits all over, i tasked a solarsat to finish the job. can't beat a pass with an X-ray cloudpiercer beam for that kind of cleanup."

she wrinkles her nose again, and the general murmuring of a dozen conversations in the room changes as people look to the main wall display, which now shows a collection of greenhouse domes sagging as if collapsed by an invisible weight. the rock under them begins to glow.

"what's a cat?" you blurt out, before the words "i tasked a solarsat" have a chance to sink in. like, her, personally?

"an animal. a dumb little predator that associates with humans. from Terra, way before the Catastrophe. we're not ready for them just yet, but maybe someday."

a door opens to your side, and you both turn to see your handler, looking about at the end of her rope, and next to her, her boss, the major, who reports directly to the colonel.

"shit, there you are. look. you're gonna have to answer some questions. and it's not guaranteed you're going down for this, not yet, so just be honest, but for fuck's sake be brief, don't try to understand or interpret—"

both of their faces blanch. like, almost completely bloodless. eyes wide.

the curly-haired woman in the blazer smiles widely. "don't worry," she tells them, "she already did. she's been very helpful. in fact, i think i might like to keep her." she puts a hand on your knee.

"i'm not sure i understand, ma'am?"

"pilot," the major says, "is there a reason you've been occupying the time of the Director of Planetary Ecology? the woman who keeps this entire planet breathing oxygen and eating something other than rocks?"

and now your face must be bloodless too. the DPE? even you know that position. but you can't remember ever seeing a photo.

"oh, she was just telling me how she improvised containment protocols to prevent someone's experiment with Araukan imports from getting out of hand. clever girl. or lucky, at least."

you risk a glance to your side. she's still smiling. the woman who can steer any bioscience research on this planet, cut off power and water and air to anything she deems anathema to the coming ecosystem, commandeer keystone orbital infrastructure and burn habitats like you burned trees.

"i don't think we can possibly say no, Director," your handler says, carefully.

"no," the Director agrees. "you can't." □

[piastriprincess]

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. 

[catgirlredux]

imagine you’re a newly recruited pilot standing for inspection, your handler walks along the line of your fellows, peering into their ears, their mouths, feeling their arms and chests with all the strictness of a surgeon, but when she comes to you she stops and stares right into your eyes, you look away, but she runs a finger down the side of your face and gently pushes her nail against your neck, forcing you to match her gaze, and she tells you that she knows how lost you are, you want to live but you don’t know how, you don’t know why you’re here, or why you’ve ever existed, and now you have tears in your eyes and you can’t hold them back, you break down weeping and sob into her shoulder, but instead of pushing you away she holds you closer and tells you that you will never know that life again, that you only need to be one simple thing for her, and that will be enough, because you only need to be her weapon, you only need to kill for her, relentlessly, mercilessly, without question, and you know you can do it, you can kill, you can hunt, anything to finally know your place in the world, and she gives you a soft smile and cups her hand around the back of your neck and says that you’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re perfect

[hamilton-here]

Oooh what about journalist!reader and engineer!reader? Love your stories admin 💖💖💖

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒

Authors Note: Hey Guys! Here's another request. I do have a engineer story coming at some point so stay tuned. Thank for the kindest. Hope you enjoy. Praying for Ferrari! Lots of love xx

Summary: A journalist and Lewis Hamilton fall in love, secretly at firstuntil he kisses her on live TV after winning for Ferrari.

Warnings: slight swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The press room was chaos the kind that made rookies sweat, and veterans roll their eyes and tighten their grips on half-dead voice recorders.

A hundred voices tangled in the air, bouncing off scaffolding and the aluminium frames of hastily assembled walls. Phones were thrust upward like weapons. Hands flailed. Someone knocked over a folding chair, but no one even blinked. Reporters barked names like auctioneers each hoping to snag a moment, a word, anything they could spin into a headline before it hit the paddock group chats.

You sat in the back row, unbothered, untouched by the noise.

Your espresso had long gone cold. It didn’t matter you weren’t drinking it for warmth. It was habit. Anchor. Ritual. You tapped your pen against your notepad slowly, rhythmically, as the chaos unfolded around you like a badly scripted reality show.

Same circus. Different weekend.

Drivers would file in, sweat barely dried, trying to sound fresh and focused while their PR reps hovered with schedules printed to the second. Half of them would repeat the same three soundbites. A few would try too hard. And Lewis Hamilton?

Well. Lewis never needed to try at all.

You didn’t look up when the energy in the room shifted but you felt it. It was unmistakable.

The hum of cameras grew louder. Voices pitched higher. The tension in the air pulled taut like wire. And then—

He entered.

Not like most drivers did. There was no nervous twitching or sideways glances at their handlers. No stiff posture or rushed smiles. Lewis walked in like the building belonged to him. Like time slowed to match his stride.

Sunglasses on. Ferrari-red fire suit immaculate. The fabric caught the overhead lights and shimmered just slightly tailored within an inch of its life, clinging in all the right places. He didn’t smile. Not yet. His expression was neutral, bordering on bored.

Until his eyes found you.

It was almost comical, the transformation. His face lit up. One corner of his mouth curled first, followed by the other, forming a grin so familiar you’d practically developed an allergy to it. Bright. Charming. Annoyingly irresistible.

“Ah,” he said loudly, drawing the attention of half the bullpen, “my favourite journalist.”

You didn’t bother looking up. “I’m every driver’s favourite until I ask the second question.”

He laughed. A rich, velvety sound. Smooth enough to bottle and sell.

And then, like gravity forgot everyone else in the room, he walked closer towards you dodging a flurry of outstretched microphones, waving off a desperate PR rep mouthing, Lewis, the schedule-

He didn’t care.

He reached the partition in front of you and leaned on it, casual, but intentional. Close. Too close. The scent of him hit first clean, woodsy, expensive. Whatever cologne it was, it made your brain skip.

“You missed me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You clicked your pen once. Twice. “No,” you said, still scribbling in your notebook. “I missed the coffee in the McLaren motorhome. Stronger. Less sweet.”

He clutched at his chest with mock offence. “Wow. Brutal.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You always are. That’s why I like you.”

You finally glanced up, slowly, eyebrow raised. “Tell that to the quote you tried to retract last time.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said with a grin. “That was past me. He was reckless.”

“You were twenty minutes younger.”

“Time is a construct.”

Your sigh was theatrical. “So is your humility.”

He laughed again, then leaned in, voice lowering just enough to make you aware of the proximity. “Admit it,” he said. “Your whole weekend’s just a little duller without me in it.”

You met his gaze, deadpan. “Are you under the impression you’re interesting?”

“I’m not just interesting,” he said, flashing teeth. “I’m fascinating.”

You let your pen pause on the page. “Fascinating like a car crash, maybe.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, reaching for your cold espresso. “Most crashes are the highlight of the broadcast.”

He gave a full belly laugh then head thrown back, hand braced on the divider like he might fall over if he didn’t. Cameras clicked wildly, phones recorded every second. You already knew TikTok would have this cut, captioned, and shipped to hundreds of “Hamilton x Hardball” fan accounts before the day was over.

You shifted your notebook just slightly, cool as ever.

“Ready for your actual interview,” you said. “Or are we still in your delusional version of reality?”

He tilted his head. “What if I prefer the delusional version?”

“Then you should talk to Red Bull’s strategy team. They live there.”

The laugh that escaped him was softer this time. Less performance. More real. His smile lingered, just a fraction too long.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a bit closer. “You’re really not going to let me win, are you?”

You stared at him like you were bored. Like your pulse wasn’t going haywire. “Nope. But I’ll let you talk. For now.”

“Lucky me.”

You straightened, lifted your voice just enough for the recorders to catch. “Let’s start with something simple. Q2. Sector 3. You locked up at Turn 11. Radio said something about grip issues. Are we blaming the car or the man today?”

The room went still. Everyone was listening.

His expression flickered just briefly. Then the smirk returned.

“Straight to the throat,” he murmured. “God, I’ve missed this.”

You didn’t blink. “You’ll miss the podium tomorrow if Ferrari doesn’t sort that balance.”

He licked his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was deciding whether to flirt or focus. “Bit of both. Car wasn’t behaving like I wanted. And yeah, maybe I pushed harder than I should’ve. I wanted to see how far I could take it.”

You raised a brow. “And the plan to fix it?”

“Can’t give all my secrets away,” he said, with a wink.

Another camera flash.

“I’m not asking for secrets,” you replied, voice dry. “I’m asking for accountability.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You always hit where it counts.”

“Good,��� you said. “I aim for the heart.”

A beat passed. Then he leaned in again, this time with a different glint in his eyes softer, teasing, but unmistakably genuine.

“I’ll give you the full scoop,” he said. “Off the record. Over dinner.”

You sighed. “Keep dreaming, Hamilton.”

He grinned like a man who already was. “I do. Every night.”

A collective oooh rose from the nearby reporters. One of them dropped their phone. A PR assistant broke through the crowd, expression frazzled and whisper-shouting about timing and post-session obligations. Lewis held his ground until the last possible second.

As he was pulled away, he turned to look at you one more time.

A wink. A smile. A promise.

You shook your head, scribbled something into your notebook, and muttered under your breath, “Golden retriever energy. With a PR team.”

The journalist beside you leaned in, wide-eyed. “You do realise half the internet thinks you two are secretly dating, right?”

You flipped a page calmly. “Good. Let them keep fantasising.”

And still, every race weekend without fail he found you.

Even if you never called it chasing, he always did.

You were halfway down the paddock, cutting through the midday haze and the thick scent of Pirelli rubber, your heels clicking rhythmically against the asphalt. The air buzzed with post-qualifying energy team radios crackling, cameras flashing, fans yelling from behind barricades like their voices could carry miracles.

You clutched your notepad under one arm, voice recorder in hand, the strap of your media pass digging slightly into your neck. The Red Bull hospitality suite loomed ahead like a steel-and-glass spaceship, all chrome finishes and deep navy accents. Everything about it screamed precision and control even the PR team posted outside looked like they’d been handpicked from a Scandinavian runway show.

Max Verstappen had ten minutes slotted for interviews. Ten. No more. And the list of journalists waiting for him was longer than the pit lane. If you missed this window, you’d have to crawl back into the rotation with an apology email and a fake smile. And you hated crawling. Especially for Max.

You were just a few strides away. Almost there.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Red Bull, huh? Didn’t take you for the traitorous type.”

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Go away, Hamilton.”

The footsteps behind you didn’t stop. Of course they didn’t. In fact, they got closer. Uncomfortably close.

“That’s no way to talk to your favourite seven-time world champion,” he replied, tone dripping with mock offence.

You finally turned, just enough to throw him a glare over your shoulder.

And there he was. Lewis Hamilton.

Dressed in full Ferrari red, the fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the sweat-damp base layer clinging to his skin. His race boots scuffed just enough to look like he’d actually worked that morning. His cap tilted slightly, curls tucked beneath it, grin wide and infuriatingly smug.

He walked beside you like you were glued at the hip, like he belonged in your orbit—like he was allowed to waltz into your space just because he wanted to.

“I’m working,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from letting his presence rattle you.

“So am I,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets like this was a Sunday stroll through the paddock. “Part of the job is being nice to the press.”

You narrowed your eyes. “This isn’t being nice. This is harassment.”

“Oh please,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “If I were harassing you, you’d know it. This is just…” He let the word hang, searching the air theatrically. “Charisma.”

You barked a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“That’s what they call it,” he said, nodding toward a nearby group of junior reporters who were very clearly watching the two of you like it was the latest season of Drive to Survive. One of them nudged another, mouthing something that looked a lot like They’re doing it again.

You groaned softly. “You’re turning my job into a meme.”

“I’m giving it flavour,” he said with a wink.

“You’re giving me a headache.”

Lewis leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could smell his minty breath and a touch of cologne that was expensive. “I bet you say that with a smile when I’m not around.”

You didn’t blink. “I bet you say that line to every woman who walks past your garage.”

He placed a hand over his chest, mock wounded. “Wounded. Again. You really know how to break a man down, huh?”

You stopped walking. Spun on your heel so fast he nearly collided with you.

“What exactly do you want from me, Hamilton?” you asked, voice low, tight, sharp around the edges. “You’ve got a world-class car, a million fans, and a team press officer who’s probably already drafting an apology email because of this detour. So why the hell are you following me to the Red Bull paddock like a lovesick intern?”

He didn’t flinch.

If anything, he smiled wider. But it wasn’t as cheeky now. It was more intentional.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” he repeated, scoffing like you’d accused him of baking cupcakes in secret. “Why would I be jealous? It’s not like Max is charming or witty or well, me.”

You stared at him, heart thudding louder now, stubbornly uninvited.

He stared right back, and for a brief, unexpected second the grin slipped.

Just a flicker. Barely a blink. But enough.

“I just don’t like sharing your attention,” he said, the words quieter, almost like they cost him something. “Especially with him.”

Your breath caught chest tightening before your brain could catch up.

And then—

“Hi—hi!” A young comms assistant appeared beside you in a flurry of nervous energy and tablet-clutching. “Max is ready for you now. Sorry, we’re running tight on time.”

You nodded, forcing your features back into something polished. Professional. Detached.

“Coming,” you said.

You started walking again, this time briskly, trying to shake off the heat crawling up your neck.

Lewis didn’t follow.

But just before you reached the steps to the suite, his voice floated toward you like a final warning or a promise.

“Dinner. Still on the table.”

You didn’t look back.

“Only if it’s not Ferrari catering,” you called over your shoulder, your voice steadier than your pulse.

His laugh followed you down the walkway, full-bodied and reckless, like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was leaving behind.

Inside the hospitality suite, the air conditioning blasted your skin, but it did nothing to cool the burn under your collar.

You reached Max, shook his hand, and launched into your first question with a rehearsed smile.

But your heart was still hammering fast, uneven, annoyingly hopeful.

Because Lewis Hamilton had never played fair.

And despite every instinct, every boundary, every moment of journalistic decorum…

You didn’t really want him to. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that night.

The hotel ballroom pulsed with soft jazz, champagne flutes, and the dull thrum of tired engines still echoing in your ears. The post-qualifying media reception was glamorous in a muted, corporate sort of way dim chandeliers overhead, sponsor logos glowing from screens lining the walls, and the gentle rustle of expensive clothing trying not to wrinkle.

You were tucked into a booth at the edge of the room, laptop open, notes scattered, half a glass of wine untouched beside you.

You weren’t here to network. You were here to work to file quotes, shape analysis, write the kind of sharp yet digestible piece your editor liked to call “clickable without being desperate.” And if you wrapped it up tonight, you might actually sleep before the race tomorrow. Might.

Your attention was fixed on your screen, the cursor blinking back at you, taunting. You paused your typing just long enough to scribble a detail in your notebook something Max had said about tire degradation that could use a dramatic twist.

Then, a voice cut through the noise like velvet through smoke.

“Didn’t take you for the wallflower type.”

You froze.

No. No, no, no.

You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

But you did.

Lewis Hamilton stood beside your table, hands in his pockets, head tilted, eyes trained on you like he’d been looking for you since he walked into the room. He was no longer in his race suit now dressed in tailored black trousers and a deep burgundy shirt that should’ve been illegal in this lighting. Sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Watch glinting. Smile lethal.

“Didn’t know you were invited,” you said, slowly closing your laptop.

“I wasn’t,” he said, unapologetic. “Heard there was a party. Didn’t realise it was invitation-only.”

“It is,” you said pointedly.

He slid into the booth opposite you without asking.

“Then I guess I’m crashing,” he said, reaching for your wine glass and taking a sip without hesitation. “You really need better taste in Pinot.”

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and flustered. “Lewis.”

He met your gaze evenly. “That’s my name.”

“Don’t you have, I don’t know, a team debrief? A massage therapist? A manager to annoy?”

“They’re all very busy. I figured I’d come annoy you instead.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I’m working.”

“You’re always working,” he said, softer now. “Even when you’re trying not to be.”

There was a beat of silence between you thick, charged, unspoken.

He leaned back against the booth, watching you like you were some riddles he couldn’t quite solve.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he added. “About not liking to share your attention.”

You glanced down at your notes, pretending to be disinterested. “Don’t make this a thing, Hamilton.”

“Too late,” he said. “It already is.”

You didn’t want this. Not here, not now. Not when your article was half-finished and your reputation barely balanced on the edge of objectivity.

But still, you asked, against your better judgment: “Why me?”

He blinked, as if the question genuinely surprised him. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.

“Because you don’t flinch when I push. You give it back. And you see right through the noise. You don’t care about the headlines, or the car, or the team colours. You care about the truth. That’s rare.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your tone flat. “That truth goes in my article tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Then make sure you quote me right.”

“Off the record,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Off the record.”

You stared at him. And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like a reporter and a driver on opposite sides of a line.

You felt like two people circling something dangerous and undeniable.

Then he stood, sliding out of the booth and adjusting his sleeves.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, stepping away. “But dinner’s still on the table. And I’m a much better cook than Ferrari catering.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You watched him melt back into the crowd, his presence lingering like a fingerprint on your wine glass.

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, the article blinking back at you.

And then, without thinking, you typed one sentence you hadn’t planned to include on your phone.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t play fair. But maybe that’s what makes him worth watching.

You hit save.

And maybe just maybe you let yourself smile.

The race was over, but the tension hadn’t left the air.

