#It reminds him too much of himself and he’s not in a death game for self reflection no thank you (<- they’re narrative foils)

[alumbianchronicler]

As far as he can tell, Phantom isn't particularly aware of his environment. The young man was, in fact, perpetually distractable, and more often than not ended up staring out the Watchtower's windows than paying attention during meetings.

And yet.

Batman could sneak up on and startle any League member. Even Martian Manhunter, though that had only worked twice, and the second time the man had admittedly been distracted by a particularly tricky case report.

But Phantom was different.

He always turned, always met Batman's presence with that eager energy, smirking in playful pride at having caught the Bat.

And Batman wasn't sure how the ghost always noticed him.

He puzzled over it for weeks, in between other projects and cases. Simply asking Phantom would give up the game, and by now, Batman was invested in the investigation.

When a case ended up bringing ghosts to Gotham, Batman involved Phantom a bit more willingly than he usually would. He was notoriously protective of his city, jealous of its protection, but he wanted to test Phantom as much as solve the ghostly trouble.

So he set the problem to the other Bats.

Sneak up on Phantom, and report his reaction.

They. All. Failed.

Even Orphan.

Phantom himself treated it like a game, turning to meet each attempt with that cheeky grin, taking to tagging each Bat in turn by... "boop"ing them on the nose, complete with the word itself, before vanishing into thin air.

But despite Phantom's apparent lack of ability to take certain matters seriously, the case was wrapped up sooner or later, and Batman called everyone back to the cave for a debrief, including Phantom.

The young man approached the Cave with his usual irreverent distractibility, worse than the Flashes, leaving Batman grumbling with irritation while the ghost took his time investigating the bats nested in the Cave's ceiling.

He jumped, Batarang in hand, when the ghost appeared suddenly in front of him.

Phantom grinned.

"So, do I win?"

"Hn." Batman put the Batarang away and glared.

Phantom faltered, setting down on the ground and fidgeting nervously under the Bat-Glare.

"Phantom."

The young man (too young, really, to be a full League member, but he had been a vigilante in his own right for six years...) straightened his posture, and Batman got the impression that the ghost would disappear and bolt if he said the wrong thing.

A history of being targeted by human agents, including his own parents. Teenage years spent protecting his town and being hunted down by government agents.

Batman sighed, relaxing his own posture slightly. As unserious as the ghost seemed to be, he *had* always come through when needed so far, and his record of no deaths spoke for itself.

No deaths except for his own.

Not the time.

"Phantom," Batman repeated, "how do you know where we are?"

Phantom blinked, and suddenly the young man was bashful, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

"You're... uh, Protectors. I can always feel Protectors when they're nearby. It's... well, kind of a ghost thing? But also a *me* thing, and I'd rather not explain it because it's kind of existentially terrifying."

Batman's eyes narrowed. For a long moment he debated pressing.

Finally, he relented. Protectors, hm? That was at least something to work from. He would ask Justice League Dark about it.

"Very well. Good work tonight."

The way the ghost perked up *absolutely didn't* remind him of his own children, and there *absolutely wasn't* a hint of a smile pulling at his own lips.

"Thank you, sir. Batman. Uh... thanks. Do you need anything else?"

Batman shook his head. "No, you can leave."

Phantom nodded and vanished.

Bruce sighed, gathering himself before turning to face the expected and inevitable onslaught of teasing from his own children.

He would make the calls to Dark tomorrow. It was obvious he needed to know more about Phantom.

DP x DC prompt #232

Bruce makes it his mission to sneak up on every league member whenever he can to prove a point. That they must always be aware of their surroundings, even in areas deemed safe. He's snuck up on every single member of the league so far. All except Phantom.

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Okay so listing the shit Sylus has gone through from memory...

He is heavily implied to have been rejected or outright abandoned by his parents as a very young dragon

He was always an outcast. Not human enough. Not dragon enough.

He cut off his scales and his horns because he hated them so much. But they grew back no matter what he did (again as a child)

The only kin he had got slaughtered right in front of him. Leaving him as the last dragon alive.

The same humans who slaughtered his kin but spared him because of his appearance turn on him the moment they see he is not in fact human and try to kill him. Again, this all happens when he is young.

He is then persecuted by humans until at some point, he ends up sealed in the Abyss, a greatsword lodged in his chest, preventing him from moving freely even down there. He stays like that for 1,600 years, surviving on Wanderer Protocores

He meets MC, who frees him. They fall in love, split half their souls with each other, and are happy. But due to the dragon's curse, Sylus is destined to kill her one day because she is his beloved... or she him, because she is his destined archnemesis.

MC is taken from him. Sylus goes berserk and loses his mind, his dragon instincts taking over fully.

He sacrifices himself for MC last second before he can kill her. Breaking their curse. Giving her a chance at a life free from being used and abused, and himself eternal rest

Only, MC has other plans and curses him to eternal life, essentially. Only she can kill him.

At some point in time, Sylus is reincarnated together with MC in the nebula. There they are both locked up in a gladiatorial cage as mere children, forced to kill for public entertainment. Think Hunger Games.

They successfully escape together, but at a later point in time they are separated by the Deepspace Tunnel or as Sylus says "You were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land".