Ferrari had secured a podium. Red Bull took the win. The champagne had been sprayed, the anthem played, and still, the paddock buzzed like a live wire as teams started packing down, cameras still rolling, and reporters shuffling between media pens, trying to catch every last usable soundbite before the feed cut to commercial.

You stood just outside the press pen, notebook in hand, voice recorder clipped to your collar. You were supposed to be focused. Professional. Detached.

But it was him again.

Lewis Hamilton grinning like the devil knew a secret, his Ferrari race suit tied at his waist, sweat-damp curls sticking out beneath his cap was drifting dangerously close to your section of the paddock, talking to Sky, joking with mechanics, and glancing at you way too often for it to be innocent.

You pretended not to notice.

But you did notice the way his smile changed slightly when he looked at you. Like it was private. Like it was meant just for you.

You were mid-sentence, jotting down something from Max’s interview, when you heard it:

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a good race.”

Your pen froze.

You turned.

Lewis was right there.

Too close.

You stepped back slightly. “Shouldn’t you be doing debriefs or plotting world domination?”

“I was,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “But I got distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Try harder.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You always this grumpy post-race?”

“I’m always this grumpy when I’m being flirted with in front of three camera crews.”

He glanced around nonchalant, confident, knowingly and shrugged. “Let them look.”

“They are looking,” you hissed, lowering your voice. “And half of them have Twitter open right now.”

“Good,” he said, a flicker of something bolder in his tone. “Maybe they’ll finally stop pairing me with that pop star I haven’t texted in eight months.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, stepping just close enough that his words felt like heat on your skin. “I don’t flirt with anyone the way I flirt with you.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped.

You hated it even more when you caught the corner of a Sky Sports camera panning in your direction.

You stepped sideways, trying to shield your face behind your notebook. “Lewis, this isn’t—”

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re the only one who thinks I’m not serious.”

That shut you up.

Because for a second just a split second it didn’t feel like flirting.

It felt like a line he meant.

You stared at him, pulse hammering, breath shallow, throat tight.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Come on. I made the podium. Don’t I get a kiss?”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if it was the boldness of the ask or the very real, very smug look on his face as he said it right there in front of a handful of media staff, a couple of Ferrari crew members, and one very stunned Sky presenter clearly trying not to react on camera.

You blinked slowly, schooling your features. “Not unless you want that kiss turned into an HR complaint.”

He grinned. “I’ll risk it.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to strain something, but you were fighting a smile. You could feel it faint, traitorous, tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Then, mercifully, someone called his name probably his press officer, furious.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just looked at you, gaze steady, something soft curling beneath the charm.

Then he smiled again genuine this time and stepped back.

“I’ll let you go back to being cold and terrifying,” he said. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Media dinner. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

You had forgotten.

Shit.

Before you could respond, he was gone walking backwards at first, grinning like he’d just scored pole position.

You watched him go, flustered beyond repair, heart doing double-time behind your press badge.

And then your phone vibrated.

A message from your best friend:

“Girl. You and Hamilton are on every F1 gossip thread. Again. 👀 I told you they’d catch on.”

You groaned.

Clicked the link.

There it was already reposted by three accounts: a clip from the paddock, where Lewis leaned in to talk to you. The way he smiled. The way your jaw clenched like you were trying not to smile back.

The caption?

“If this isn’t flirting, I don’t know what is.”

You closed the app.

Shoved your phone into your pocket.

And for once, you didn’t deny it.

A few hours later you arrived at the venue.

The restaurant buzzed with low chatter, soft jazz curling through the air like cigarette smoke. Flickering candlelight danced off polished cutlery and wine glasses, casting everyone in flattering shadows. Waiters glided through the space like chess pieces, placing tiny sculptural appetisers on pristine white plates. The PR teams had pulled out all the stops long tables, imported wines, and menus that required Google Translate.

You were seated between two motorsport journalists you vaguely liked, your recorder tucked away for the night, a half-full glass of champagne sweating at your elbow. This dinner was supposed to be harmless networking, laughing at polite jokes, asking the occasional softball question and calling it a night.

Then he walked in, Lewis Hamilton.

Black suit. No tie. The collar open, revealing just enough to stir something that had no business waking in the middle of a professional event. His presence soaked into the room like honey slow, warm, unmistakable. And the worst part?

He was looking directly at you.

Like he’d known where you were before he even stepped through the door.

He should’ve gone to the other table. There were three others. He should’ve.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Evening,” he said, pulling out the empty chair beside you like it had always belonged to him. “Is this seat taken?”

You didn’t even look up. “It was.”

“Not anymore,” he replied smoothly, already lowering himself into it. He shrugged off his jacket in a single fluid motion, hanging it on the back of the chair, and leaned slightly into your space, elbows grazing the white tablecloth. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You gave him a sideways glance, careful to keep your voice low. “This is a work event.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, shameless. “I’m working.”

“On what?”

“You.”

The journalist across from you choked on his water.

You sighed, closing your eyes for just a second. “Lewis.”

“Yes, darling?”

You turned to him now, slowly, giving him your sharpest, most disinterested stare. “Try not to embarrass yourself tonight.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m simply enjoying the evening. The food. The company.”

“The company was better before you got here.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “Yet you haven’t moved.”

You took a sip of champagne to avoid answering. He watched you do it with that same infuriating tilt to his head, like he was already two steps ahead of you and enjoying the wait.

Around you, conversation hummed of race strategy, tire degradation, who’d be switching teams next season but Lewis didn’t care. He made the right comments to the right people, just enough to be polite, but his real attention stayed on you.

Every word. Every pause. Every glance.

“You always frown when you’re trying not to laugh,” he said casually, somewhere between the foie gras and the main course.

“I’m not trying not to laugh.”

“Liar.”

His knee brushed yours under the table light, accidental, then deliberate. You moved away.

He followed.

The breadbasket made its rounds. Lewis handed it to you silently. You reached for it, and his fingers lingered just long enough for your skin to touch. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t pull back, but your pulse stuttered.

He noticed.

“You look good tonight,” he murmured. Just loud enough for you to hear.

“It’s a black dress, Hamilton. Calm down.”

“It’s not the dress.”

You stared down at your plate. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“Not when I’m trying to win.”

You finally turned to look at him. And there it was the challenge in his eyes, that unshakable confidence, wrapped in something slower, darker. Something not for show.

He wasn’t just trying to rattle you.

He wanted you to feel it.

He wanted you.

“Save it for the podium,” you said, voice cool, just as the dessert was set down in front of you.

But he didn’t back down. He just smiled wider. A slow, lazy, satisfied kind of smile the one that meant he already knew how this game would end.

Just as your spoon dipped into the brûlée, he leaned in again, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Still thinking about that kiss?”

You nearly dropped the spoon. Heat flared in your chest and climbed up your neck like wildfire.

Across the table, one of the journalists arched a brow. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, adjusting your posture.

Lewis stretched an arm across the back of your chair, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Your spine went rigid.

The rest of the meal blurred together, a hazy mix of candlelight, half-listened conversations, and the constant awareness of the man beside you. You kept your face neutral. Your laugh controlled. Your answers professional.

But Lewis? He kept chipping away.

A glance that lingered too long. A low joke whispered in your ear. A comment about how your lipstick hadn’t smudged yet.

He was relentless. And maddeningly composed.

By the time the final plates were cleared, and people began to drift into the lounge for drinks, your jaw ached from clenching.

You stood abruptly, grabbing your clutch. “I need air.”

Lewis stood too, like it was instinct. “I’ll come.”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll still follow.”

He did.

Out through a glass door and into the garden terrace, where string lights dangled from old stone archways and ivy crept down the walls like a secret. The city glowed just beyond the wrought-iron gates golden and glittering. The night air was cooler than you expected, brushing over your skin like a sigh.

You stopped when you reached the edge of the garden, turning sharply to face him.

“What is wrong with you?”

He halted just short of you, eyes gleaming in the low light. “I just wanted to see how long you could pretend not to want me back.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Because the truth was burning at the back of your throat and if you said anything now, it would come out all at once. Too much. Too raw.

He saw the hesitation.

He knew.

Still, he waited. No smile now. Just eyes locked on yours, steady and silent.

“You gonna keep pretending?” he asked, voice low, intimate.

The words landed like a touch.

Your heart thundered in your ears. Your mouth was dry. And still – still you didn’t move.

But you didn’t walk away either.

Your silence stretched between you like thread pulled tight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think not with him this close, not with his words still echoing in your chest like a secret you didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I’m not pretending,” you said finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh?” His brows lifted just slightly. “Then what is this?”

You shook your head once, slow and unsure. “This is a problem.”

He stepped in. One breath closer.

“Why?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you make it impossible to think straight.”

He smiled, softer now. No smirk. No smugness. Just truth.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Then we’re even.”

And he didn’t touch you not yet but he didn’t have to.

Because the war was over.

And you both knew exactly who had surrendered first.

The night had softened around you, the city glittering in the distance as the cool air kissed your bare shoulders. After the terrace confrontation or confession, if you were honest with yourself you hadn’t gone back inside. You’d needed a second to breathe, to steady your pulse, to remind yourself who you were before Lewis Hamilton decided to crawl under your skin and stay there.

You didn’t expect him to wait for you.

But when you turned the corner of the restaurant, clutching your phone and quietly Googling the nearest ride-share, he was already standing by a sleek black car out front. Jacket back on, tie still nowhere in sight. Leaning casually against the passenger door, like he knew you’d come this way.

“Your driver?” you asked, not stopping.

“Yours,” he replied, standing upright. “Figured you’d rather not make small talk with a stranger tonight.”

You hesitated.

It was tempting. Too tempting. Every cell in your body was begging for stillness. Quiet. Just a little more time to figure out what the hell had just happened on that terrace.

“I don’t need rescuing,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said, just as soft. “Still offering.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine. But no more lines.”

He opened the passenger door for you with a small smile. “Not a single one.”

The leather seats were warm. The car smelled like clean soap and something subtly spicy probably his cologne. He slid into the driver’s seat, glancing at you once as he started the engine.

“You, okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Just decompressing.”

He pulled onto the quiet street, the city lights stretching out through the windshield like constellations. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

And for once, Lewis didn’t fill the silence.

Instead, he let it settle between you, calm and unforced.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he said eventually, eyes still on the road.

“Like what?”

“Relentless. Always chasing.” A pause. “I used to be quieter.”

You looked at him then, catching the gentle curve of his jaw in the soft dashboard light.

“What changed?”

He shrugged; one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “Life. Racing. Pressure. Winning makes you loud. Losing makes you louder.” He glanced at you. “But you make me want to be quiet again.”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you said, turning back to the window.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t come here for this. I came here to do my job. Stay invisible. Be… untouchable.”

“You’re anything but invisible.”

“Exactly the problem.”

He was quiet again. You thought maybe you’d said too much.

But then he pulled up at a red light, and with one hand still on the wheel, he turned his head and looked at you. Really looked at you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said simply.

You blinked. “This?”

“This whatever it is. The pull. The spark. That kiss we’re both still thinking about. I’m not trying to win anymore. Not with you. I just want to know you.”

You sat still for a moment, processing it. Processing him.

And for the first time since you’d met him, you let yourself stop bracing.

“I grew up splitting weekends between two houses,” you said, voice quiet. “Learned early on not to take up too much space. Or expect consistency.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” you continued. “Or a detective. Something sharp. Something that made people pay attention when I walked in a room not because I was loud, but because I mattered.”

“You do.”

You turned your head. His eyes were still on you.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

“I’m trying,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

The light turned green, but neither of you noticed until the car behind gave a gentle honk. Lewis drove on in silence, but it wasn’t awkward now it was something like understanding. Like the edges between you had softened.

When he pulled up to your building, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

You looked at him. “You really meant it?”

“Every word.”

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t need to.

You just sat there, staring at him like maybe for once you didn’t have to keep your armour on. His eyes held yours, soft and steady, like he was memorising this version of you. Not the one from the paddock, not the one at the media event. Just you.

And then without asking he leaned in just slightly, one hand rising between you.

You held your breath.

He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers barely grazing your cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent. It made your stomach twist in that dangerous, beautiful way the one that felt like falling, but somehow felt safe too.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek.

Not rushed. Not suggestive.

When he pulled back, there was the smallest smile on his lips quiet, earnest.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

Your hand was already on the door handle, but you paused for one more second, letting your fingers brush the inside of your wrist where he’d touched you earlier. You could still feel it.

Your heart thudded.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, lips curling into a smile you didn’t bother to hide.

And this time, he was the one left watching you walk away.

Speechless.

Hopeful.

And, maybe, just a little bit undone. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Few days later.

You were mid-sentence, microphone steady in hand, nodding along as the Alpine team principal launched into a detailed explanation about tire degradation and long-run pace. Your expression was the very picture of professionalism neutral, attentive, practiced. You’d done this a hundred times, maybe more. Ask the question, listen carefully, nod thoughtfully, deliver the follow-up. Keep your tone measured, your face steady, your personal space a fortress.

But what you didn’t know what you couldn’t possibly see was that just behind you, out of the camera’s frame, Lewis Hamilton had silently appeared.

And he was making faces.

It began subtly: a slow arch of his eyebrow, an exaggerated tilt of his head as if hearing something utterly baffling. When the team principal mentioned the word “strategy,” Lewis’s eyes widened in mock astonishment, then he pulled out a slow, theatrical yawn that looked entirely too genuine. The cameraman caught on quickly and stifled a laugh, trying hard to keep his composure.

Lewis was relentless. He leaned forward and blinked slowly, deliberately, like he was struggling to stay awake during a particularly dry lecture. Then, with the precision of a seasoned comedian, he made a grimace so over-the-top it was borderline cartoonish exactly the “this guy again?” look you imagined everyone in the paddock had perfected by now.

You, however, were completely oblivious. You stayed locked in your role: nodding, listening, responding your face an expert mask of concentration.

That is, until the Alpine principal’s eyes flicked to your shoulder mid-answer and twitched in amused recognition.

You caught the shift immediately.

“Everything alright?” you asked, a faint furrow in your brow.

“Uh yeah. Just…Hamilton’s behind you,” came the awkward reply.

Without hesitation, you twisted on your heel, your gaze sharpening.

There he was Lewis, way too close for comfort, grinning like a mischievous child caught in the act. His jacket hung casually off one shoulder, his tie undone, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He gave you a cheeky little wave.

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you twelve?”

“Emotionally? Probably,” he replied, utterly unbothered by your glare.

“I’m working.”

“I know,” he said, voice low and sincere, “and you’re very impressive.”

He leaned in a little closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper only you could hear, “But also, incredibly serious. Someone had to loosen things up.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your lips and turned back to the mic.

“I’m so sorry,” you said apologetically to the team principal. “He wasn’t invited.”

Lewis gasped dramatically behind you. “Wow. Cold.”

“Security,” you said without missing a beat.

The room chuckled the crew letting out quiet laughter, the team principal himself cracking a smile.

Lewis wasn’t done. He leaned forward again, just close enough so only you could hear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let your guard down.

But your voice, when you answered, was warmer than it had been moments before.

“I figured.”

A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face as he took a small step closer. His voice lowered even more, drawing you into a private moment despite the camera still rolling and the surrounding crew stifling their laughter.

“You know I’ll only stop pestering you if you finally agree to that date,” he said, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Your lips twitched, trying to keep things professional. It was impossible.

“The date,” you echoed, voice low but still clear enough for the mic to pick up, the word hanging between you like a secret.

“Yeah. You. Me. Somewhere quiet. No cameras. No interviews.”

Your eyes flicked sideways toward the camera lens. The cameraman gave you a barely concealed grin, like he was in on the joke.

“And you think I’m going to say yes to that?” you teased, voice dripping with playful challenge.

Lewis’s grin deepened, his breath just a whisper against your cheek. “I think you want to.”

You took a slow breath, feeling your heartbeat rise not from nerves, but from the thrill coursing through you.

“Fine,” you said, your tone mixing mock solemnity with genuine warmth, “Yes. You win.”

The team principal shook his head, laughing softly. The cameraman gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

The live feed continued unabated.

The media was definitely going to lose their minds.

And you?

You let yourself enjoy the moment, the subtle shift in the air around you.

The spark had been struck.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe something unforgettable was just beginning.

The moment you said yes, a subtle ripple passed through the crew. The cameraman’s grin turned into a barely contained chuckle. The Alpine team principal exchanged a knowing look with his engineers, shaking his head with a smile like this paddock had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Back in the broadcast van, the producers caught the exchange live, and their immediate reaction was audible through the comms laughter, surprised whistles, and a few rapid-fire messages about clipping that moment for social media.

Within seconds, the paddock’s social feeds lit up. Journalists whispered into their phones, fingers flying over keyboards. “Did you see that? Hamilton’s charm offensive is officially on air,” one tweet read, while another teased, “Who’s got the popcorn? The new Hamilton romance saga starts now.”

You caught Lewis watching you out of the corner of your eye, his smile almost smug but utterly genuine.

As soon as the interview wrapped, Lewis slid in beside you with a relaxed ease, as if he belonged there, despite the chaos his presence always seemed to bring.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said quietly, voice a velvet rumble only you could hear.

You glanced at him, a slow smile spreading across your face. “Don’t get too cocky. I’m just giving you a head start.”

He laughed softly, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer, something like anticipation.

“Fair enough. But now that the world knows, I guess we’ll have to make it a date worth remembering.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “No pressure.”

He winked, and just like that, the playful game between you had shifted into something deliciously real.

The days after that on-air moment felt like stepping into a secret world one that existed just between you and Lewis, away from the prying eyes, vibrant cameras, and relentless headlines.

At first, there was nothing official. No announcements, no social media posts, no whispered rumours swirling in paddocks or paddock cafés. Just stolen mornings spent over strong black coffees at quiet cafés tucked away behind the circuits places where nobody recognised you, or if they did, they respected your space. Casual texts that lingered longer than necessary, filled with playful banter, inside jokes, and late-night messages that made your heart beat a little faster.

You’d joked about that live interview the way he’d teased you into agreeing to a date, the way his eyes twinkled with mischief just before he whispered the words that made your pulse skip. At the time, it had felt like a dare, a game. But the truth was, neither of you had imagined it would start so quietly, so carefully, so deliberately off the radar.

Lewis was thoughtful, almost protective of the fragile bubble you both had created. He understood how quickly the public could turn something beautiful into a circus. So, he made sure your moments together were shielded from the glare of cameras and the noise of speculation. It was a rare kindness, and you treasured it.

Some afternoons, you found yourself slipping into the garage, pretending to review notes, while he adjusted the car’s settings nearby. You caught him stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Those quiet minutes surrounded by the scent of rubber and fuel felt intimate, a world apart from the chaos of race day.

Other times, you met at the hotel gym, the hum of treadmills and clinking weights your only soundtrack. You’d exchange quick smiles between sets, sharing fleeting moments of normalcy amid the madness. The staff who passed by barely spared a glance, the invisible shield your secret relationship created.

You learned the small things about him the way he preferred his coffee black and strong, the soft hum he made when lost in thought, the way his smile deepened and eyes softened when he caught you off guard with a quiet compliment whispered just for you. You found yourself letting your guard down, shedding the layers of professional distance you’d built over years of interviews and cameras.

It wasn’t always easy. The pressure to stay hidden gnawed at you sometimes, a restless ache beneath the surface. The fear of being discovered brought a thrill and a tension that only made those moments sweeter. There were times your heart hammered in your chest when you heard footsteps approach unexpectedly, or when a photographer lingered too long in the distance.

But those stolen moments with soft smiles exchanged in the shadows, whispered conversations over coffee, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed were yours alone.

One afternoon, several weeks after your whispered “yes to date” on live TV, Lewis caught you just as you were about to leave the paddock. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the bustling scene, but when he stepped into your path, the world seemed to hush. He looked casual, in a simple T-shirt and jeans, but the way his eyes locked on yours was serious, the kind of serious that made your breath catch.

He cleared his throat, a slight nervousness in his smile. “So,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear over the din, “how about we make that date official? Not just a maybe or a secret but a proper night out. Just us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of nerves and excitement swirling inside you like a summer storm.

“Just us,” you echoed, feeling the weight and warmth of the promise in those words. A slow smile spread across your face despite the fluttering in your chest.

He nodded, his smile widening, the familiar spark returning to his eyes. “No cameras. No distractions. Just a night where you don’t have to be the professional interviewer, and I don’t have to be the driver.”

You glanced around, suddenly aware of the usual chaos of the paddock fading into the background, leaving only the two of you suspended in that moment.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, meaning every word.

“Good,” he replied, voice low and steady. “Because I’ve been waiting to ask for weeks.”

That night, as you walked away with your pulse still racing, your mind replayed the moment over and over. You knew, deep down, this was only the beginning.

Weeks passed, and your time together grew richer with each secret meeting, each shared smile. You both moved slowly, carefully, savouring the quiet intimacy that only those first days of something new can hold.

One evening, you found yourselves sitting side by side on a balcony overlooking the city lights, the noise of the world far below and forgotten. The air was warm, scented with jasmine and night blossoms. You watched as the city flickered to life, streetlights blinking on like stars pulled from the sky.

Lewis reached out then, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His gaze held yours steady, full of something deeper than you’d felt before.

After a comfortable silence, Lewis turned slightly, searching your eyes as if looking for permission.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “About us. About this whatever it is.”

You smiled, fingers curling around his hand.

“I want to stop hiding,” he continued, voice steady but vulnerable. “I want to be with you not just these secret moments, but all of it. The good, the messy, the loud, everything.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, eyes glistening.

“So,” he said, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “would you be my girlfriend? Officially. Publicly. Me and you, no secrets.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, a warmth flooding your chest.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I want that too.”

His smile grew, radiant and real, as he pulled you into a gentle, lingering hug.

For the first time in a long time, you felt completely seen. Completely free.

Because even if the world wasn’t ready yet, you were.

Ready for whatever came next. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A month after dating -

The atmosphere was electric.

The Ferrari garage pulsed with energy, a blur of red, roaring voices, and champagne spraying like rain in the late afternoon sun. Mechanics and engineers embraced, team members shouted in celebration, and fans along the barriers screamed Lewis’s name like it was gospel.

It was his first win with Ferrari and the paddock hummed with a kind of high that only came when history was being written in real time.

You should have been swept up in it, too. And in a way, you were. But you were still at work mic in hand, earpiece live, standing just outside the McLaren motorhome and trying to stay composed for your post-race segment.

You were interviewing Lando Norris, who’d crossed the line in second, still flushed from the race and smiling wide, his race suit unzipped down to his waist. He was rambling playfully, his accent warm and teasing.

“I mean, I almost had him,” Lando said, chuckling. “But you know Lewis...Give him a car that breathes, and he’ll make it sing.”

You grinned, trying to focus. “Well, if today’s anything to go by, the Ferrari anthem might be on repeat for the rest of the season.”

“Looks like it,” Lando replied with a pointed glance over your shoulder. “Speaking of the man himself…”

You blinked, confused, following his gaze—

And then you felt him.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, warm and grounding. A familiar scent sweat, champagne, and just the slightest hint of his cologne washed over you in an instant. You froze, the microphone dipping slightly in your hand.

Your eyes widened as the realisation hit. Lewis.

He didn’t say a word at first, just pulled you flush against him in a moment so casual and effortless that it made your heart stop. Your breath hitched, and your body tensed before instinctively relaxing into the comfort of him.

Then his lips brushed your cheek. Soft, slow, intimate. A kiss that wasn’t rushed or hidden. It lingered like a promise. Before pepper kissing your face…

On live television.

In front of thousands. Maybe millions.

Lando burst into laughter. “Well, alright then.”

The cameraman wavered, unsure whether to keep filming or pan away, but it was too late. The moment was caught. Burned into the feed. Sent out into the world in crisp, clear definition.

You turned in Lewis’s arms, stunned. Eyes searching his, your brain trying to catch up. Your heart was hammering in your chest, both thrilled and absolutely panicked.

“We’re live,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I figured it’s time.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. Time? You had been careful. So careful. The private dates, the whispered conversations in corners, the inside jokes behind closed doors. You had walked this tightrope for months he, a global icon; you, the ever-neutral journalist.

But Lewis?

He looked completely unbothered. Happy, even.

“I’ve waited long enough to show this,” he added, lowering his voice for only you to hear. “You’re not just some secret I want to keep. Not anymore.”

The producer’s voice crackled in your earpiece, asking what the hell just happened, but you didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your face burned with heat, and your fingers trembled slightly where they clutched the microphone. But your chest, your heart was full.

When you finally stepped away from the camera, the chaos had already begun.

By the time you made it backstage, your phone had exploded. Notifications filled your screen in a dizzying scroll text from colleagues, friends, your editor in all caps. Twitter was in absolute meltdown. Instagram reels were already cutting together fan reactions. TikToks analysed the hug in slow motion, zooming in on the kiss, the way your face lit up.

“Lewis Hamilton confirms mystery girlfriend live on air.”

“Ferrari’s golden boy and the F1 journalist he’s been flirting with for months—finally official.”

“The way he hugged her. The way she froze. The cheek kiss. I’m sobbing.”

#HamitonHasHer was trending within the hour.

Clips of past interviews resurfaced. Fans shared moments they swore they saw sparks how he always seemed to smile a little wider when talking to you, how your questions were often met with teasing, how his eyes had always lingered a little too long on your face.

People had guessed, sure. But no one had known.

Until now.

You sat in the media centre later that night, dazed. Your laptop open but untouched, your phone still buzzing with alerts. A dozen F1 journalists were speculating on podcasts and YouTube videos, analysing every moment between you and Lewis from the past year.

And then, a text from him:

“Dinner? Just us. No cameras. I’ll pick you up in 20.”

You smiled, a little breathless.

It didn’t matter what the world said now. You weren’t a mystery anymore.

You were his.

And for the first time, he was yours publicly, unapologetically and forever caught in the glow of victory and something deeper than just a race.

[digital-nova]

handler assures others that living weapon whumpee is incapable of pain or feelings. they explain time and time again to concerned colleagues that whumpee isn’t human at all, just a soulless machine created for killing/servitude.

so when caretaker has to dress whumpee’s wounds (either post-rescue or during whumpee’s “employment”), it’s done without any kind of pain relief. it’s against caretaker’s better judgement, but there’s no use in wasting resources on someone who doesn’t feel anything, right?

but of course, none of it’s true. handler just lies about whumpee in order to make sure no one treats/views them as a person.

perhaps whumpee assumes that the pain is all part of some punishment, or that they really just aren’t deserving of proper care. either way, they don’t complain. they known that weapons don’t have needs or wants.

[formulafanfics13]

please write sub max/Lando with a older retired driver (f)reader. Like they thought she’s his mentor/manager like Webber but oh boy only if you knew 😉

The Real Boss - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

summary: everyone thinks she's just max verstappen's manager. his mentor. his steady, strategic handler. what they don'tknow is she's his girlfriend. a retired red bull legend. and when the doors close? max drops to his knees for her. every. single. time.

warnings: age gap (reader 48, max 27), sub!max verstappen, dominant reader, mommy kink (implied), oral (m receiving), power imbalance, secret relationship, degradation/praise, handjob, begging, light collaring kink, orgasm control, intense dom/sub dynamic

The media call her his mentor. They whisper his manager when she enters the paddock. They write headlines like "Verstappen's secret weapon" and "The legend behind the champion." They fawn over the retired queen of Red Bull. The only woman to ever race alongside Mark Webber and not just survive, but dominate.

They don't know the truth.

They don't know that Max Verstappen, four time world champion, hardest man on track, "uncontrollable" according to Sky Sports, is on his knees for her every night. They don't know he cries when she tells him he's been good. That he can't come unless she says so. That he wears a thin chain around his neck with her initials tucked under his race suit.

They have no fucking clue.

The paddock is chaotic after his win in Imola. Cameras flashing. Fans screaming. Everyone wants a piece of him. But Max? Max only wants her.

He slips away from the Red Bull motorhome. Finds her in their hotel suite. She's still in her black dress from the grid. Hair perfect. Heels kicked off. Her feet up on the coffee table like a woman who has nothing left to prove.

Because she doesn't. She is Red Bull. She is Formula 1.

"Get on your knees, Max," she says without looking up.

He kneels immediately. There's no hesitation. No resistance.

"Rough day?" she asks, voice amused, flipping a page in her notebook.

He nods.

She finally looks at him. "Did my boy win?"

He nods again, faster this time. Blushing. Eyes bright. "Yes."

"Did he thank me?"

Max swallows. "In the cooldown room. I said I owed it all to my team."

"I'm your team," she says sharply.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Say it properly."

Max trembles. "You're my everything. My boss. My owner."

Her smile could end careers. "Good boy."

She lets him lay across her lap. Her fingers stroke his hair. Soft. Teasing. She knows exactly how to undo him. The way his cheek presses against her thigh. The way he sighs every time she touches him. The fastest driver on Earth brought down to a trembling mess under her hand.

"You looked good on track today," she says, dragging her fingers down his spine. "So aggressive. So sharp. But I know the truth, don't I?"

He moans.

"I know you only drive like that because you know I'll reward you for it."

He nods.

"Words."

"Yes, yes, please," Max breathes. "Please touch me, please."

"Take it out then," she says calmly.

Max fumbles with the waistband of his sweats, pulling his cock out. It's already hard. Leaking. Red at the tip. She hums in amusement. "Already like this? Just from being here?"

He nods frantically. She doesn't touch it right away. Just watches him stroke it, desperate and slow, grinding against her thigh like it's the only thing keeping him sane. "Do you want to come?" she asks sweetly.

"Yes."

"Who does that cock belong to?"

"You."

"Who owns your wins?"

"You."

She closes her hand around the base of his cock. He moans like it hurts. His whole body arches. "Are you going to come without permission?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good boy." She jerks him slow. Cruel. Precise. Every twist of her wrist makes his hips stutter. Every pass of her thumb over the head makes him sob.

He's babbling now. In Dutch. In English. Saying please, please, please. She pulls his chain out from under his shirt. Lets the initials dangle in front of his face. "You wear this under your fireproofs?"

"Yes."

"You think about me when you drive?"

"Always."

"You think they'd still worship you if they knew the truth?"

He trembles. "No."

"You think Horner would let you keep racing if he knew you called your girlfriend mommy?"

Max moans loud. So loud.

She squeezes tighter. "Come for me, baby."

He does. Violently. Shaking. Sobbing. All over her hand, his stomach, the hem of her dress. She just watches. Lets him pant. Lets him collapse against her. After a few minutes, she lifts his chin.

"I want you to win again in Austria," she says softly. "And this time? You'll wear my collar under your race suit."

Max nods, eyes wet. "Yes, ma'am."

"Because you're mine."

"I'm yours," he whispers. "Only ever yours."

[bambiihee]

hard thoughts u say? hmm what about reall feral taehyun right..he’s like a wolf hybrid being tested on by scientists! and he is not domesticated!! just growling—snarling tyun so ofc he has a muzzle, they give him some steroids to supposedly calm him but it doesn’t last long because he breaks free !! and i dunno u can let your imagination run wild~ perhaps sub!taehyun also ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

HOOOOLLYYYY SHITTTT

I NEED MORE SCIFI FICS LOWK!!!!! I WAS JUST TALKING ABOUT THIS??? BUT UR SOOO BIG BRAINED WITH COMBINING WEREWOLVES/HYBRID W SCIFI I WANT TO KISS YOU

c𝔴༚ smut/nsfw content. um oops i accidentally wrote like a little fic almost. violence and death mentions, medical setting, mentions of needles and other medical equipment, gun mention, scientific experimentation, werewolf/wolf hybrid(?)!taehyun, scientist!reader, afab!reader, primal, feral!taehyun, tyun technically can't talk but trust the sex is consensual, lowkey monsterfucking maybe?? lets talk about it.

after a freak accident splices his dna with that of a dire wolf's, renowned scientist kang taehyun has become an experiment himself !! he completely lost everything of what he once was, now just a feral animal that growls and snaps, lunging at his old coworkers mindlessly. he slaughtered at least a dozen of his colleagues before security managed to restrain him. now he claws at the walls of a holding cell built specially for him, muzzled and restrained for safety, forced to undergo tests and experiments every day because the government can't decide between killing him and studying him.

but the real taehyun's still in there somewhere. You're confident he is, because he still recognizes you. he doesn't try to attack you when he sees you like he does everyone else, the sad shy young woman who was once his assistant. you're assigned to be his.. handler, for a lack of a better word, because you're the only person he doesn't immediately try to kill. you desperately try to help him regain his memories, sure that you can somehow bring him back, and to your absolute delight he does slowly gain a bit of his humanity back, learning how to talk again and remembering small details about his past life.

you eagerly announce your findings to your higher ups, but a verdict has already been decided for taehyun-- the military wants to turn him into a biological weapon. they want to lock him away in a dark cage and erase what little humanity he had left, want to train him into the perfect killing machine. and the biggest thing tying him to humanity was you.

the admiral raises his gun. you stare down the barrel as he aims it directly between your eyes.

You're frozen in fear. You can't do anything but watch as he readies his hand to pull the trigger.

but taehyun is faster. the second he realizes in his animalistic mind that they’re trying to take his woman away— his mate away— he snaps. he turns the entire research center into a bloodbath to protect you and escape into the deep forest that surrounds the building. hiding from the government and the military searching for you, taehyun connects with the animal in him in a different way. you took care of him when he lived among humans, now it’s his turn to take care of you <3 finding shelter and hunting food, keeping you safe, alone among the trees.. it just felt so right to him. scratches his brain lol

him struggling with you trying to pretend he’s just a normal human man— he’s not, not anymore, even if he’s gained some of his humanness back. cos when you’re talking about escaping the forest and changing identities, going back to live in society, all taehyun wants is to stay. indulge in the primal side of him freely, build a den and a pack just like his wolf dna tells him to.

a pack needs pups. it’s all he can think about.

fuckkk the tension rising till tyun can’t take it anymore, throws you down on your back and bends you into the deepest mating press ur ankles by your ears… he’s so strong holding you down and pounding your cunt raw ,, his cocks so thick and fat it feels like it’s gonna rip u in half >_< heavy balls slapping against your ass as he grunts and growls and pants above you, his dark eyes locked on you like a predators and his lips curled back to bare his sharp teeth. “take it.” he snarls when you try to wriggle away, tugging you back with his large hands gripping your ankles,, planting his feet and pressing down on top of you to keep you from moving, “don’t run from it. just take it. take it all.”

ouuu and sub tyun with this….. now i’m thinking back to the lab 😭😭 tyun all chained up and muzzled …. drools

[delilahsturniolo]

ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ TIED TOGETHER….LITERALLY

in which . . . you get captured during a mission, and chris insists on saving you

contains . . . angst, a bit of violence, mentions and use of weapons.

written by @delilahsturniolo, do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

requested by anon

view more of this au here!

you’re not supposed to get caught. that’s the first rule. in, observe, extract. that’s how recon works. no interaction. no errors. no slipping up. and yet, you wake up tied to a chair in a dark, concrete basement, wrists burning, blood sticky at your temple, and a blinding headache pounding against your skull.

the last thing you remember is slipping into the back of a warehouse, tracking a dealer stealing government information. easy tail. clean entry. no heat. but something was off, the air too quiet, the shadows too still. then a sharp crack to the side of your head. and now you’re here. “fuck,” you breathe, testing the zip-ties digging into your wrists. they’re tight. no weapons. no comms. no backup. and worst of all, even though you hate to admit it, no chris.

when the agency tells chris you’ve gone dark, he laughs at first. “no way,” he says, spinning in his chair. “she doesn’t make mistakes.” the handler just looks at him. his smile drops. “wait. you’re serious?”