Sylus ends up in space-time prison. We don't know how long he spent there or what was done to him, but I doubt it was in any way pleasant or easy.

He escapes and space pirates through the cosmos for MC, who he can probably sense is still out there. He eventually pinpoints her location, but is unable to properly reunite with her... because she has regressed to a young child. He frees her, but walks off... effectively losing her a third time. He also learns of the horrific torture that Gaia put her through. He watches over her from a distance, but never approaches her, valuing her autonomy too much to insert himself. But he waits for her. Hopes – no, knows – that she will find her way to him, if only to seek answers about her past.

The next 12 years – as most of his existence – are spent almost entirely alone, with no one except Mephie for companionship. He has no friends. No family. No close associates. Things do improve with Luke and Kieran's arrival.

14 years after he left her, he meets MC again. But she doesn't remember him, and worse, actively hates him and blames him for the death of her family, of which he had no part.

He is told straight to his face that MC – his soulmate and prime reason for living – rejects him, fears him, and is disgusted by him. Which very visibly hurts him.

Sees the Deepspace Tunnel again and with it, memories of losing MC. Again, the pain on his face is very visible.

In Death and Rebirth, he gets a hurtful reminder that he still doesn't have MC's full trust. And – yet again – the distress is apparent. Because their trust in each other is everything to him.

So... in summary: Sylus has been used, abused, isolated, and locked away for most of his life. He is so unused to kindness and to being treated like a human being that he doesn't know how to react when people wish him happy birthday.

Any care he was shown for the first millennia of his life came exclusively from MC, the one person to actually see him as something other than a Monster. Said soulmate is taken from him twice, tortured and repeatedly killed, her memories of him erased. When they meet again in current timeline, she hates him, and it takes a long time for Sylus to undo the damage of their first meeting.

The man has not had it easy, nor has he gotten to feel much joy.

So it'd be understandable to become bitter. Cruel. Cold.

But he doesn't

Hell, he never even crashes out (as far as we know).

Instead he's compassionate, an animal and nature lover, attends and donates at charity events, takes in the two orphans that tried to kill him, is the King of Consent, very emotionally mature etc.

Sylus is so strong, man... he never lost himself. He never lost his innate kindness despite a life (or lives ig) where nearly none was ever shown him.

[marsmaximoff]

🦑 hwang jun-ho; headcanons 〇△□

content warning: gn!reader. fluff. mentions of death, coma and jealousy. pet names. no season 2 spoilers. let me know if i missed anything.

word count: 941

author’s note: well, my man is back, and i had to write some headcanons for him. the OBSESSION that i had back in 2021 needs to be studied, omg. anyway, as always, constructive criticism is welcomed, english is my third language, so i apologize for any mistakes. in case i don’t post anything else this year, happy 2025 everybody!! enjoy! 🩷

divider by @k1ssyoursister

〇 pre-games

best. boyfriend. ever.

that’s it, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

🙃🙃🙃

his love languages are:

1) quality time

he may be a police detective, but he ALWAYS tries to make time for you 

and see you every day, and if he can’t, he’ll save some minutes to call you

loves to hear about your day

big on communication, that’s key on your relationship 

type of boyfriend that picks you up after work, or anything really

he just wants to see your cute face :3

takes you out on cool dates

to the park, to eat, to cute animal cafés

he’s okay with staying in too, just cuddling, talking, watching something….

and 2) acts of service 

will drive you anywhere you need

you get ‘good morning/night’ texts every single day you’re not together

makes you breakfast 

and has no problem with cooking for you

opens doors for you 

pulls out the chair at the restaurant ☝🏻

he’ll simply do anything you need

loves coming home to you, it doesn't matter how shitty or overwhelming his day was, you just put a smile on his face

his favorite thing to do with you is eating

it may sound boring, but he loves to see you taking care of yourself, well-fed and happy

takes you to meet his family

his mom loves you

even his brother likes you

he’s a tease and enjoys seeing you all flustered

i feel like he’d be the type to have many pics of you on his phone that he goes back to whenever he misses you

you’re probably his wallpaper, perhaps even on his wallet too 🤭

some pet names like: “honey”, “love”, “beautiful”, “cutie”

would never cheat

a guard dog

not super jealous -a bit tho- but won't hesitate to step up if someone acts stupid 

(picture that one scene in season 2 when that man mocked him and didn’t believe he was an actual police detective hehe)

shows you off 🤩

checks you out :p

his hand is on you in some way when you’re out

has good emotional intelligence

big spoon

reminds you to take your make up off before bed if you wear any -he may even do it himself if you're too tired

or to take meds

he is just really caring and supportive

doesn't like seeing you worried or anxious because of his job

absolutely hates to see you suffer

doesn’t mind that you may be struggling financially, it won’t change what he feels

will help you with whatever it is

just don’t hide it, he hates secrets and lies

i hate doing it, but there always has to be some 🚩 

he’s the first one that would do it (lying and hiding stuff) to ensure you’re okay and don’t get worried

on a particularly overwhelming day, he will raise his voice at you

can get really overprotective 

some days you may not hear from him, or at least not much

will sometimes struggle to open up about his issues or what’s upsetting him

△ during the games

after your sudden disappearance, worry and fear ate him up

while checking your house he found a weird card

and once he discovered the exact same one at his brother’s, he knew something was going on