“last known location pinged thirty minutes ago. she hasn’t checked in since. local assets picked up abnormal movement in the warehouse district. we think she was captured.” he’s already standing.“i’ll go.”

“shadow, protocol says—”

“fuck protocol. i’m going.”

he’s not calm. not even close. he’s snapping orders at people before he’s even out the door, grabbing gear, loading ammo like he’s done it a thousand times, but his hands shake when he loads your backup knife into his boot. the one you always carry. the one you left behind. he keeps seeing your face the last time you were together, smug and untouchable, telling him to “try not to get in the way this time.” and now you’re god knows where, possibly bleeding out or worse.

he doesn’t joke. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t stop moving.

you’ve been in worse situations. probably. you just can’t think of any right now. the guards don’t talk much. one of them checks your restraints. another backhands you when you don’t answer questions fast enough. you keep your mouth shut. keep your heartbeat low. it’s a game. one you’ve trained for. but deep down, under the grit and defiance, there’s a flicker of panic.

no one’s coming. you’re alone.

and then, a crash. gunfire. shouts. and suddenly, the door blows open. you barely register the blur of black and smoke before you hear his voice, sharp and deadly. “get your fucking hands off her.” the last man standing barely has time to turn before chris tackles him to the ground, slamming his fist into his face until someone pulls him off.

he’s breathing hard, blood on his knuckles, eyes wild. then he sees you. he crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees, already cutting your hands free. “sunshine,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “jesus. are you okay?” you blink up at him, dazed. “you’re… here?”

“of course i’m here.”

“you weren’t on this mission.”

“i am now.”

“i was expecting you to leave me here to die alone.” you shrugged.

“cmon sunshine, i’m not that cruel.”

your hands fall into your lap, wrists raw and stinging. he doesn’t let go of them. he looks like he wants to say something else, something big, but all that comes out is, “don’t do that again.” you tilt your head, exhausted. “get kidnapped?”

“disappear on me.” you almost laugh. almost. instead, you lean your head against his shoulder. just for a second. just long enough to breathe. he doesn’t move. doesn’t tease. just stays still and solid and alive. and for the first time in hours, you let yourself close your eyes.

© delilahsturniolo

[orellazalonia]

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 2)

Summary: While Bucky gets you something to eat, you have a discussion with Steve and formulate a plan to bide your time. However, that eventually cracks when Bucky returns with some soup and milk. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. (Feeding.) Kidnapping. References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Drugged food and Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely.

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: I haven’t actually decided if I want the food to be drugged or not. I’m also not sure if this series would be interesting enough to read either. Regardless, please read the warnings. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You stay still long after the door closes.

Steve doesn’t move either. He just holds you, one arm secure around your middle, the other gently combing his fingers through your hair. It’s too much; the tenderness. It scratches at something raw inside you. You’ve had scientists touch your skin with gloves, handlers yank your arms into place. This isn’t clinical. It’s worse.

“You know who we are, don’t you?” He says softly, not trying to force an answer.

You nod against his shoulder. You know exactly who they are. You’d heard of the guards talk of them. The scientist who tried to replicate what they were. You’ve heard your handlers speak about their DNA, about what made them tick. The serum of particular interest. You know what they are capable of. You never could have imagined this though.

“They called you super soldiers,” You murmur. “Potential weapons. Not people.”

Steve flinches at that, just slightly. “And what did they call you?”

You swallow, hating the memories that flicker through your mind briefly.

“They…didn’t call me anything. Just a number.”

He exhales slowly, holding you tighter. “Well, they were wrong.”

“No,” You whisper. “They weren’t.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s almost worse than if he had. You shift a little, just enough to glance toward the door. Calculating and observant. Steve notices though. Of course he does.

“He locked it,” He says gently. “Not because we don���t trust you. But because you’re scared. Scared people do reckless things.”

“I’m not scared,” You lie.

“You’re shaking.”

You hate that he’s right. It wasn’t enough that your life had been spent controlled by someone else’s wishes. At your first opportunity of being free from that place, you’re still trapped. Ownership now simply being transferred to whom should’ve been your saviors. Heroes who could’ve helped you adapt to a new life, not force you into one of their fantasies. A beat of silence passes. Then:

“I know what regression is,” You mutter, almost like it’s a curse.

Steve blinks. “You do?”

You nod slowly. “The others… the ones before me. Some of them couldn’t take it. Some snapped. Others regressed and went all soft. The scientists liked it, made them easier to control.”

Something tightens in his jaw. That’s not what he wanted to hear. It doesn’t match his image of how things would go: this warm, soft fantasy of what he thinks he’s offering you. But it seems you’re not going to let them paint over your trauma with pastel colors and lullabies.

“So if that’s what this is,” You snap, twisting in his hold just enough to look him in the eye, “If you think I’m going to curl up and call you Papa because you put me in a pink room and comfort me, you’re wrong.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change much. But something behind his eyes shifts. He leans in just a little, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I don’t want to force you,” He says. “I want you to choose this. To feel safe enough to fall. Because you deserve softness. You deserve comfort.”

“No one deserves anything,” You say, the words bitter. The truth you’ve come to accept long ago. “Not in this world.”

“That’s what they taught you,” He murmurs. “That’s not the truth.”

You go quiet. But your brain doesn’t stop working. It never stops. You watch the way he looks at you. How he talks to you like you’re already his. That same warped gentleness Bucky wore earlier, albeit softer and more visible. You’re not dealing with captors. Not exactly. You’re dealing with men who believe, truly believe, they’re saving you.

And that’s when an idea strikes you. If they believe it? Then, you can use it.

“Fine,” You whisper eventually, your voice cracking in just the right place. You let your head rest against his chest again, limbs going limp. “I’ll try.”

Steve exhales a soft breath, full of relief. You feel it in his chest. You wonder why he doesn’t suspect you. Maybe he does. Maybe he truly believes he can mold you into their perfect little girl, waiting for who knows how long for this. But truthfully, your words are hollow. You don’t mean it. Not really. You’re going to play their game. You’re going to smile. Take their kindness. Let them think you’re softening. Let them hold you and wrap you in blankets and stroke your hair.

And the second that door is unlocked; You’ll run.

Your train of thought gets interrupted when the door opens again with a click. You don’t flinch this time. You remain curled in Steve’s lap, just like he left you, even though your muscles ache with tension under the calm exterior you’re forcing. You keep your eyes half-lidded, mouth set in a dazed sort of frown. You’ve seen the others wear this look. You can fake it too. At least, you hope you can.

Bucky walks in holding a tray. Soup, you think, and something warm in a bottle. Your stomach clenches at the scent before you can stop it.

“Good,” He says, shutting the door behind him. “She hasn’t moved.”

“I told you,” Steve says, brushing his fingers down your back. “She’s trying.”

Trying. That word sits in your mouth like rust. It makes you feel like you’re being graded, watched through one-way glass. You glance at Bucky. He’s watching you with that same hard edge in his eyes. Not cruel nor unkind, but… territorial. Protective. Like a wolf guarding something he’s decided belongs to him.

Bucky sets the tray on the bedside table, then kneels in front of you. Your first instinct is to pull away, but you fight it. You keep your face blank. Small. Helpless.

“This one’s chicken and rice,” He says, holding up the bowl. “Easy on your stomach. Warm. And you’re going to eat the whole thing.”

You blink at him slowly, not answering. Partly for the act but half from the sheer audacity and sureness this man holds. The way they both act so certain is frightening. However, you don’t let it show.

Steve presses a kiss to your temple. “Sweetheart? Can you sit up for Buck? Just a little?”

You shift slightly, only because Steve is guiding you. Not because you want to. You still feel like your bones are made of ice. Bucky lifts the spoon, not handing it to you. Holding it like he’s going to do it.

Your mouth twitches. “I can feed myself.” While you never had five course meals before, you were still allowed to feed yourself whatever mush or food your previous handlers would serve. You had a choice. You still had that fleeting sense of autonomy.

“No,” Bucky says, blunt. “You can’t. You’re too little. Not right now.”

Your hands curl into fists, a flicker of resistance present; but Steve rubs your back again and murmurs, “Just let us take care of you.”

You know what this is. You know it’s not about food. It’s about power. Control disguised as nurture. Infantilization disguised as affection. But still, your stomach growls. And the smell makes your head spin. So, you open your mouth.

Bucky feeds you the first spoonful with slow, deliberate care. It’s warm. It tastes like nothing you ever got in the lab. You hate how good it is.

“There you go,” Steve murmurs as he watches you obediently take bite after bite. “Just like that. Good girl.”

You tense.

You don’t want to like it. The praise. The warmth. But something in your brain flinches every time he says “good girl,” like it’s wired to respond. You push that part down. Deep away while Bucky offers another spoonful. By the fourth, he pauses to unscrew the top of the bottle. The milk inside is frothed and warm. Familiar almost, in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“I don’t need that,” You say hoarsely.

“You do,” Bucky replies. “It’s calming.”

“It’s a bottle.” Like the statement would change anything. Your exasperation and insistence do nothing to persuade either of them.

“You’ll drink it,” He says. “Or I’ll hold you in my lap and do it for you.”

That stops you cold in your protests. You glance at Steve, silently pleading. He was a bit more understanding in some twisted way. But he just gives you that same calm look, fingers combing through your hair again. “We’re trying to help you down,” He explains soothingly. “To feel safe. Cared for.”

“I’m not little,” You hiss, momentarily forgetting your initial plan.

“You are,” Bucky says again, with finality. “You just forgot how to feel it.”

You want to scream. You want to claw the bottle out of his hands and hurl it across the room. You know it won’t do you any good though if you’re trying to win their favor. So, instead, you reach for it. Bucky pulls it away from your grasp before pressing it to your lips, clearly intent on feeding you. With no where to go and nothing more you can say, you start to drink slowly, burning with shame. The milk is sweet. Too sweet. It fills your mouth with warmth that you almost hate yourself for liking.

Steve adjusts his hold, cradling you while you drink. Bucky wipes a smear of milk from your chin with a napkin like you’re two years old.

You don’t resist. Because that’s the only power you have left, to choose not to fight. To pretend. To outlast. They want a little? They’ll get one. And though it may be hell, you remind yourself it will be worth it when you get that chance to run and chase after that true freedom. Until that can happen, you hope you won’t succumb before then.

[corsair-mercenary-companies]

People interested in becoming Handlers, those about to be handlers, and those who just became handlers listen up.

You're gonna need this to get through Boots on the Ground after Boots on the Ground.

1. You're going to see everything your pilots see. You're going to see the unfiltered nightmare of the field. Make sure you've got a vice of choice that you can stay steady. Avoid booze. You need to be clear.

2. You're their guardian no matter how much they think they're bulletproof out there you're the one making sure they're actually bulletproof. The information you send them is what makes sure they don't die.

3. They will die. One of your pilots will die. You can't stop it. It doesn't get easier.

4. When they get back to base your job isn't done. You finish the after action report. You make sure your pilots get what they need. Only once they're settled is your job done for the night.

5. One day they're going to ignore an order. You have a choice. Keep yelling at them to try (and fail) to get them on track. Or you can buck command as well and make sure they survive.

6. You are not the pilot's friend. You're their handler. You point the weapon they are. The second they're inside their mech and you're in your chair talking to them on comms they're your ward.

7. Never celebrate right after a battle.

8. Never get comfortable in the chair. No mission is ever as simple as the briefing makes it.

9. Your pilot will prove you wrong.

10. Break all these rules the second it feels right. You're a handler, you manage pilots, the bastards fueled by willpower and spite. You've got to have more will than they do.

//Signal\\

[sximsoc]

Hi, hope you're doing fine, if I can, can I request like a suggestive one-shot about haechan in the +82 pressin mv? 👉🏻👈🏻

𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐄

genre - suggestive , mild angst , one shot

synopsis - two lovers end up with a mark on one another , what happens when they come face to face ?

pairing - (+82 pressin) haechan x reader

word count : 17 , 031

warnings : mdni ! suggestive , violence , weapons ( guns , knives ) a weird fight scene because i can never write them right but i tried , did a lot of research with dissecting the 82 pressin world and the world building and concept behind it, so very sin city inspo with rivalries that you’ll see soon , also took some inspo from mr and ms smith because i thought it was very fitting and i wanna give credit where credit is due yk

The rain was cold, freezing up every part of your body. Goosebumps raising on your arms as they violently shook, the grasp on your knife was getting lose, the rain not helping as the sweat on your palms were making it hard to grasp the smooth leather handle like normal. Were your eyes deceiving you? Were your eyes playing games with you? Since when was your job conflicting? Since when did you struggle to just hit your target like usual? It wasn't hard, it wasn't difficult, you were used to it all. The blood, the guts, the screams as they begged for you to not kill them, but this time as your knife was pointing straight at him, your strong resolve was falling. Cracks were forming and he could tell, but why wasn't he cracking? Wasn't this hard for him too? Why wasn't he shaking? Why wasn't he moving? Why didn't he pull the trigger already! Why is he stalling!

All these questions ran through your head like a marathon. Your vision blurring and you couldn't tell if it was because of tears or because of the rain. The dark night was looking upon you, the moon shining bright as his features glowed under its light. God, he was beautiful, even with a cold stare like the one he had right now. Why did this have to happen? Why did your next mission have to go the way it did? The second your handler handed you your next mission, your whole world fell apart. You should have said no, should have rejected the mission and gone back home without a job and without a life, and you'd laid in his arms like nothing happened. Like you didn't see your husband's picture in the manila folder. Like you weren't asked to kill him. His arms would be warm, his heart gently pounding and lulling you to sleep, his lips soft as they kissed your forehead and he'd mumbled a simple five more minutes before starting his day.

No, you can't be thinking about him like this, you can't, not anymore. His gun was pointed at you, his finger on the trigger, just pull it! Please! It's all you wanted him to do. End your life so he can live, that was the right thing to do wasn't it? How did this even happen? How did you end up here in the first place? How did your husband, the sweet, sweet Donghyuck end up standing in front of you with a gun pointing at you and your knife pointing at him?

20 hours before...

07:00 am...

The sun wasn't up yet, but here you were, wide awake as you stared at him. Even after being married for two years, it still felt like you were in the honeymoon phase. Donghyuck was good to you, he was caring, thoughtful, a tad over dramatic, but it was apart of his charm, you can't deny that. So, staring at him in the quiet of your small house was something you wouldn't give up for the world. 7 am and all you wanted was to be able to create the technology to craw inside his skin.

"Stop staring at me" Donghyuck mumbled, quickly feeling your cheeks go warm, you close your eyes in hopes of not being caught, even though you already were. "Don't close your eyes now" He chuckled out, gently grabbing your face and smothering you in small pecks all over your face.

The action made you giggle as you open your eyes and pretend to yawn. "What a way to wake up" You mumbled out, rubbing your eyes which made Donghyuck roll his.

"I know you were watching me sleep" He mumbled out, putting his arms above him to streak, his body twitching as he groaned.

"So what if I was?" You replied, leaning up on one arm to look down on him. Donghyuck looked at you with a sleepy smile as you bent down to peck his lips as they looked extra soft that morning. He softly moaned in pleasure and need, he chased your lips after you pulled away. "Don't lie, you love being watched"

Your tease went straight through his body as he gave you a smirk. "You saying you wanna watch me?"

"Maybe, it would be fun" You shrugged your shoulders, contemplating the idea of watching him pleasure himself in front of you.

Donghyuck furrowed his brows in hopes that you two were on the same wave length. "Are we thinking the same thing or are we still talking about you watching me sleep?"

"Depends, what would you be doing if I watched you?" Donghyuck gasped at your dirty words, covering his chest up with the covers.

"Mrs. Lee! You scoundrel! Taking advantage of a fair bachelor like myself" Donghyuck exclaimed, his voice going high and whiney to get into character. You laughed at his theatrics as he kept the covers up to his chin.

"A bachelor? What about that wedding band you have on?" You asked, grabbing his hand to rub your finger over the smooth band on his ring finger.

"That's decoration" He replied without a second thought which made you raise an eyebrow at him.

He smiled at you with all his teeth which made you fold for him. Shaking your head, you laid back down with your head on the soft pillows. "You're so dumb" You mumbled out, still holding his hand.

Donghyuck groaned, scooting closer to your warm body, tucking himself in your arms as he laid his head on your chest, flush to your neck. Your arms went around him, your nails gently scratching his back. "Five more minutes" He mumbled out, gently pressing a kiss to your neck as he sighed.

You should've said yes, should have said yes to him  and his request. Knowing what you knew 20 hours later in the future, you would've stayed home with him instead, should've made him call out from work and you yourself call out from work. You two should've spend the day together, sleeping in, cuddled up to one another until it was time to get up. You two would've had a slow morning, talking in bed, kissing one another, have nice, slow sex, the kind that had you begging and begging for more, legs shaking as he mumbled obscenities into your ear. Or maybe he would let you take the lead, your soft touches leaving him shaking, his eyes blown out from how bad he wanted you to touch him, to feel you swallow him up. God, the sex you two would've had would never end if you had the choice. Then you'd take a shower together, continue the fun in there until your fingers pruned up and Donghyuck beg you to finish so he could have breakfast. Again, breakfast would be slow, you gently cooking as Donghyuck had his arms wrapped around your waist as he followed you around, pressing a kiss to your neck and cheek.

Instead, you gently groaned and pushed him away from you to get out of his grasp. "Can't, we have work, baby" You said, sitting up in your shared bed as you looked down at him. "What?" You ask, getting shy under his strong gaze.

The way he was looking at you, the way your hair was messy, his shirt on your body, the way the sun was slowly peaking in through the blinds and showered you in its warmth. The way it hit you just right that it looked like a halo over your body, Donghyuck thought he saw an angel with wings. You were so beautiful in his eyes, your body, your face, your eyes, your laugh, it was all otherworldly to him. How did he get so lucky? How did he end up with you? If he knew what he knew now, he would have convinced you to stay home with him. Two stupid kids in love, not knowing what would happen next.

"I love you" Donghyuck said and for some reason, it's like everything clicked. Your whole world fell into place, this was supposed to happen. You and Donghyuck meeting and falling in love, your whole life was leading up to this moment.

"I love you, too" You replied, your eyes filled with love and your body buzzing with how he was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

Donghyuck hummed as he shook his head at you. "Not as much as me"

"Nah, I definitely love you more" You denied, crossing your legs as you threw your hand in your lap, not breaking eye contact with him.

"Nope, no way, I love you more" Donghyuck said, still laying down as he stared up at you.

You shrugged your shoulders again. "Maybe you do"

"I definitely do" He said with a nod of his head, his hair flopping around with the movement. You smiled at him as once again, everything fell into place. This was what your 24 years of living led up to, this was your place, this was where you belonged.

Sighing, you laid back down, his arms going around your frame. You inhaled his scent and it made your brain go fuzzy, your body warming him as he played with the ends of your hair and you listened to the pounding of his heart.

"You're making it hard to go to work, you know that?" You asked him, resting your chin on his chest as you looked at him.

His next words were hushed, a whisper that felt like a spell. "Then stay with me" How tempting those words sounded coming out of his mouth. His face still flushed with sleep, his eyes dropping as he felt himself slip back into it. How your body felt on his, how he could reach for you so easily and how you'd let him do anything to you. You never thought much about how much control he had over you, how you really would let him do anything to you, anything he wanted. You never thought how far that would go.

You groaned, shaking your head at him. "Mark will kill you if you don't clock in on time" Your hand gently tapping his chest as you tried to get up, but he held you down.

"Who cares what Mark thinks" Donghyuck grumbled out, wanting to reach for his phone and texting his work husband to go on the mission without him. Donghyuck wanted to stay home with his wife and sleep in.

You let him keep you to his chest as he closed his eyes, while yours were wide awake. "He is your boss"

"He's a partner"

“He's a position above you" You pointed out, turning your head so you ear was against his chest now.

You felt his chest vibrate as he sighed. "Fine, boss, partner, either way, stay home with me"

"You have work and I have work" You told him, so adamant to go to work and earn money. You wish you didn't.

"Then we call out" Donghyuck said like it was nothing, just another day that would go by. But that's not how the world worked, the two of your rent to pay, food to pay, and credit cards to pay off.

"We have rent to pay and bills coming up" You got up out of his grasp and hovered over his face. You gently pecked the moles on his face until you ended up kissing his lips. He responded immediately, his lips kissing yours and his tongue licking your lips to open your mouth. As you did, the kiss went further on as your tongues fought for dominance, hitting against one another as you straddled his hips, his hands resting on your hips, the grip strong you knew there would be hand prints.

He moaned into your mouth, wanting more and needing more as he moved your hips on him, making your whine. It all felt so good, the friction hitting you and making pleasure go up your spine. This was a dangerous game he was playing as you two still needed to get ready for work. Donghyuck pulled away and started leaving kissing down to your throat. He gently sucked on your neck as your hands ran through his hair, gently gripping as he moaned at the pleasure. Your breath got heavier the more he kissed and sucked, you knew he'd leave a mark but you didn't care. Your hips began to move on their own, your eyes closed in bliss.

"Stay here with me" He mumbled once again, sounding more and more like a command than a suggestion. You were about to let the word slip out of your mouth, a simple yes and your morning would end in a bang. But your eyes opened and caught the red numbers on the clock, 7:37.

"We're late" You replied, gently pushing him off your neck, hands on his shoulders as his gently massaged your hips. "We're so late" You said again, trying to ignore his lustful gaze on your body, the way his chest went up and down as he filled his lugs with air and his eyes glossy and blown out. God, he looked like sex and you wanted him so bad, but at the same time, you needed money.

Donghyuck smirked as he caught how flushed your cheeks were, how he could feel your pussy pulsing against him, knowing you wanted so much more. Knowing how you were so close to begging for him to fill you up until you couldn't remeber your name or the fact that you had work today. But, he was a teasing husband, so he nodded and leaned back against the head board.

"Fine, fine, we'll go clock in" Donghyuck agreed, you nodded your head, ready to get off his lap, until he leaned back in and held your hips flushed against him. He leaned in, his mouth close to yours as mumbled against it. "After work though, we can have all the fun we want"

"Deal"

—

A typical 9-5 was the plan, originally when you were in university for marketing, a simple 9-5 where you'd have lunch at one point in time, where you'd collab with others to make profit and where you'd be able to put your degree to use. Except, that didn't happen. Instead, you graduated with a marketing degree, found no job and almost ended up homeless. Until, you found yourself drinking at a hole in the wall bar when a woman approached you. The conversation was normal, asking how you were and vise versa, asking if you had a job and you saying no. It was a normal conversation until the job topic, she handed you a card with her name and an address. She told you to meet her there the next day to talk about a position.

You were desperate, so you said yes. A job offering? If anything, you hope your drunken state didn't scare her off. But why would it scare her off if she gave you her card before she left? You didn't know, but the next morning you went to the shady address and ended up at a building you passed by everyday. You assumed it was a normal building for business people, somewhere you thought you belonged, but didn't.

You walked in through the glass doors and found a woman sitting at a receptionist desk. You quietly approached her and showed her the card the other woman gave you. The girl looked up from her computer and all you could think was woah, she's young, maybe a few years younger than you, but still. The girl you learned, her name was Miyeon and she was working here part time, working hard to be full time as all the people who work here are cool. Cool? The people who work here are cool? You guessed they were, but you honestly didn't remember the woman who gave you the card. Miyeon told you to use the elevator and go to the fourth floor, that was the floor you were looking for as all the other floors were used for training.

You nodded and made your way up. The elevator was sleek like no other, the metal cold as it dinged you up to the fourth floor. As you exited, your senses were hit with the smell of roses and your heart was pounding. Something was off, the way the fourth floor was laid out was like a normal office, but it didn't feel that way. Cubicles filled with women typing away or having a headset on, saying weird code words that sounded off. Execute, get information, denominate, and other obscene words that made you feel uncomfortable. What kind of office used that language? As you made your way down the aisle to the big back office that was made of glass, some of the women looked at you with raised brows, like they were examining you. Some of them were whispering to one another, sharing words you wanted to know. Did you dress wrong? You put on your best clothes for today, a fancy pencil skirt and a blouse you knew was within typical office dress code. Maybe your heels made too much noise when you walk, you didn't know.

However, you heard your name being called and looked up to see the women who approached you walk up to you with open arms, pulling you close and kissing your cheeks. You followed her into her office and sat down, handing her your resume. She gladly took it, your eyes landed on her name fame and it said Mantis. Mantis? What an odd name .

The interview went as normal, questions being asked and answered, however, Mantis asked some weird questions. Asking if you ever did martial arts, maybe knew how to fight, did you know how to use weapons? Guns? Knives? All these weird questions you thought were inappropriate, but you answered them in hopes that you'd get the job. You didnt know how to use a gun, but knives you had some experience since your family made you take some self defense classes as a kid.

All in all, it ended up with you being employed and started training the next morning. So, that's how you ended up here, a hit woman. You never thought you'd end up here, about to quit on the first day when you learned that training was fight training and not learning how to use Excel and Microsoft Word. However, you needed moneys and the only way to get out as a new hire was to die, no one could know about this line of work.

"Mako, you're late" Your handler, Lyra said, her eyes in slits as she walked up to your cubicle, leaning on your desk as you sighed. Mako and Lyra were code names, only ever referring to your coworkers as such. It helped keep your identities safe, no need for using your real names in this line of work. Code names are given by Mantis, your boss, the person who owns this whole operation.

You sighed, sitting in your chair as you crossed your legs. "I know, my husband kept me hostage basically" You explained, leaning back in your chair as you looked up at Lyra.

She shook her head, her mind still not grasping how someone of your caliber could get married. "Still can't believe you got hitched"

"Me either, wasn't exactly in the plan" You replied, sounding sad, yet you smiled so fondly at the thought of your husband sitting at his desk with a picture of the two of you on it.

"Or in the contract either, you're lucky Mantis likes you" Lyra added on, which made you cringe at how careless you were when it came to falling in love with Donghyuck.

The contract stated that marriage and partners were off the table. It was for everyone's safety, especially yours. If you get married or have a romantic partner, if anyone caught wind of it, you and everyone you love was in danger. However, you didn't think about the contract when Donghyuck first came up to you at the grocery store, you didn't think about the contract when he asked you out, took you to dinner, or when you ended up in his bed. You sure as hell didn't think of it either when you said your vows to him. The contract wasn't real in your mind when it came to Donghyuck, so when you asked Mantis for a few weeks off for your Honeymoon, she did give you an earful. She told you it was a breach of contract, that it wasn't allowed, it was frowned upon and most importantly, if you weren't careful, you could die.

You, however, assured her you'd be careful, you'd continue work like normal, but Donghyuck was your lifeline now. You weren't going anywhere and neither was Donghyuck, you two were a team, inseparable. Your determination to continue working while being married, and also being one of Mants's best employee had its advantages. Mantis, although still angry with you, let you have your way. After all, you made her a shit ton of money with your intel and assassinations.

"Mantis likes me because I have the most kills" You replied, saying it like it's normal. Saying it like you didn't kill people, just like it was another day in the office.

Lyra sighed as she thought back to when you two first met. "Who would've thought. I still remember your bambi eyed stare when you walked into the training room"

"I didn't think this place was that king of company" You joked, the two of you laughing at the memory of your training days. How shit of a fighter you were, but how clever you came out to be.

"You enjoyed it, don't lie" Lyra replied, pointing out how even though you were shit at fighting, it made you want to work harder and eventually you ended up loving it.

"I do" You nodded, being content with how your job turned you into the person you are today. "Has it been 3 years already?"

"About to be four in a couple months" Lyra pointed out, gently tapping your desk with the maxilla folder she still had yet to mention. "Be happy, you set a record at being a newbie and having more kills than the veterans" She whispered, making the two of you laugh as you're both somewhat new to the job.

"Heard that!" You both heard one of your seniors yell as she walked past the two of you.

This only made the two of you laugh a bit louder, Lyra mumbling a small, "Sorry, Aries!"

"You're gonna get us in trouble with her, you know that" You laughed at her, gently smack her arm as you put a hand in front of your mouth to hide your laughter.

"Sorry, sorry" Lyra chuckled out, clearing her throat as she silently locked into what she needed to tell you. Holding up the manila folder, she gave her a tense smile. "So, you have a new mission"

"Another one? Didn't I just kill a guy?" You groaned, knowing you just got off of a mission a solid two days ago. It was a simple mission, simple poison and he was gone.

Lyra nodded, but sighed a bit. "Yeah, but this one is different, come on let's go, we gotta discuss"

You sighed as she grabbed your arm and pulled you along to one of the private rooms to discuss the mission. Missions weren't as common as most people think, mostly your job was to get intel from people, gangs, companies, it was like you were a private investigator. However, those were mostly things you guys called tasks, missions were worth more money and were more dangerous. Your first mission was something that haunted you, but the money was too good to not do again. Killing people slowly became something you did like breathing. It got to a point where it was easy, desensitizing, and it scared you, but you knew you were doing something right. The people you killed were criminals, people who killed innocent kids and mothers, tortured husbands and random people on the street. You knew what you were doing was right, but it didn't meant it didn't haunt you, because it did. You still have nightmares sometimes.

Donghyuck would comfort you during those nightmares, thinking you watched a scary movie before sleeping. At least that's what you would tell him. Donghyuck didn't know your line of work, didn't know you were a hit woman, he just assumed you did marketing for a small business that paid you well. Donghyuck could never know what you do, it was too dangerous.

"So, what's the mission this time?" You asked Lyra, wanting to get it over with to come home in time to be with your husband. "Killing a criminal? A drug dealer? Rapist? What is it?" You asked, leaning back into the plush chair, your body relaxed as you had been through this so many times you lost count.

"Actually, you know our rivals right?" Lyra asked, your body going ridged and straightening up with tension. "The people who keep stealing our intel and selling it as their own?"

"NCT? Yeah, I know them" They were annoying little bugs. You'd heard rumors about them, sometimes running into them when you're both hired for the same job, but other than that, they're secretive like your company. Except for the fact that they steal your work and claim it as their own, little snakes. They've been on your companies radar for the past few years, Mantis doing everything in her power to take them down, but they're good at hiding themselves.

"Well, one of them kinda slipped up and we got them on camera. His name is Haechan, he's a hit man and he killed one of our allies for intel on us and what we have to sell, so we need him executed" Lyra reported to you, her voice formal as you nodded your head, yet it tilted in confused at his name.

"Haechan?" You asked, slight interest going up at the playfulness of his sunshine name. "Such a bright codename for a killer" You pointed out, Lyra agreed with you and sighed.

"Yeah, but that's his name" Lyra finally slid the manila folder holding all the information the company had on him, his name, photo, approximate height and stature. "Here's his file"

"Thanks" You mumbled out, opening it up and your body went cold. Heart pounding, yet not strong enough as it felt faint in your chest, your breath coming in short huffs as you stare at the photo infront of you. It's right there, Donghyuck's face staring right at you like he was taunting you. "That's not possible" You whispered to yourself, his beautiful face staring back at you.

You were convinced it was fake, it had to be. Maybe it was a clone, maybe it wasn't him and it was a trick of the light. But no, it was him, it was Donghyuck. His face moles all in the right spot, the same spots you kissed every night and morning, honestly any chance you could your lips would be pressed against his moles. Now, they were marks that you had to hit. Your silence and wide eyes concerned Lyra as she furrowed her brows, leaning down a bit to try to catch your gaze.

"Mako, everything okay?" She asked, her voice laced with concern, but in your mind, it was all fuzzy as it went through one ear and out the other. "Mako?" Lyra asked again, her voice a bit louder and it finally caught your attention.

"Everything's fine" You mumbled out, giving her a weak smile as you swallowed hard. You cleared your throat and closed the manila folder to encase Donghyuck's face. "So, I just need to kill him?" The words coming out so carefully, like if you said it into existence it would happen right then and there.

Kill him? Kill Donghyuck? The man you were going to spend the rest of your life with? How could you do that? How could that just be another day in the office? Kill Donghyuck. You can't do that, it was hard to even be mad at him, but you have to, it's your job.

Lyra nodded, not caring about how insane this is sounding to you. "Yeah, basically" Your mind kept replaying the same words over and over again. Another day in the office.

But wait, kill Donghyuck? A member of your rival company? Why not use him? Keep him alive, not just for your own selfish reasons, but for intel on NCT and how they work. Donghyuck could be useful to Mantis, and Mantis is anything, but wasteful, so why waste Donghyuck? Why get rid of him when she could use him?

"I don't need to keep him alive for dirt on NCT?" You asked, furrowing your brows and trying to stay in your Mako character. "I figured Mantis would want something like that"

"No, Mantis just said to execute him" 

Again, this confused you so much. Why kill off someone you can use? It defeated the purpose of anything. "But why? He works with NCT, you'd think she'd want information on them and take them down, why kill someone you could use to your advantage?"

"I don't know, but Mantis knows what she's doing" Lyra said with full confidence in your boss. Mantis is smart, Mantis always had the answer for everything, o of course you trusted her with your life, but again, this all seemed so careless.

"If you say so" However, you had to have trust in what you were doing, so you let it go. "So, when do I need to kill him by?"

"In 12 hours"

You got up out of your seat, eyes wide as the chair rolled away from you. "What?! 12 hours?" You voice loud that it caught Lyra off guard and made her confused.

"Yeah, that's not a problem is it?" She asked, making you blink twice and think about your outburst. Oh, right, Mako, who can kill so well and here you are, freaking out. "You usually knock them out in less then 10"

Your spine straightened up and you nodded. "Right, yeah, right" You quickly grabbed the chair behind you and cleared your throat, taking a seat. "Proceed" You instructed Lyra who just looked at you weird.