heard gi-hun at the police station rambling about some weird symbols and immediately recognized the design

interrogated him about you, desperate to know about your whereabouts 

as soon as he successfully infiltrated the games, he began your search

almost had a heart attack when he spotted you

had to make the effort of his life to stay calm and not run to you

would somehow manage to get you two alone so he can get you out of there (i wrote about this)

almost gets caught

feels betrayed you didn’t tell him and quite angry you’d risk your own life like this

but mostly relieved you’re okay (and still alive)

watches you like a hawk from the distance, ensuring your safety

constantly around, you continuously sense his presence close by 

□ post-games (you died)

had to see your death and practically went numb

blurry vision, ringing in his ears, shortness of breath, sting in his throat

the worst thing tho, was finding out his brother had been behind everything

how could he have done this to you? you trusted him! 

feels completely disgusted

after his coma, he blames himself for everything

your name was his first word after waking up

dreams about you 

gets you a cenotaph given that your body will forever remain strayed

nevertheless, he still talks to you like you’re there

tells you about his recovery and his progress finding the island

you are his strongest motivation

he’s doing this for you, to provide the love of his life a much deserving peaceful rest

gets you new flowers every few days

he’ll never stop feeling guilty

〇 post-games (you survived)

has nightmares he failed and left you to meet your demise on those cursed games

always there when you have them, and so is his shoulder if you need to cry

reassurance king

hides the identity of his attacker from you

becomes even more overprotective

shared location on at all times

gets paranoid if you don’t text him all day

he swore to never miss a single detail of your possible struggles. not again

you can still tell he holds himself responsible for your time on that island

stays awake at night just watching you sleep safe and sound (will never say it tho)

babies you

bigger spoon

doesn’t let you go out on your own if it’s late, afraid that something may happen and those psychopaths will reach you again

[meadowfics]

first bottle

hwang jun ho x baby player 222 x f!reader

warnings: reader is the circle guard in the picture above. fluff with tiny angst

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

right now, you are pretending that you are a circle guard in the squid games.

your pink jumpsuit a constant reminder of the lies you wear. the mask hides your face, but not the dread pooling in your gut. you’re not here for the prize or the thrill...you’re here for jun ho, your fiancé.

he’s out there, somewhere beyond the neon-soaked walls, working to save you and gi hun before the games claim you both.

every move you make, every coded note you observe around this place, is a step on a razor’s edge.

one slip, and you’re gone.

they’ve tasked you with caring for baby player 222, a tiny girl with wide, innocent eyes. her mother, the original player 222, fell in the fifth game.

the baby was brought in as a "replacement" for the mother, it was a cruel placeholder to keep the entertainment going for the VIPs.

you don’t understand the logic, but you don’t question it.

not out loud.

instead, you hold her close and feed her.

all of the players are eating, and you are tasked with giving baby her own warmed bottle.

you remember warming bottles for little babies at the time when you were a social worker, dealing with orphaned kids.

the bottle is warmed, and your hands are gentle while feeding the baby despite the blood staining this place.

she’s a spark of light in a room of homicidal monsters. well, tone fair, these are players driven to desperation, guards numbed to death, and a system that feeds on both.

you hum to her in the dormitory’s shadows, soft songs from a life that feels like a dream. you hope that none of the other plays hear you through that mask.

the other guards don’t care about her; to them, she’s a prop, a number.

to you, she’s hope, fragile and precious.

you whisper promises to her, “you’ll make it, little one,”

though you’re not sure you believe it.

the air reeks of fear and sweat, the players’ eyes hollow as they brace for the next game while begging for more rice and soju. you keep the baby close, her warmth grounding you as you gather intel for jun ho.

names, schedules, weaknesses in the system.

you hide notes in your jumpsuit’s seams beside your pistol.

gi hun’s in the room, watching you feed baby. he thinks you are an enemy. if only you could take off your mask right now and show him that you are Junho's fiancé, the one he met in that hotel days ago.

456's face is etched with determination to keep that baby alive. you have been giving gi-hun an extra ration since you got your way in as a circle guard. however, it’s dangerous.

the other guards notice too much, and the front man’s gaze feels like a noose.

the games grind on.

the next morning comes the final game. sky squid game itself.

you’re stunned when they bring out the baby, player 222, as a contestant.

she’s in a tiny jumpsuit, carried by gi hun the entire time. 456's face is pale but resolute. the rules are twisted: the baby’s life is tied to the outcome.

you want to scream, to tear off your mask and stop this, but you can’t.

gi hun fights like a man possessed, not for himself but for her.

you see it in his eyes...he’s decided she’s worth more than the prize, more than his own life.

when the final moment comes, he falls back off the platform. he falls to his death hundreds of feet below.

the blood pools around him, his sacrifice ensuring the baby’s survival.

the guards declare player 222 the winner, a sick joke that makes your stomach churn.

you’re there when you see junho shot through the glass, you see the frontman take the baby away.

you want to run to her, but jun ho’s interruption stops you.

you want to chase after her, but there’s no time.

alarms blare, and the front man’s presence's echoes.

three months later, you’re in a quiet apartment, far from the island which got destroyed.

you and jun ho are still healing, making friends with wooseok.

the games are gone....jun ho’s intel helped bring the island down. though in ho vanished, a ghost who slipped through the cracks. you’re not sure what’s next, but you’re together, and that’s enough for now.

one evening, you come home and see a baby in the carrier.

the baby.

the winner from the games.

the one who you fed her first bottle to.

you refer to her as min-ji, as you’ve always called her in your heart.

you take min, her tiny hand curling around your finger as you ignore the card that was on her belly.

the jacket, blood stained, gets removed from her which reveals a clean blue and floral onesie.

when you hear the front door open again, you look at jun ho.

the man's eyes are wide as he observes the situation. the baby, the winner you told him about.

inho left the baby here for you and junho.

the only two people he knows would raise this little angel well.

junho nods, a silent agreement knowing that you wouldn't let this baby go.

there was a gold debit card, full of the babies 45.6 billion won winnings.

this whole thing, you knew, was a cryptic note about ensuring the child’s safety.

you don’t understand why, but you don’t care.

min’s here, with you and jun ho, and it feels like a gift...a new sense of peace after so much destruction.

you hold her close, her warmth filling the cracks in your heart, and know you’re her parents now.

the games took everything, but they gave you the little girl who you fed her first bottle to.

masterlist

[catchastarorten]

—More than anything.

Pairing: Cho Sang-woo x lover!fem!reader

Summary: You had supported him through everything, but when you fell sick, he couldn't save you because of debt, so he participated in the games. The blood, the violence, it was all worth it because it was all for you, but he still couldn’t save you, even after winning.

Warnings: angst, illness, death, grief/loss, mentions of violence, guilt/sacrifice, emotional distress, Sang-woo won the games in this au, english isn't my first language, mistakes should be present, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.9k

The first time you met Sang-woo, it was in the bustling hallways of Seoul National University, your books pressed against your chest as he nearly toppled over you in his haste. Apologies poured out of him, flustered but composed, but it was the soft smile that followed that made you pause. You didn’t know it then, but that clumsy encounter would change both of your lives forever.

From that moment, he had become everything to you. And soon enough, you realized you were everything to him too. Sang-woo was the kind of man who always seemed in control of himself. But with you, that cool demeanor softened. He would laugh more, touch your hand absentmindedly, watch you as if you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

You supported each other through the tough years at university. His mind was brilliant—quick, sharp, and endlessly determined. It wasn’t hard to see why he was the pride of his family, the hope of his mother. He was going to do great things, you always believed that, and you reminded him every chance you got.

Sang-woo always spoke of a future where he’d be successful, where his mother would never have to work a day in her life again. And somewhere in that future—he said with a tentative smile—was you.

Years passed, and the challenges of adulthood crept in. Sang-woo’s ambitions, once so pure and noble, became entangled in desperation as he fell into debt. It started small—a few bad investments, a loan here and there, promises that he’d make it all back soon. But soon, the debts piled into something worse, a mess that loomed over both of your lives.

He had so much promise, so much potential, and you wanted to see him succeed. So when he started to falter—when the world wasn’t as kind, when the debts began to gather up, and his once-unshakable confidence began to fracture—you did what you thought any partner would do. You helped him.

You saw the way the guilt ate away at him. He tried to hide it, but you knew him too well.

“I’ll pay off this part for now,” you’d told him gently, holding the bank statement in your hand. He had stared at you, his expression tight, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

“No,” he had said firmly. “You’ve done enough. I should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around.”

But you didn’t care about that. You knew he felt ashamed, that his pride was bleeding, but you loved him too much to let him drown. “Sang-woo,” you whispered, reaching out to place your hand over his. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because I believe in you.”

He looked at you like you were his lifeline, the only light in his darkening world. He kissed your hand and said nothing more, but no matter how much you reassured him, the guilt lingered. He began to withdraw, the weight of his mistakes crushed him.

Then, as if the universe wasn’t cruel enough, you fell ill. It started with fatigue and a persistent ache in your chest. You brushed it off at first, telling yourself that it was just stress, but when the symptoms worsened, you finally went to the hospital.

The diagnosis was a gut punch. The doctors spoke in clinical terms, but all Sang-woo heard at the moment was that it was serious. You needed treatment, the treatment was possible, but expensive.

The hospital bills mounted quickly. You had always lived sparingly, but this was different. The treatment you needed was far beyond what either of you could afford, especially with Sang-woo already drowning in debt. You had tried to remain strong, tried to reassure him even when your body weakened and the days became harder to endure.

But Sang-woo wasn’t strong. At least not in the way you were. He didn't want to put up the pretense of having a "perfect" reputation anymore, he just wanted you.

One night, as you lay in your hospital bed, pale and shivering despite the blankets covering you, he dropped to his knees beside you. He gripped your hand so tightly it hurt, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking.

“I’ll get the money,” he said, his voice trembling with determination. “I’ll find a way. I promise.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time, you saw the man you loved falling apart. His face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, guilt and desperation consuming him.

“Sang-woo,” you whispered, your heart breaking for him. For both of you. “I’ll be okay... don’t do anything reckless.”