"Okay, what's going on? You're acting weird about this" She asked, putting her hands on the table to get a closer look at you. She can't know, she can't know that you unknowingly married Haechan from NCT, that'll ruin you. Not to mention, Mantis would kill you.

"Nothing, it's nothing" So, you shook your head as you trued to act a little sick. "Just, you know, feeling a little under the weather" You replied, coughing a bit and putting a hand to your head like it hurt.

Thank God for your skills at acting because Lyra bought it, at least you hope she did. "Oh, no, I'm sorry"

"It's fine, don't worry" You saying, sniffing to really sink it in that you're a little under the weather. "Uh, I'll get it done soon"

"Okay, just don't forget about the report you have to do after" Lyra reminded you in a soft voice, not wanting to make your head more.

"How can I forget?" You asked, staring down at the manila folder, opening it up and ignoring Haechan's photo staring at you. "So, where am I going to...to..."

"Kill Haechan?" Lyra finished your sentence, not wanting to say those two words that held so much weight to them.

You looked up at her and took in a deep breath. "Yeah" You breathed out, Lyra thinking you took a deep breath to fill your congested lungs and not because you were feeling heavy at the idea of holding your knife to your husband's throat.

"Sources say he's going to have lunch with his partner on 127th avenue"

127th avenue? There was only one place Donghyuck would ever have dinner, he took you there on your first date, took you there for your first month-aversary, he takes those things seriously, and he took you there whenever you asked because you knew it made him happy. It was a little Italian place, family owned and had great food, but Donghyuck only ever went for their garlic bread. It was a cute place, cozy and warm like Donghyuck, he got excited every time you asked him if you could skip making dinner and just go eat out there. It held a lot of good memories, so now that you had to go there to end his memories and end the ones that you thought you'd continue to have, it was a full circle moment you didn't want to happen. 

"The Italian place?" You asked, your voice cracking as the memories of Donghyuck making you laugh and giving you recommendations to food came to your mind. How he held your hand the whole time, how he insisted you two sat next to one another rather than sitting across from you, how he would pick from your plate and beg you to feed him. All those memories would be taken from him, because of you.

"Yeah, you know it?" Lyra asked, taking you away from your thoughts and you shook your head.

"No, I don't, just assumed"

"Oh, okay, well yeah, Haechan's meeting his partner there for dinner, we're assuming he's also NCT affiliated, but Mantis said to not intervene with Mark, your target is only Haechan"

Mark? As in Mark Lee? As in Donghyuck's boss/partner Mark? Just how many of Donghyuck's friends were apart of NCT? Well, it would be obvious that Mark would be apart of NCT since he works in the company as well, but what about the ones you met but didn't know how they met Donghyuck. You only met Mark by accident, running into them while walking around town, seeing that familiar head of hair you yelled his name. Looking back at it, you should have known something was off, how his back tensed up, how he turned around and didn't meet you with the same wide smile he usually gives you, how he didn't smother you in kisses like he usually does, even if he was in public, and how Mark looked at him with dagger in his eyes. Was marriage also a breach of their contract like it was yours? Did Donghyuck never tell his coworkers he got married? You should have known something was suspicious after that meeting, how Mark kept rushing and how Donghyuck looked uncomfortable, and you? You just kept talking and kept inviting Mark to have dinner with the two of you sometime since you never met any of Donghyuck's friends.

"Mark?" You questioned, your mind going back to that first meeting and all the others that came after it. "Sick son of a bitch" You mumbled under your breath.

"What was that?" Lyra asked, looking at you with raised brows.

You shook your head, looking back up at her and closing the manila folder as you finished reading all the info they had on Haechan. "Nothing, just, get my bag ready and I'll follow his lead"

"You got it"

6 hours later....

2:30 pm....

You knew Donghyuck's schedule by the back of your hand, so you knew what time his lunch would be. Sure enough, by 2:30 pm he sent you a text message, saying he was at lunch and going to get food with Mark. He didn't tell you where, but with the source you got, sure enough, you saw the taxi pull up and Donghyuck get out. You were in the restaurant, a wig on, sunglasses, and a coat covering your figure. You sat in the back corner, sipping on your water as you catch the two walk in.

"Mako to Lyra, sunshine walked in" You mumbled, your earpiece picking up your voice to send the message to Lyra your handler at corporate.

"Lyra to Mako, copy" She said in your ear.

The two sat down, five tables over and diagonal from you. Due to the small nature of the restaurant, you knew you had to act as normal as possible while watching your husband and from across the dining room. Your eyes left his figure periodically, going back every now and then as you continued on like this was your normal lunch break. Glasses of water and two entrees later, Donghyuck and Mark asked for the bill and paid. You watched his movements closely, how he buttoned his coat, how he pushed his chair back in and how he ran a hand through his hair. His soft hair, how you wished it was your hands running through it, how you knew if you gripped it the right way on the back of his neck, he'd whimper softly into your ear and his body would turn to putty in your hands.

"Mako!" You were brought out of your trance as Lyra yelled your name and Donghyuck looked straight at you. You froze, not only did you lose focus, but Donghyuck sees you, and you can't tell if he knows it's you or if he thinks a random woman is staring at a married man. "Mako! Do you copy?" Lyra yelled into your ear piece, but your eyes didn't tear away from Donghyuck as he continued to stare at you.

You quickly averted your gaze and looked away, the stare being too intense that it scared you. Clearing your throat you asked for the bill and paid, looking up to see that Donghyuck was gone. "Shit" You mumbled. "Mako to Lyra, I lost him"

"What? You lost him!" Lyra yelled into your ear, your hand going up to your ear piece to soothe your aching ear. You quickly got up from your chair and rushed outside the restaurant.

"It's fine! I'll find him" You assured her, looking left and right, but you didn't see him. You sighed as you heard Lyra sigh is disappointed.

"You better" She mumbled out, disconnecting your call as you took in a deep breath and made your way to the left, following whatever instinct you had.

Walking blocks and blocks, your heels were tiring you out. No one knew where NCT headquarters was, no one else had a lead on Haechan's where about, right now, you were close to giving up. You walked around the city for hours, looking down alleyways, looking into shops, glancing at anyone who looked remotely like your husband. You changed your disguise ten different times so no one could catch on to you. Your day was getting long, but maybe this was a good thing, it was a good thing Haechan got out of your sight, that way you wouldn't have to kill him. But then again, if you couldn't do your job, someone else would, someone else would kill your husband.

Maybe it was better for you to kill him, that way you could postpone it as long as you could, yeah, you'll do that. You'll tell Mantis a lie, say you had a showdown with him and he got away, but you know where he went, you say you can track him down and that you two were playing a cat and mouse game together. However, you knew Mantis and she would never agree to let you play childish games with someone apart of NCT, it was reckless.

7:40 pm

5 hours and 50 minutes remaining....

The sun was setting, your time was running around and your tenth disguise was starting to lose its charm. Staying in one disguise for too long would cause suspicion for some, especially for you. It was smart to constantly change so no one would notice you walking back and forth. Since it was turning nightfall, the sun going to sleep and the moon coming out to play, your last disguise was a black dress, a black dress with the same black heels you've been wearing and your hair down out of its updo. As you flawlessly changed in the midst of the busy streets, you knew where Donghyuck would go after a long day at work, the bar.

You tapped your ear piece and the line connected to Lyra. "Mako to Lyra, I've spotted him" You lied through your teeth.

"Lyra to Mako, you got eyes on him? Copy" You hear Lyra say on the other line, her fingers tapping on her keyboard.

You hummed as your heels clacked on the pavement to your destination. "He's at a bar, the one off of Dream street"

You heard Lyra hum on the other line. "Copy, you need backup? Is he with Mark?"

"Don't need backup, Mark is no where to be seen" You replied since you knew Mark always stayed after hours to get work done as Donghyuck would tell you.

"That guy overworks himself, I don't know how he does it" Donghyuck would say over dinner, sipping on his beer as you sipped on your wine. "He gets to work early and leaves super late, complete opposite of me. I get to work late and run out of that damn office like it's on fire"

"Why do you want to leave so early?" You asked, tilting your head like a confused dog. You set down your glass of wine, your eyes and attention solely on him. Donghyuck smirked as he looked at you, his beautiful wife.

It's like he was transported back to your wedding day, how you looked in your white dress, how he felt watching you walk down the aisle and how he felt when you said those words, "I do". Oh, how he dreamed that'd he'd wake up and it would be his wedding day all over again, how the nerves in his stomach would flutter around making him feel light, how his mind was filled with you and your memories together, and how he knew that in a couple of hours you would be his in every humanly way possible. So, of course, there was only one reason why Donghyuck would run out of the office like it was up in flames.

"To see my pretty girl" He flirted, his lips puckering up as he blew a kiss to you. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you knew he was just saying that to be in your good graces. Happy wife, happy life, a motto Donghyuck lived by.

"You mean to get a drink at the bar" You called him out, your wine glass coming to your lips as Donghyuck faked a gasp, before chuckling.

"That's only on Fridays"

Which happens to be today. God, you were hoping he wasn't there, you were hoping that when you walked in that little dive bar he wouldn't be drinking a beer or any other concoction he felt like drinking. "Drinks on Fridays. Please skip it, please be the one day you don't come"

Please, don't be sitting there at the bar, up on a stool as he drank his afternoon beer away. You kept mumbling it, don't be there, don't be there, be walking home, be home and call me saying where I was, be home, cooking, making us food before we watch a movie and sleep on the couch. Please, don't be at the bar. It's all you kept telling yourself as your heels clicked on the parent, your steps going faster and your lungs burning as you breathed in the air. God, please don't be there.

You turned the corner, the sum was slowly being covered by grey clouds and the sight sky. Soon enough you saw the dive bar come in your point of view. The shitty LED sign buzzing and flickering its name, people already hanging outside of it, smoking cigarettes and talking. You walked up to the doors, pulling your ID out and went inside. As soon as you went in, the smell of beer and cigarettes hit your nose, inhaling you looked around, growing the looks the men around you gave you. Walking in slowly, hoping to not get noticed by your husband, you searched for him.

"Please" You whispered to yourself, your heart beating faster and faster as you approach the bar. As the crowd slowly got thinner the closer you got, the more you could see. Your breath fell out of your lips as you didn't see him, he wasn't here.

The bar stools not being occupied by your husband. He wasn't here. Donghyuck wasn't here, if he wasn't here that means he was at home, at home and safe and can live another day before someone else grabbed him. Maybe you'd run home, run home and tell him everything, tell him you needed to leave, to run, to change identities and live off the grid. You'd run away together, life together in hiding and it would just be the two of you again. No rivalries, no marks on your backs.

Yeah, that's what you'll do. So, with a smile on your face, you turned your body around, ready to run home and share your plan with Donghyuck. You couldn't wait to tell him, but even then, to tell him what exactly? That you were sent to kill him? Sent to en his life just as easy as he entered yours? And for what? Money? Would Donghyuck even want to still be married to you after revealing that? Would he still want to love you and be with you?

But your mind was made up. All the afterthoughts would come later, because you loved him so much more than a lousy paycheck. Turning around, a smile on your face, ready to start a new life, and you end up ramming yourself into someone. Looking up, your brain didn't register who it was yet, all you knew was that it was your husband.

"Oh, hey baby" You said with a smile, not thinking anything of it until you remember where you were, you remembered who you were and what you had to do. "Donghyuck!" You gasped, hand coming to your chest as you breathed in. "You scared me, what're you doing here?" You asked him, trying to catch his breath as he just looked at you.

gaze was different, it was something you noticed, something your assassin brain realized. Haechan was suspicious. "I can ask you the same thing" He said, his gaze looking you up and down, why were you in a black dress at a dive bar?

"Uh, I wanted to surprise you, duh" You said, trying to act cute for him. A pout here, your voice an octave higher and your eyes shining up at him like you weren't planning to kill him and then convince him to run away.

"You never surprise me" He said, his voice low as he looked down at you. His brows furrowed, lips downturned and not in their usual pout that you grew to love.

He was right, you never did surprise him. Surprises weren't your thing, you could never do them right and never did them justice. Even then, your idea of a surprise was making his favorite dinner on a random day and saying 'I made your favorite'. Donghyuck wasn't surprised by your actions though, as he always picked up on what you bought and would usually put two and two together. But, he'd still act surprised and shocked when you would tell him, wanting to make you feel special and loved. And even though you knew he knew, you still felt your heart swell when he'd say how surprised he was and how it was the best surprise.

It's why you fell in love with him. How he'd look at you with such love, how he'd bend over backwards to please you just because he wanted to. Donghyuck wanted to do things for you, he didn't do them out of a husband obligation, he did them because he wanted to see you smile. So, if it meant pretending, then he'd gladly do it. Pretending, is that what he's doing right now?

"Well, isn't that a surprise in of it self?" You questioned, trying so hard to not sound suspicious, even though he's already caught onto your little act: "Surprise!" You said happily, reaching up to pull him into a hug.

His arms instinctively went around your waist as yours went around his neck. You inhaled him and your knees went weak, your heart skipping a beat with the way he gripped your waist. Pulling away, you looked at him, hoping your cuteness and oblivious act payed off.

"Come on, let's go for a walk" He said, cocking his head to the door outside. You nodded as he grabbed your hand and led you outside.

Your stomach was churning, something wasn't right about this. Why talk outside? Sure, it's a little packed in the bar, but it isn't horrid, you two could still talk out here. As he lead you past the crowd of men, the air felt different. It wasn't was light as it used to be before you saw Haechan, it wasn't as breathable, because right now it was so thick and stuffy, your breaths were short huffs.

Your body was itching, your stomach feeling sick and Haechan's grip was too strong. He knew. He had to know, you couldn't help but think that he knew you were following him, he knew who you were and what you work for, he has to. Haechan was acting too cold, too nonchalant, he didn't smother you in kisses when you hugged him, he didn't pout and whine when you pulled away��in fact, he was the first he was the first one to pull out of your hug. The man pulling you out of the dive bar wasn't Donghyuck, your husband, but Haechan, the assassin from NCT.

This wasn't going to end well. But, maybe he'd have mercy on you, you are his wife after all. Maybe he'll let you explain and you'll tell him everything, tell him how you don't want to kill him, you want to run away with him and start over, be normal and actually have a normal 9 to 5 job, or even be a stay at like wife like some sick fairy tale ending. You don't know, but all you know is that Haechan knows what you're up to and you can't tell if he'll give you a chance to explain or your marriage was going to end in a death.

The air was colder now, a little sticky with the humidity. "Is it going to rain?" You asked, your question going unanswered as Donghyuck kept walking down the alley way. "Donghyuck, baby, where are we going?" You asked again and yet it goes ignored once more.

He just kept dragging you, turning corners, leading you to the dock where a lake was. This dock was where all the neighboring businesses collect their stock. "What are we doing here?"

You knew exactly why you were here. This dock, despite it being used 98% of the time, when it was dead night and everyone was out, this dock was secluded. Your nerves were buzzing throughout your body, he was just standing in front of you, ignoring your words as you stare at his back.

Donghyuck was contemplating. He was staring out at the water, how its soft waves reminded him of your soft voice, how gentle you were and yet when you wanted to, you were a storm of emotions he wanted to be drowned in. God, you were everything to him, he loved you so much, all these years of being yours, only to find you following him around.

It was odd, you following him. Your disguise might fool the people you kill, but it could never fool Donghyuck. "You know, you're not the only one who stares when sleeping" He said, his words conflicting as you stared back at him.

"What do you mean?" You ask, trying to act as normal as possible, but again, your instincts were itching at you to grab your knives hidden on your thigh. If only you could reach for them.

It was a conflicting feeling, wanting to reach for your knives despite your husband standing right in front of you. You knew you had to kill him, yet you can't you want to tell him everything and run away, and yet, you can't tell if he'll let you explain or go out fighting. All you knew was that the way Donghyuck was acting, you don't know if you'll come out talking. Did he want to fight? Did he want this to end this way? His guns blazing and your knives trying to cut him? You can't tell and it's making you paranoid. Maybe he had back up, maybe Mark was up on one of the building rooftops telling him, Haechan, she's reaching for her knives. You don't know what he's thinking, he's usually so open about everything, you can read him like a child's book, and right now, it's like you're looking at the worlds hardest language and trying to decipher it.

You can't, you can't read him, you can't see him and you can't understand him.

"I watch you too, when you sleep" He replied, his words so careful and so steady that it's throwing you off. No way Donghyuck, the man who loves you more than anything or anyone in this world is going to want to fight you. "Your face is so engraved in my memory that I can so easily spot you out in a crowd. It's funny"

"How?" You asked, confused at how him memorizing your face so much that it's carved into his brain is funny. "I just think it means you love me. Don't you think?"

Donghyuck hummed, he loves you so much. Your face is carved in his brain forever, it's so recognizable, so easy to find. "Yeah, I do love you"

"I love you too" You mumbled out, for some reason, you felt tears in your eyes. Hot, burning and blinding tears, you don't even notice how Donghyuck is reaching for the inside of his jacket.

"I just never thought I'd recognize your face in a silly disguise following me around town" He mumbled out, his words too soft for you to even hear them or to process them. "Let alone, be recognizable enough to be traced back as Mako"

Your world fell apart. How? What? How did he know? How did anyone know? You kept your alias a secret your work place was anonymous, everyone who hired you didn't know who you were, you kept yourself hidden when doing your assassins. How did anyone find out? How did he find out?