But he shook his head, his jaw set in that stubborn way you’d come to know so well. He pressed his lips to your forehead, a lingering, desperate kiss.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “With the money. Just hold on for me.”

You wanted to believe him, but as you watched him walk away, a part of you knew that he was heading down a dangerous path.

At first, you tried to think light. You thought he had simply left to clear his head. Maybe he was meeting someone to talk about loans or some other last-ditch effort to save you. But then the days turned into weeks, and Sang-woo didn’t return.

You tried calling him, but his phone went unanswered. You asked the nurses, his mother, even some of his old university friends, but no one had seen him. You didn’t know whether to be angry, scared, or heartbroken. All you knew was that he wasn’t here, and you were running out of time.

The nurses came and went, offering kind smiles and gentle reassurances, but it wasn’t enough. What you needed—what you wanted—was him, by your side.

You missed his voice, his laugh, the way he’d hold your hand and promise you that everything would be okay. You told yourself that he was out there fighting for you, but as the days stretched on, doubt began to creep in.

In your quieter moments, you wondered if he’d given up on you. If the burden had become too much and he just left without a trace. But deep down, you knew Sang-woo. You knew how much he loved you, how determined he could be. He’d find a way back to you. He had to.

In your final days, you thought about him often. You tried to convince yourself that he had a plan, that he would come rushing through the hospital doors at any moment with that look on his face, telling you everything was going to be okay, that you could heal properly now. But he didn’t.

Instead, you were left with an empty chair by your bedside, your heart aching with the absence of the man you loved more than anything in the world.

On the last night, you couldn’t fight the tears anymore. You whispered into the quiet room—“I just wish you were here.” Your voice cracked, and you closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion finally take over. You dreamed of him one last time—of the way he smiled when you first met, of his hand in yours, of the warmth that had once filled your life.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was what Sang-woo was enduring.

He had entered the games through a salesman with a suitcase and a card with a number on the back. The games were a deadly competition where the stakes were higher than anything he’d ever faced. Life and death were decided in brutal, messed up versions of childhood games.

At first, he told himself he was doing it for you, for the money that could save your life. But as the games progressed, as blood stained his hands and the faces of those he’d sacrificed haunted his dreams, the lines began to blur.

How much of himself was he willing to lose to save you?

Every decision, every betrayal he made, weighed on him. He thought of you constantly, your smile a light in the darkness. When he felt the weight of his actions crushing him, he clung to the hope that he could still save you. That he could win, come back to you, and make everything right, no matter how exhausted he was, no matter how much pain he had to endure, it was all for you. Because how could he call himself a man—your man—if he couldn't even keep you by his side? If he couldn't even get the money to save you and have you in his arms again, healthy and full of life?

When Sang-woo finally emerged from the games, clutching the blood money that was counted from each of the lifeless bodies of the other players, he felt hollow. His actions, the lives he’d taken, the people he’d betrayed—all of it threatened to suffocate him. But he pushed it aside. None of it mattered now. All that mattered was you.

He rushed to the hospital, his heart pounding in his chest. He imagined the look on your face when he walked through the door, how you’d smile and tell him that he’d always been your hero. And for the first time since the games, he smiled. He smiled.

But when he reached your room, he froze, and everything inside him seemed to shatter.

You were still, too still. Your chest didn't rise or fall, your lips were pale, and your eyes—those eyes he had loved so much—were closed forever.

The nurse had pity in her eyes as she approached him. "I'm sorry... she passed away a few hours prior. We... we tried calling you, but..."

“No,” he choked out, he staggered to your bedside, falling to his knees onto the mattress of the bed, his hands reaching for you. “No, no, no… please, no…”

He pulled you into his arms, cradling your lifeless body as tears streamed down his face. “Wake up,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, wake up. I have the money now. I did it. I got it for you. You can get better now. Please, just… open your eyes.”

But you didn't. You couldn't.

“I got the money,” he whispered, tears falling from his eyes. “I have it. We can pay for your treatment now. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay…”

Sang-woo's hand trembled as he cupped your face. Your skin was cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the warmth he remembered. He pressed his forehead to yours, the card that contained all the prize money laid forgotten on the floor, a cruel reminder of what he had to sacrifice to save you—of the blood, the death, and the lives he had destroyed in those games. He had told himself it was all for you, that he could endure anything if it meant seeing you smile again. But now, as he held your cold body in his arms, he realized it had all been for nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been here. I should’ve stayed with you. I thought… I thought I could save you.”

He had done everything he could to save you, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. And now, he was left with nothing, because you had been his everything.

[player042]

IN THE NIGHT | kang dae-ho

pairing: kang dae-ho (player 388) x reader

summary: you find yourself drawn to dae-ho, and it’s becoming harder and harder to hide it, even from yourself; especially during the quiet nights when it’s just the two of you keeping guard.

warning: mutual doting, lovesick but stubborn reader, mention of squid game themes such a death and despair, other than that it’s just fluff, this is my first post so feel free to give me feedback if you’d like to read more, and now please enjoy 🥹💖

word count: 1.7k

Dae-ho had a laugh that made your chest ache. Big, bright, and unrestrained, it echoed through the cold dormitory like sunlight breaking through cracks in a prison wall. It was absurd, really, how easily it pulled at the corners of your lips, how it made your heart feel too big for your ribcage.

He was an exception; you didn't know why, but he was. He was the opposite of death. Of fear. Of blood and betrayal. Quite the opposite of everything that reminded you of this hellish place. He didn't belong here. And you were confident, that even a blind person would see that for he was warmth and light, he radiated it, throughout each day you survived. You didn't know how he managed it, how he could smile, laugh, and joke even in the face of the horrors around you. It wasn't fake; you'd learned to recognize false optimism in this place, no, Dae-ho's joy was real, a stubborn defiance against the darkness threatening to swallow you all whole.

You sat across the room, waiting for the guards to let you out to the bathrooms once the other group returned. Your back rested against the wall as you watched him animatedly recount some ridiculous story from his military days to Jung-bae, with other players listening in. Mentally, you were already preparing for the night ahead, after all, you and Dae-ho were tasked with keeping watch together, a plan Gi-hun had devised in case any of the other players decided to attack. The group had agreed to take turns, so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet, it was.

You and Dae-ho, all alone while the world slept? Why did the thought of that suddenly make you nervous?

Dae-ho's hands moved in exaggerated gestures, his grin wide enough to rival the cheshire cat's. Even in this pit of despair, his energy was magnetic, drawing people in like moths to a flame. And you weren't immune to it, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

His eyes caught yours mid-laugh, and for a split second, the world seemed to freeze. His smile softened, his gaze lingering on you just a little longer than it should have. Your stomach flipped, a sudden rush of butterflies that made you look away, feigning disinterest even as your pulse quickened.

You weren't used to this feeling, this fluttering in your chest, this heat that rose to your cheeks every time he said your name or brushed against you in passing. It was ridiculous. You weren't the kind of person who got swept up in someone else's orbit. You were guarded, careful, a fortress built from years of self-preservation. But Dae-ho... he was different. He didn't just knock on the gates, he scaled the walls with that infuriating smirk of his.

It wasn't just his smile or his laugh that drew you in. It was the way he saw people, not just as competitors or threats, but as humans. The way he helped were he could, even though it put himself at risk. The way he noticed when someone was on the verge of breaking and managed to say just the right thing to pull them back from the edge. The way he noticed you.

You hated how easily he could read you. You prided yourself on being unreadable, untouchable, but with Dae-ho, it was like he saw straight through every mask you wore. He never called you out on it, never pressed, but the way his gaze softened when you spoke or the way he offered you his rations without a word told you everything you needed to know.

It terrified you.

And yet, here you were, stealing glances like a lovesick teenager, your mind betraying you with thoughts of how his golden skin glowed under the dim lights, how his broad shoulders looked like they could carry the weight of the world, how his laugh felt like a secret you wanted to hoard, to keep for yourself.

He was the sunshine to your shadows, the golden retriever to your black cat. His warmth threatened to melt the ice you'd spent years cultivating around your heart, and you weren't sure if you wanted to stop him. But you'd never say any of this out loud. You barely allowed yourself to even think all of this. No, you weren't foolish enough to let yourself hope for something in a place like this. 

Because no matter how sweet the what if's could be, your reality was cruel, always has been. So instead, you decided to watch him from afar, heart aching with the weight of unspoken words, as the seconds ticked closer to the night which would give way to the next day and the next game that might tear you apart.

Thirty minutes later, the dormitory was dim and quieter than usual, the faint hum of the fluorescent X and O on the ground and the transparent piggy bank full of blood-money above, the only sounds aside from the occasional snoring and shuffling of restless players. Most had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and here you were, being tasked with keeping watch.

You and Dae-ho were sitting across from each other near your group, shielded by spare mattresses. You sat on the cold metal floor, your back resting against a stack of unused bunk beds. Dae-ho was perched across from you, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him. His head was tilted back slightly, his eyes scanning the room, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips as though you weren't both surrounded by people who'd kill you without a second thought. You didn't know how he managed it, how he could find light in a place like this.

"You're staring," he said suddenly, his voice low but playful.

Your cheeks burned, and you looked away quickly, your arms crossing defensively over your chest. "I'm not."

He chuckled softly, the sound like a warm breeze cutting through the icy tension of the room. "Sure, you're not."

"Focus, Dae-ho," you muttered, trying to mask your embarrassment. "You're supposed to be watching for threats, not making jokes."

"I can multitask," he replied, his grin widening. "Besides, I'd argue you're more distracting than anyone sneaking around here."

You shot him a glare, but your heart fluttered at his words. "You're impossible."

"I've been called worse," he said, leaning back. His dark eyes softened as they met yours. "But you... you're something else."

You tried to ignore the way your pulse quickened, brushing his words off with a scoff. "Flattery isn't going to keep us alive, you know."

"No, but it's better than sitting in silence," he said. Then, after a pause, his voice turned quieter, more serious. "You don't talk much. Why is that?"

Your gaze flickered to him, surprised by the sudden change in his tone. "What's the point?" you asked after a moment. "It's not like anyone here is worth trusting."

He tilted his head, studying you. "Do you trust me?"

You hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on you. The truth was, you didn't know. You wanted to, desperately, but trust was dangerous in a place like this.