"What?" You questioned, your word coming out more like a squeak. "Wh-what're you taking about?"

"You're not as careful as you think you are, Mako" Your codename falling from his lips so naturally it made your breath hitch. "You had a run in with one of NCT's snipers not too long ago, maybe a year back" He said, finally turning around and your eyes locked onto his stone cold face and then trailed down to his hand holding his shiny gun. You felt your heart crack a little, he wasn't even going to let you explain. How did he know?  "TY, kinda tall, had pale blonde hair? You two were in Seventh City, ring any bells?"

Your face faltered. "Oh, no" You mumbled, the air getting knocked out of your breath as you remembered that mission.

1 year ago...

10:57 pm...

You were only a second year assassin and you were already climbing up the ranks. Kill after kill, intel after intel and paycheck after paycheck and despite being a newlywed, you didn't stop. It was normal to run into other companies doing the same job as you for other customers, but running into an NCT affiliate? That never happened. Yes, you both were rivals and always tried to get the better information to sell or people to kill for a greater profit, yet, you both never ran into one another. NCT and your company would always luck out on one another, either a customer chose you over NCT or vise versa.

Your paths never crossed until that night. It was a clear and cold night, you were inside the building and waking down the dark hallways filled with windows. As you approached the double doors leading to the office of a man who your client hired you to kill, you knocked gently. The other side let out a loud "What", making you mumble your words.

"CEO Lim, I'm here to give you your mail" You said in a sickly sweet voice as you reached down to your holster to grab your knives.

"What? What mail? It's nearly 8 o'clock" He said, his voice tired and annoyed by your presence.

You knocked once more, ignoring his calls for you to shut up and go home. You kept knocking, knock after knock until he got so fed up with you that with great strides, he opened up his door.

"Shut up! Are you stupid? I told you I don't want your goddamn mai—" His words were cut off with a simple stab to the stomach. His voice gurgling as he looked down at your figure, your hair covering your face as you quickly took out your knife and looked up at him.

"Mr. Park says hello" You said, a smile being offered to him as he began to step back, his hands clutching his stomach to stop the bleeding.

"Mr. Lim, that's not going to work" You said with confidence, watching at the foot of the entrance as he walked back to his desk, limping in pain. "If you're reaching for you gun, it isn't there"

Pulling out his gun from your other leg. He looked at you in bewilderment as you held it up and gawked it around like it was a trophy. "I raided your office during your lunch hour. Wasn't that hard to seduce your staff"

You tsked, throwing the gun off somewhere as you walked over to him, his blood still pooling out of his stomach where you stabbed him. You gently tapped his shoulder and he fell into his chair. Sighing, you grabbed his necktie and pull him closer to you, your other hand holding his knife to his throat as he remained silent and his breaths staggering as he bled out.

"Now, I'm going to make this as painless as possible, okay?" You asked, your smile conflicting the situation. How can you smile during this? How can you smile knowing you're going to kill a man?

This line of work was never easy, your first few kills always haunting you. And yet, you always came back, it was the sick part of you that you enjoyed. Knowing you killed people who wronged others, that's what kept you coming back. That and the paycheck was always too good.

As you finished your mission, you looked down at the lifeless body covered in his own blood. Taking in deep breaths you wiped off your knives with your fingers, the blood making a sloshing sound as it fell to the carpet floor. You pressed your finger to your ear piece turning it on as you called for your handler.

"Mako to Lyra, finished the job. Send in clean up" You ordered, looking out at the huge window his office had. It was a nice night, a nice night that is going to end in sweet sex with your husband who was patiently waiting at home.

"Lyra to Mako, copy, sending in clean up crew" Lyra repeated. The line went cold as you continued to look outside the window.

You admired the city, how at night it looked so calm, the bright lights illuminating the dark streets. It was like stars almost, hey there'd even a star out there flickering. Wait a minute, that's not a star.

Turning back on your earpiece, your voice echoed in Lyra's mind. "Mako to Lyra, we have company"

"Who?" Lyra asked, her voice perking up as this usually never happened.

"I'm about to find out"

"Mako wait, wait for back—" You cut her off as you began to walk out of the office. Your feet fast as your heels clacked against the floor.

Once you made it outside the building, you quickly entered the next, the doors sliding open as the front desk receptionist said a curt hello to you. You nodded, making your way to the elevator, riding up to the top floor. You waited patiently, watching as the lights above you dinged with each passing floor.

8, 9, 10, it was at the 11th floor that the doors opened up. A man with blonde hair in a nice suit with a brief case walked in. He gave you a small nod as he went to hit the top floor button, but realized oh, you had already pushed it. Question was, why would someone who's on the 11th floor want to go up to the 12th floor if he could just take the stairs.

Ah ha. Your brain made the connection as you both hit the 12th floor and none of you came out. It was eerily silent, no one saying a word and yet you both knew who you were. Assassins. However, he worked on rooftops, so a sniper and whatever he had in that briefcase was his weapon of choice no doubt about it, it was a gun.

"Lyra to Mako, copy, sending in clean up crew" Lyra repeated. The line went cold as you continued to look outside the window.

You admired the city, how at night it looked so calm, the bright lights illuminating the dark streets. It was like stars almost, hey there'd even a star out there flickering. Wait a minute, that's not a star.

Turning back on your earpiece, your voice echoed in Lyra's mind. "Mako to Lyra, we have company"

"Who?" Lyra asked, her voice perking up as this usually never happened.

"I'm about to find out"

"Mako wait, wait for back—" You cut her off as you began to walk out of the office. Your feet fast as your heels clacked against the floor.

Once you made it outside the building, you quickly entered the next, the doors sliding open as the front desk receptionist said a curt hello to you. You nodded, making your way to the elevator, riding up to the top floor. You waited patiently, watching as the lights above you dinged with each passing floor.

8, 9, 10, it was at the 11th floor that the doors opened up. A man with blonde hair in a nice suit with a brief case walked in. He gave you a small nod as he went to hit the top floor button, but realized oh, you had already pushed it. Question was, why would someone who's on the 11th floor want to go up to the 12th floor if he could just take the stairs.

Ah ha. Your brain made the connection as you both hit the 12th floor and none of you came out. It was eerily silent, no one saying a word and yet you both knew who you were. Assassins. However, he worked on rooftops, so a sniper and whatever he had in that briefcase was his weapon of choice no doubt about it, it was a gun.

"You stole my kill" He mumbled out, the elevator starting its way back down. 10th floor.

You furrowed your brows, not daring to look at him as you could easily see one another through the steel doors. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You stole my kill" He said again, his voice stern as his grip on his briefcase made his knuckles go white.

You snapped your fingers, faking putting two and two together. "You mean CEO Lim?" You asked, your voice all happy compared to his.

"He was mine to kill"

You clicked your tongue and shook your head, your body relaxed compared to his stiff body. "Not according to my boss, he was mine"

"I was the one who was hired, not you" He pointed out, the elevator continuing to go down. 7th floor.

"Sure you were tough guy" You joked, making yourself chuckle as he remained stiff. "Say, why be a sniper when you can get all the action up close?"

"Why be an assassin when you can't even kill the man properly. You prolonged his death and for what? Some sick sadistic reason?"

"Client needed more info so I got more info. Snipers are always rushing. One after the other, one bullet and so forth. You don't listen to your clients when they say torture the guy for more info"  You ranted on about snipers and your distaste for them.

It's not that you hated snipers, they were fine for your field of work. Heck, you were friends with snipers, 98% of your company works as snipers, only 2% are assassins like yourself. Snipers are fine, they're just too quick. They want as many kills in as little time as possible, they see their target, they pull the trigger. Snipers are trigger happy and it pisses you off sometimes because as an assassin, torture was the only way to get more info and get a bigger pay check. Eventhough it is more personal, you earned more money and you were more careful. Snipers are careless creatures, who again, care more about a kill count then the clients who hired you.

"Snipers are quick, we don't prolong a death for extra info the clients won't pay for" Taeyong replied sternly, feeling offended by the perception you had of him.

"Well this client did. Maybe talk to your handler and boss, they'll make better deals for you" You boasted, thinking about the raise you earned for this mission.

Taeyong scoffed, annoyed at how money hungry you are. "We don't make last minute deals"

"Right, because NCT is just so quick with their kill count" You mumbled out, watching the light change from the 5th floor to the 4th. Times almost up.

Taeyong whipped his head to look at you, the first time since this elevator ride, he finally looked at you. "How'd you know I was NCT affiliate?"

Slowly turning your head to look at him, your eyes studied his body. Clean cut black suit, Italian leather shoes, a rolex, none the doubt that was modified to some sort of hidden weapon, maybe even his pager. Sighing, you looked at him with a blunt look, NCT affiliates are so easy to track.

"Your suit, the stitching is neon green in some lighting. You guys aren't as smart as you think you are. Some uniform" You pointed out, Taeyong's eyes glancing down at his suit and sure enough, in some lighting you could see the neon green stitching.

He looked back up at you and you raised an eyebrow at him. How could he one up you? Oh, he knows how. "Okay little miss Widow"

Now it was your turn to be surprised by this. "How'd you—"

"Your knife handle has a spider engraved on it. A bit on the nose, don't you think?" He asked, remembering how he looked through his sights to see your knives. Sure enough, there was a spider on it, Widows.

"I don't need the sass from an NCT" You shot back, annoyance running through your body.

He looked back at you with the same annoyance. "And I don't need a Widow stealing my kills"

You groaned out loud as your body slumped, it's not your fault two different clients hired two different people to do their dirty work. "I didn't steal your kill, you psycho! Clearly we were both hired by two different people, every think of that Sherlock?" You asked him, waiting for his response, but sure enough the elevator hit the 1st floor. Looking at the opening door, you glanced back at him, ready to leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me"

"How you know I won't follow you?" Taeyong asked, watching as you clicked your heels on the cold tile floor as you were walking away from him.

Your steps came to a hault, turning around to look at Taeyong who remained in the elevator, his arm stopping the doors from closing in on him. "Because then what's the fun in that?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Taeyong stared at you and you stared back at him. It was a mutual agreement that didn't need words, one that you both understood. Don't kill each other right now, both of your paths will cross again and only then would you two fight to the death. However, Taeyong is a sniper, snipers love their rooftops and doing their dirty work from afar, and better yet, they love doing it when there's no risk, you being at home is a risk, because who knows what kind of things you have hiding in your closet.

Taeyong would wait until the field, he'd wait until your somewhere with no risks, he'd wait for his kill. That's the sick fun people in your work have and crave for.

So, he let the doors close in on him, he let the elevator doors close and send him back up to his safe little rooftop as he continued on with his night. You however, would walk away, your figure disappearing as you made your way outside, no one suspecting a thing.

Honestly, that interaction left your mind the next day, not caring for when you would see Taeyong again. You just didn't think it'd come back and haunt you.

"Oh, yes. So, you do remember?" Donghyuck asked, a wicked smile plastered on his face as he began to circle around you like a vulture getting ready to eat its food. "Well, let me tell you a little story. When I was out today, walking around, eating lunch with Mark. I noticed a girl sitting in the corner watching us, or at least pretending to not watch us. At first I was confused you know, who was this stalker watching Mark and I, and it wasn't until I was about to leave that I realized, oh, it was my wife. Now, logically speaking I'm thinking, oh, she wants to see what I'm up to, maybe she recognized me while she was on her own lunch break, that's funny. But then, as soon as I leave, she leaves too and is trying to find me. Now, I'm nice and as I'm about to scare her with Mark, I hear her say something funny"

"Donghyuck" You interrupted him, wanting to explain as you felt your body tremble with anxiety and sadness.

He's really doing this, he's airing out the whole day and is ready to fight you. Why? Why did he want to fight you? Why couldn't he just let you explain, let you tell him your plan to run away? Why couldn't he just shut up for a minute?

"Something along the lines of Mako to Lyra, I lost him. Now, I think this is funny because I remember TY telling me a funny little story on how he had a run in with this women who stole his kill and info and that her name happened to be Mako. Now, imagine my surprise when I hear my wife call herself Mako!" Donghyuck came to a stop, standing right in front of you, staring you down as you felt weak. "Funny story, don't you think?"

"Donghyuck, just let me explain" You begged, your voice coming out in a whine as you just wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him.

Did he really think you'd kill him? Did he really think you didn't come up with a different possibility? Sure, your first instinct was to kill him until you thought of a different plant. But honestly? After being together for a couple years, you'd think your husband would hear you out, trust you.

And he did trust you. Oh my God, he trusted you so much, trusted you with every atom that made up his body. That's why he doesn't want to hear you out, doesn't want to hear the excuses you're going to make or the plan you thought of. Donghyuck felt betrayed, felt like his world collapsed when he heard you say those words to Lyra. Donghyuck felt like his world shifted, it shifted to the other side of the universe, a whole new world where you aren't his wife, but an enemy.

Donghyuck began to think, was all of this a ruse? A lie? Did you even love him? Did you want to marry him? Did you mean the vows and words you said to him? Every laugh, every word, every meeting and interaction, was it all fabricated so you could end his life? Those are the questions running through his mind. If you were sent to kill him, was it since the beginning? Was this your mission the whole time?

Did your company catch whiff of him so early on that they tasked you to kill him? Did you only get into this relationship to end his life?

"Wait, I'm not finished" He stopped you, his gaze growing cold, his warm eyes going dumb as he towed above you. His face so close to yours that you could see everything on his face. Every line you memorized, every mole you once kissed, every word you ever said to him, it was all coming to an end. "Now, in my head I'm thinking, no, no way my wife, my beautiful wife is Mako, and no way is she hunting me down to kill me"

"Donghyuck, please" Those were the only words that could come out of your mouth. Your world is slowly crumbling, falling down like one of your victims.

This wasn't normal, the way Haechan was looking at you wasn't normal, the way he was standing tall, standing like a man ready to throw a punch, this wasn't your husband standing in front of you, this was a killer. But so were you, you were a killer, still are, and you were sent to kill him, so do it, kill him.

"No, you're here to kill me, so do it" Even Haechan wanted you to do it. His steps getting closer to you as he stared you down, not breaking anything in his stature. His chest puffed, eyes dark, face hard and he was angry at you, furious. And yet, all you could see was Donghyuck, the man you'd laugh with at 3 in the morning because of something stupid.

It was all you could see, you can't kill him, because if you kill him, you'd kill yourself in the process. So, with teary eyes you shook your head at him.

"No, I can't" You said, your voice weak with emotion and distress. How could he ask you to kill him? And so easily?

He took another step towards you, his face so close to yours you could feel his breath hitting your face. His next words were grim, "Do it, or I will kill you"

The breath was knocked out of your chest, your lungs burning as your body went cold. Kill you, Haechan will kill you if you don't kill him. How can he say that? How can he stand there and say those words without second thought? But, aren't you a hypocrite for thinking this? Aren't you the one who decided to accept the mission anyways? Weren't you the one who followed him around all day for hours and hours on end just to end his life? You accepted it without second thought, so this was his revenge, his way one gaining control over a decision you decided to take.

"Donghyuck" You said, his name dying on your lips.

"You've made your choice. Kill me" He said, his finger messing with the trigger of the gun he's holding. You glance down at it, was he actually serious about this?

Tearing your eyes away from his gun, you looked back up at him. "Don't make—"

"Fine, then I'll kill you" Donghguck said, his gun lifting up, the tip touching your stomach. You felt your heart beat faster and faster, panic settling in as you look ed down at the gun touching you.

"Dong—"

"No!" He exclaimed, moving away from you as he turned around. You let out a breath of relief as his back was now to you, his gun to his head as he closed his eyes, thinking about what he was doing. He turned around to face you, his gun coming down as he flailed it around, his body running hot. "You do not get to back out of this, you chose your mission, now I'm choosing mine"

"Don't—" You snake your head, but he shook his head, his gun going up as he pointed it straight at you. "Please! Just let me explai—"

Donghyuck pulled the trigger, the bullet barely missing you as you flinched away. "Let me explain!" You yelled at him, your heart beating out of your chest. Donghyuck shook his head as he pulled the trigger again, making you run away from him, Donghyuck continuing to pull the trigger to hit you.

You ran behind a wall in between an alley way, hearing Donghyuck's foot steps come closer to you. "Shit" You mumbled, lifting up your skirt to grab your knives from their holster.

You gripped them tightly, your knuckles going white as you peaked your head from over the wall. You quickly found him walking closer to you, looking away, your brain had to think of a plan fast. Looking down, you found some rocks, instantly, you grabbed one and threw it to a different place away from your spot. The rock hit the ground, making some noise which caused Donghyuck to look away, which gave you an opening to move slowly around him, wanting to make him confused before you attack.

You stepped out of your heels, knowing this fight would be a hard one to get out of. Your feet stepping onto the cold concrete as you slowly and quietly came out of the alley way to confront him. You watched his face, his gun held up as he turned every corner to make sure you wouldn't come out and attack him.

It was a tango, a dance, the warmup before the show as you slowly approached him. Suddenly, as soon as you got closer to him, Haechan's back straightened up, his shoulders going lax as he turned around.

Your knives in your hand as his gun was in his. No words were exchanged, no remarks, nothing, just the both of you standing there, ready to give into this fight none of you wanted, but knew you had to have.

Donghyuck moved first, his gun going off as you dodged it, throwing one of your knives at him, missing your target by a mere inch. With one hand free as Donghyuck tried to regain his composure, you grabbed his gun by the barrel, moving it up as he shot a bullet in the air.