"I don't know," you admitted finally. "Do you trust me?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "I think I do," he said softly. "You've got this... thing about you. Like you're always a couple steps ahead of everyone else."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a nice way of saying I'm paranoid."

"Smart," he corrected, his grin returning. "And I like smart."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide the small smile tugging at your lips. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're stubborn," he shot back, his tone light but affectionate. "But this just adds to the list of all the things I like about you. We make a good team, you know."

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. You glanced away, your cheeks warming despite the chill of the room. "You shouldn't say things like that," you muttered, your voice quieter now.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone teasing but curious. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No," you shock your head quickly, though the butterflies in your stomach betrayed you. "It's just... we don't know how this is going to end. It's better not to-" You stopped yourself, unsure of how to finish.

"Not to what?" he pressed, his voice softer now. "Care?"

You looked at him then, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were steady, searching, but not pushing. It was so unlike the Dae-ho you were used to, the loud, laughing sunshine of the group. This version of him, quiet and sincere, was harder to guard against.

"It's dangerous," you finally said, barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked into a small smile, but there was no teasing this time. "Everything here is dangerous. Doesn't mean it's not worth it."

For a moment, you didn't know what to say. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt... warm, somehow. Safe.

"Why do you do that?" you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

"Do what?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Act like everything's fine," you said, gesturing vaguely to the room around you. "Like we're not all fighting for our lives."

His smile faltered, just for a second. "Because someone has to," he admitted. "If we all give in to the fear, what's left? I can't control what happens tomorrow, but I can try to make today a little less awful. Even if it's just for a moment."

Your chest tightened at his words. He said it so casually, like it wasn't the most selfless thing you'd ever heard.

"You should get some rest," you said, focusing on the shadows dancing across the floor, your voice quieter now, "I'll take it from here."

"And leave you all alone? Not a chance," he decided, stretching his arms behind his head. "Besides, I'm enjoying the company."

You didn't reply, but your heart betrayed you, beating a little faster at his words. As the night stretched on, you sat together in the dim light. And for the first time in days, you felt a faint sense of calm, not because you believed things would be okay, but because, for now, you weren't alone. Neither of you said it aloud, the weight of unspoken feelings heavy between you, but for now, it was enough. 

[vrystalius]

I know i just requested with weird nicknames for squid game characters.

But I want to see their reaction to your wallpaper being them or being another person. Literally obsessed with what you write its so cute. Take my heart ❤️

Squid Game men’s reaction for putting them as your phone’s wallpaper.

They randomly check your phone one day and find a picture of themselves staring back. How will they react? What kind of wallpaper do they have?

Pairing: Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu x gn!reader

Summary: You putting them as your phone wallpaper, them putting you as their phone wallpaper

Genre: Fluff, maybe a little angst in Nam-gyu’s part (mention of drug use)

Words: 800 per character

Note: I wrote this during my medicine and head concussion induced haze, forgive me for any inconsistencies or mistakes 😭🙏 Also, the middle pictures are a suggestion as what said wallpaper could be.

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // Salesman

— Choosing you as your wallpaper. —

Mostly surprise and confusion spread swirled in his mind the first time he stared back at himself in the form of your phone wallpaper. He never thought you’d screenshot this picture let alone use it as your wallpaper because c’mon— let’s be honest, you could’ve chosen any other picture of him and yet you decided on this.

It’s weird. Gong Yoo feels a little watched as he tries to find the food delivery app on your phone while having his own eyes stare back at him.

Although he had grown more and more fond of it every time he opened your phone anew. He sees how you grin a little when turning on your screen, how you sometimes giggle when you stare at it for too long. Sometimes you show it off to him and complain about he barely ever wears any skincare masks anymore.

“So you can have a new wallpaper? I don’t think so. My skin is fine for now, thank you darling.”

To be really honest, he finds it incredibly endearing that you chose him as your wallpaper, especially a picture like this. He thinks of himself as a sophisticated, charming, handsome salesman that lures desperate people into a death game and messes with homeless people in his free time, but you seemingly just see him as your soulmate, the love of your life, your husband.

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

Two months into the relationship and after a couple of dates, Gong Yoo already set you as his phone wallpaper. It was nice to have a reminder looking back at him to text you, check in on you, give you a call or even come by for dinner. A reminder that he has a special someone to care and love for.

He switches his wallpaper up every few weeks or months, wanting to keep it updated to your appearance. His chosen pictures are mostly intimate ones, snaps he takes while you are being unaware of how cute, attractive or adorable you look.

Pictures like when you are asleep on the couch in his arms after watching a movie, you after waking up and sleepily brushing your teeth in the mirror, you showing your back to him while waiting for the microwave to finish heating up the cheap convenience food, maybe even you stuffing your face with ice cream after a long day.

Whatever picture he may choose (much to your dismay), it always makes him smile to himself no matter the situation. Even if another homeless person asks him for spare change or those two random mobsters tried to jump him in an alleyway and now he was forced to “get rid of them”, a quick glance on his phone and seeing a cute picture of you immediately forces a smile to break out on his face.

The sight of their kidnapper smiling at his phone so lovingly while they were tied up and playing rock-paper-scissors for their lives probably made the two men shit their pants more than feeling the barrel of a revolver being pressed against the side of their head.