Using this momentum, you bring the gun to your side and tried to get it out of his grip, but he pulled his arm in which made you two he face to face. Haechan reeled his head back as it made contact with yours. You groaned in paid as it caused you to stumble back, Haechan quickly pointed his gun at your again, ready to shoot, but you bent down and extended your leg to sweep his own which caused him to fall to the ground, making him loosen his grip on his gun.

You ran to it, quickly kicking it away as far as possible when Haechan grabbed your leg and pulled it, making you fall on the floor ready for him to crawl on top of your to pin your hands above your head to grab your other knife and throw it far away as well.

Both of your now left without weapons, it was time for your hand to hand combat to pay off. With Donghyuck on top of you, he made it clear to punch you in the face as you tried to get out of his grip, wrapping your legs around his waist and using your full force to flip the both of you over, this was done fairly easily since this was a move you could do in your sleep.

Now with you on top of him, you began to punch him in the face repeatedly, but Haechan was quick to push you off of him, making you roll away on your back.

Looking back up at him, Haechan was now standing up, adjusting his suit coat as his feet began to kick at your stomach, making you groan in pain. After a few kicks, you gathered enough strength to pull your first back and punch him in the groin, making him double over in pain.

You got up from the floor with him following in suit. The two of you looked at one another, blood coming from his lips as your blood was coming from your eyebrow. Similar cuts on both of your cheeks as you caught your breaths. Haechan moved first, lunging at

you with a punch, which you caught with your hand as your knee moved up to knee him in the stomach.

He groaned as you repeated this action until he reeled back his fist to punch you in the stomach, making you push him off of you. You now lunged at him as you tried to kick him, but he dodged your kick, as he tried to punch you. He got his hit on your cheek, making you stumble back before you jumped up and twisted around in the air as you kicked him in his face, making him fumble to the ground.

You quickly got on top of him again, until he brought his arm up to the side of your neck, blocking you as he pushed you down in the ground for him to get up from the floor. You wrapped your legs around him to get some kind of control when he reached down with both hands to choke you. His strong hands making it hard for you to breathe as you clawed at his face.

The more you clawed, the more Haechan got annoyed with you, so he let go of your neck, putting the full force of his body on top of yours as your arms went around the back of his neck as he lifted you up in the air.

You gripped on as he to shake you off, and realizing that he couldn't, he rand to the closets brick wall he could find and slammed you against if, making your head smack against the wall and your back slamming with it. However, your arms didn't movie, but you felt the pain and exhaustion building up, so he pulled back and slammed you against the wall again, making you close your grip on him as he let you go, making you catch yourself with your feet on the ground.

Your hair as a mess, your dress ruined and exhausted filled your bones. Haechan on the other hand, tried his best to stand his ground as he lifted his fists up to protect himself, but you just looked at him. Trying to catch your breath when you pulled your hand back to punch him straight in his nose, making his head fall back and he felt his nose begin to bleed.

With not wasting a second, you jumped him and held on to his neck, your upper body practically hanging off his back as you elbowed his head and he punched your side. You began to fall down his body the more he punched you until he threw you down on the floor.

You groaned in pain, your body starting to feel the effects of it all when you looked ahead on the floor and spotted your knife. You quickly grabbed it, standing up to face him, only to see him pointing his gun at you.

You don't know when it started to rain, but the first trickles of water began to fall, hitting your hot skin as it began to soak you and him down to the bone. There he was, standing just a few feet away from you, your husband, your best friend, the person you wanted to share your life with.

There he is, holding a gun to you, ready to shoot, this wasn't happening, but it was. You felt your body reject you, your eyes filling with tears as your hand shook, your knife no longer feeling as steady as it once did.

You could see Haechan's resolve crack. His once hardened expression falling apart as he saw your tears. He didn't know why his tune changed, why he suddenly cared when all he felt was betrayal. But seeing you, covered in blood and cuts from the harsh punches he gave you and scratched from the concrete floor, he wondered, why couldn't he just let you talk. Let you explain and all of this fighting could have been avoided.

Your jaw clenched as Haechan lowered his gun, his body going tense as his face cracked even more. "I can't do this" He said, his mind and body betraying his training.

"No!" You exclaimed, your knife shaking even more. How can he back out now? After begging you to kill him only to say he was now going to kill you. He should kill you, pull the trigger and put you out of your misery of taking this stupid mission in the first place. "Come on!" You yelled at him, your voice weak and gritted through your teeth. But Donghyuck didn't move an inch he didn't raise his gun back up to you, it was now at his side. "Kill me! Come on!"

"I'm so sorry" Donghyuck mumbled to you, but also to himself, his Haechan persona. "Baby"

"No!" You yelled through your tears, running toward him with all your might, but it was futile. His hand instantly went up to grab your wrist that was holding the knife, holding it hard enough that it loosened your grip and it fell out of your hands, falling onto the ground with a clank.

"Please, just kill me" You begged through your tears, but all Donghyuck did was bring your body to his, his arms wrapping around you with such a gentle touch that it contrasted the way his arms felt wrapped around you during the fight.

"I'm so sorry baby" He mumbled into your damn hair, his hand cradling the back of your head as his other arm was wrapped around your waist, securing you to his body.

You sobbed in his arms, your own wrapping around him as he felt your body tremble and shake. He was trying to stay strong for you, but he too felt his heart crack as the realization hit him. He tried to kill you, so easily, like it was nothing.

"I'm so sorry" He apologized again.

It was all he could say, the rain was drowning his words out, soaking both of you until you ran cold, but for some reason, the hug was warm and you could hear his voice loud and clear.

You both didn't know how you would get out of this predicament. After all you failed a mission, Haechan couldn't go back to his company and go on missions like normal because your company would find out that you didn't kill him and you couldn't go back to work without Mantis killing you after failing your mission.

You both didn't know what to do, that would be a plan for another day. So now, all you both could do was hug each other, cling on to one another like you were both a life line to each other's lives in this pouring rain. The both of you were still alive, injuries to be tended to later, but all you wanted, all you craved was Donghyuck.

So you stayed in his arms and pretended that you had a life tomorrow, had him tomorrow, because you honestly don't know if you will have all of him when sunrise hits.

"I love you" You mumbled into his neck as your sobs and cries subsided. His scent filling your nose and you held him tight like it was your last time saying those words.

"I love you too" Donghyuck said, his own words echoing the uncertainty the both of you had when it came to tomorrow. So, all you had was this, this simple moment wrapped in each other's arms as blood slipped from his nose and cuts and bruised form on your bodies.

However, a simple moment is all anyone can have, a simple moment that can turn sour. All you heard was a ringing, a ringing in your ear as your world began to blur together. Donghyuck's grip on you tightened as yours loosens up, your arms slowly falling from his waist to your side. Your mind was fuzzy, your senses going blind to everything around you.

"Hyuck, something's wrong" You mumbled out, feeling your lungs running out of breath as your knees gave out and you fell to the ground, Donghyuck holding you steady as he fell with you.

He cradled you in his arms as tears began flowing down his face. "You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay baby" He mumbled out through his tears, your breath going unsteady as you looked down at your stomach.

"Oh" It's all you could say, all you could come up with as your brain processed the fact that you're bleeding, you're bleeding from your stomach and that ringing in your ear was the sound of a bullet going off. "Who"

"I don't know, but you're gonna be fine, you're gonna be okay" Donghyuck said, his hands gently resting you down as he pressed down on your wound.

The blood seeped through his fingers, he was trying to stop your bleeding, but it wasn't working, he wasn't helping. "Help! Someone help!" Donghyuck yelled into the wet dark night.

His voice cracking as he screamed for anyone to help him, for anyone to call an ambulance. "Please! Help!" He kept screaming and it was hurting your ears.

"Hyuck, stop yelling" You mumbled out, your words coming out in short breaths and cut up words. "Please"

"You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay" Those were the only words he could come up with only words he could tell you.

What else could he tell you? What else could he do? He couldn't call anyone because if he did that would require him to take his hands off you, making you bleed out, but even if he didn't call, you would still bleed out. Donghyuck was crying tears and tears for you, your eyes slowly closing.

"No, don't close your eyes, keep them on me, keep them open baby" He begged, he begged and pleaded. You couldn't keep them open anymore, they were heavy, just so heavy and you were tired, you wanted to sleep.

"Five more minutes" Those words, those three words that fell from your lips brought him back to this morning. He looked down at you and gave you a weak smile as you smiled back up at him. "Please, just five more minutes"

"Okay, okay baby, just five minutes" Donghyuck cried, his words being soft as he swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "I'll wake you up" He mumbled out, his bloody hand leaving your bleeding stomach as he gently stroked your hair.

"I wanted...." Your voice trailed off, Donghyuck shushing you and telling you to not speak. "I wanted to run away...run away with you" You revealed, your throat feeling a bit clogged up as you felt something coming up your throat. "I didn't...didn't wanna kill you, wanted to run away"

Donghyuck felt his heart shatter, shatter into dust as he heard you. "Oh, baby, we'll run away together, we'll go to Denmark, you always talked about Denmark" He revealed, you smiled at this and he went on. "We'll get we a little house, retire, have a kid or two"

"A girl" You whispered, your eyes blinking slowly and staying closed for longer periods of time. Donghyuck knew your time was running out, knew he wasn't going to have this life with you.

Donghyuck chuckled, of course you both wanted a girl, maybe two girls, but girls were always on the list. Donghyuck wanted a little girl so badly, but the time never arises. You were busy with work and so was he, you both knew you didn't have time for a baby, but that didn't mean you both didn't dream about it or talk about it. You had a list filled with baby names, a Pinterest board of the kind of clothes you'll both buy her, how Donghyuck would keep you up, his head on your chest as he talked about how he'd react when his baby girl would come home with a boyfriend or a girlfriend, he didn't care who she loved as long as she experienced a love like the one you both shared.

"We'll have a girl yeah, of course we'll have a little girl, we'll name her Hayoon, yeah, Hayoon" Donghyuck said, saying a name you both really liked.

The name was a whisper in the world, a whisper you both talked about when creating a list. Donghyuck's obsession with sun and sunshine, how he said you were his sun or how he said he was your sun. Something about sun and something about the idea of sunlight made you and Donghyuck think about so many times.

"Sunlight" You mumbled out, noticing how through the clouds you could see sunlight. The gray clouds and the stormy sky didn't matter anymore since you could see the sun peaking through.

"Yeah, she'll have your smile, your eyes" Donghyuck rambled on, thinking about what your baby could've looked like, been like, acted like. Would she have your laugh or his? Have your eyes or his? Who would she be a copy of? Which parent would she like more? Donghyuck said she would be a daddy's girl, and that he'd do anything she'd ask. You laughed and always said that your daughter would have him wrapped around her little finger. Oh, the life you two could've had, would've had if he just shut up and let you explain. But no, now you're here laying in a pool of your blood as it came out of your stomach and mouth. You were closed and Donghyuck felt your body leave a last breath and your body is now lifeless. "Baby? Baby?" Donghyuck called your name, his eyes scanning your lifeless body and he let out one last sob and cry. One last emotion from his shattered and dusted heart. "I love you so much" He cried out, leaning down to leave one last kiss to your forehead, his lips quivering as his tears mixed with the rain falling down.

Donghyuck let out his screams, his sobs, his whole heart poured out of him like the rain pouring itself on his body and yours. All the memories, all your smiles and laughs, all our times together of late night laughs, the soft sex and the way you two made love to one another was gone now. Everything was gone, he wouldn't see your face anymore, wouldn't wake up to you staring at him anymore and wouldn't be able to touch you anymore. You were gone, you are someone who would slowly fade away from existence.

"Haechan" His name came out from the harsh rain and his tears.

Donghyuck looked up from your body to see the familiar head of hair and strong face that was Taeyong. "What are you..." He was so confused why would he be here? He should have been away, why was he here? Wait, the bullet came out of no where, probably from a few feet away, maybe up in a building and Taeyong as here. Donghyuck's brows were furrowed with anger as he glared at Taeyong who held no remorse for what he did. "You did this? You did this!"

Taeyong shook his head, knowing that Donghyuck would be furious a him, but it was the only way. "It had to be done, she was going to kill you"

"Why would you do this?!" Donghyuck yelled into the air, Taeyong not flinching as he glanced at your body, he was so apathetic about the whole thing, he just killed his co workers wife in cold blood like it was another work day.

"I did what had to be done!" Taeyong exclaimed, his anger getting the best of him. Taeyong closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. "I did what had to be done" He said once more, his voice calmed like his whole persona changed.

Donghyuck shook his head, his tears still falling from his eyes as he looked up at the man who he thought was his friend at least. "No, you didn't, no, you ruined her plans! You ruined us! You killed my wife!"

"She was going to kill you!" Taeyong yelled over Donghyuck's voice, his shoulders going tense as he looked at Donghyuck who was covered in your blood. Looking back at your lifeless body, all Taeyong could see was Mako, the girl who was their rival, the women who stole his kill a year ago, the women who was going to kill his co worker. "She was a Widow, she was Mako, the girl who stole all our kills, our money!"Taeyong yelled, looking back at Donghyuck who just sat there, his jaw open as his brain still clouding wrap around the idea that Taeyong killed his wife.

"I don't care who she was! I care that you killed my whole world!" Donghyuck yelled again, this whole conversation turning in of a screaming match in the rain.

Taeyong clenched his jaw, his body slightly leaning back in his stance, mostly in disbelief that Donghyuck didn't understand that you were going to kill him with no mercy. He didn't care that you had a plan, a second option, the first was to kill him and Taeyong didn't want that to happen, he couldn't let that happen.

"And she was going to kill her own. You" Taeyong pointed out, you were going to kill your world way before Taeyong would kill Donghyuck's.

a

Donghyuck's brain was spiraling, his thoughts funneling into one. His eyes glancing around, he found his stray gun just a mere free feet away from him. Donghyuck reached for it and pointed it at Taeyong who held his hands up calmly.

"Put the gun down" Taeyong said in a stern voice, calm and collected like he always as. The only emotion he ever showed as anger, and right now, he was so calm, so easy going and so annoying to Donghyuck.

"You killed her you killed her and you didn't even think...didn't even think about what that was gonna do to me" Donghyuck said, his voice getting breath as his mind as screaming at hm to pull the trigger. Taeyong did this, Taeyong did all of this and had no remorse no mercy and no sympathy for hm.

"Haechan, put the gun down" Taeyong orders again, but Donghyuck kept his up, pointing at his body as he clenched his jaw.

Donghyuck's tears dried up, the blood on his hand slowly getting washed away by the pouring rain that hadn't let up. Donghyuck didn't want to debate anymore, didn't talk anymore. He didn't abt to do anything anymore. All he wanted to do was go home, get in bed and sleep, wanted to smell your side of the bed, wanted to pretend that you had a late night at the office, pretend that you would come home any minute now. He'd fall asleep, wake up to feeing someone dare at him, only to open his eyes and see your face, your soft skinned face and watch how you closed your eyes since you got caught. And then, he would stare at you, stare at your nose, your eyelashes, your lips, how they were this perfect color that became his favorite. He'd watch how the sun wild seep through the curtains to wash over you in this beautiful warmth.

That's all he wanted, to see you in that state, that relaxed state that only he could see. He just wanted you back, hadn't even been an hour since he felt your soul leave your body and he already wanted you back in his arms, laughing without a care in the world.

"You killed her" He mumbled, his eyes going down to your body. You looked so peaceful, so relaxed with your eyes closed. You looked just like you did this morning, beautiful. "You killed her" He repeated.

Donghyuck's eyes tore away from your peaceful body to look back up at Taeyong who continued to stand there.

"So now you're gonna kill me?" Taeyong asked.

Was he? Was Donghyuck going to kill Taeyong? The guy who waited until he was in the field to do what he wanted to do for a year. Taeyong waited a year a fucking year until he saw you again. He just didn't think you were Haechan's wife, he didn't think you two had any ties until right now. However, he didn't feel bad, because at the end of the day, he got his revenge. Call him petty and all anyone wants, but Taeyong had a grudge against you and he promised himself he'd kill you one day and today was that day.

Did you want Donghyuck to kill Taeyong though? Yo avenge your death? Did you want that? Did Donghyuck even want that? He was the one holding the gun and he can't figure out if he wanted to kill Taeyong. Because deep down he did, he wanted to pull the trigger, but then his own wife would be in the same predicament like he was. Her husband dead and seeking revenge for the person who killed him and then it would be Taeyongs wife who'd be holding gun pointed at Donghyuck who held his hands up.

So, yeah, Donghyuck anted to kill him so badly, wanted to pull the trigger so many times until the gun ran out of bullets. But, would he feel satisfied? It wouldn't bring you back, you wouldn't come back from the dead, you'd still be in the other side and Donghyuck would still be here.

"I want to" Donghyuck admitted. "I want to shoot you so many times, but it won't bring her back" He mumbled out, throwing the gun away to his side.

"I'll call Mark to get clean up crew" Taeyong suggested, but Haechan quickly declined his suggestion.

"No, just get out of here before I regret not killing you" He said, his eyes in slits like a snake ready to attack.

"Hae—"

"Go!" Haechan yelled at him. Taeyong hesitated before turning around and leaving. Donghyuck looked back down at your body and pulled out his phone. Donghyuck’s phone began ringing as he waited for the other side to answer. "I need an ambulance, my wife's dead"