Thanos // Su-bong // Player 230

— Choosing him as your wallpaper. —

At first, Thanos reeeaaaallly disliked the picture you chose as your wallpaper. It was just a random reaction picture he send you one day about something he doesn’t even remember, and you went ahead and chose this as your phone wallpaper? Seriously?! Can’t you choose something more handsome, flattering?

He even offered to pose properly for you so you have a better pic to use, but after Thanos obviously started mewing and tried his absolute best to look as attractive as possible (which he already is but shhh), your boyfriend got extremely offended when you started laughing at his posing.

Your boyfriend gave up after a few attempts of secretly changing your wallpaper and seeing you pout every time he did, changing it right back to the one before.

If you really like it that much, fine. Just don’t let anyone see that you have that as your phone wallpaper, or else his rapper persona will never be able to recover from being exposed like that.

You don’t even understand why he is being so dramatic about your wallpaper anyway.

“I look hella ugly there, c’mon baby! Work with me here!! Here, lemme pose for you real quick so you can change that thing.”

Although it does flashbang you in the middle of the night when you turn on your phone, the brightness of the picture vaporising your eyes in an instant. It’s not the most pleasant thing to look at first thing in the morning but you still think he looks kinda cute in the pic.

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

He was careful to choose the prettiest picture of you he can find and the proceed to show it off to everyone he meets. Thanos even showed you off to Nam-gyu multiple times, forgetting that he already showed his friend the same picture four times now. Nam-gyu is already totally looking forward to next week when Thanos shows you off again.

Your boyfriend grins like a child whenever he glances at his phone for too long, falling in love with your picture all over again.

He changes his wallpaper every week so he always has something cute to look at after performing at another underground club or while doing whatever, sometimes getting distracted from searching for a certain app and instead ending up scrolling through either your social media account or his photo library to search for more pics of you.

Whenever you catch Thanos grin at his phone again, your first instinct is to glance over his shoulder to check what exactly he is looking at, but he immediately closes his phone when you do. At first you thought he might be looking at some random girl’s profile or whatever, but when you open it up and find yourself staring back, you’re kind of surprised to be honest.

Although, he always denies that he really cares about his wallpaper. Your boyfriend is totally choosing it at random and totally does not match his lock screen with his homescreen and mostly chooses pictures of you two together, you kissing his cheek or him holding you. Not at all!

Nam-gyu // Player 124

— Choosing you as your wallpaper. —

You choose a rather cute picture as your wallpaper. You took it during one of your first dates where you dragged him to a festival that was being held near your home, dragging Nam-gyu there against his will. Back then he had shorter hair, wore his glasses more frequently. Back then he was a little shy believe it or not, at least when it came to romance.

He used more before he met you, being around alcohol and drugs at all times due to his occupation. It kind of came with his job and the circle of friends he was around, so before meeting you, there was barely any day he wasn’t high or having a hangover from some random drug.

Nam-gyu never noticed you had this picture as your phone wallpaper until he accidentally grabbed your phone, thinking it was his. Seeing this picture in particular gave him a brief jumpscare.

You took this picture after he managed to scrap out the star shape out of the sugar cookie he bought from a random stand during the festival. His hair was shorter back then and he wore his glasses more frequently, the mask a reminder of how times were 5 years ago. He struggled staying clean during that time and always felt like shit wich is why he didn’t want to go to the festival in the first place.

He didn’t even know you took this picture of him despite him fully looking at the camera. A small smile spread on his face at the thought of you really choosing a picture like this as your phone wallpaper.

Quickly putting your phone down, Nam-gyu quickly played off his reaction as he hard you come into the room.

“I’m smiling about nothing, shaddup. Go back to wherever you came from.”

With a dismissive hand wave, he tried to shoo you away. His attempts were futile as you instead pull him into a clingy hug, instead demanding cuddles instead. Who was he to deny your wish?

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

Nam-gyu likes taking 0.5x zoom pictures of you from above and choosing them as his phone wallpaper, pushing you away as you try to protest and stop him from putting them as his wallpaper because seriously, he can literally choose any other pic!

You can hear quiet, evil “hehe”s from the corner of the room whenever you two are together and he turns on his phone, briefly turning it around so you can see what he was giggling so stupidly at, only for him to giggle harder at the sight of your unamused face.

Even if he mainly chooses those pictures as his phone wallpaper to annoy you, he likes having a stupid picture of you always available to him.

Some shitty guy searching for a fight at the club? Quick glance at your face at a 0.5x zoom makes him crack a smile right after. Thanos called him Nam-su, Gyu-nam or literally anything else but his name again? Turning his phone on lightens his mood immediately.

Sure, a flattering or cute picture of you would have the same effect on him, but this is much funnier in his opinion.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

HAPPY LATE VALETINES DAYYYYYYY!!!! Since tumblr limits your tags to 30 tags per post I always have trouble tagging all of the Squid Game men, so I decided to split this one prompt into two posts. If this gets enough attention / love, I’ll post a part 2 with Dae-ho, Gi-hun and In-ho! Also, thank you for requesting, I needed a break from writing my smut draft 😭

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[obeymeluv]

In Your Defense [PT - 4 - Diasomnia]

You decide to work at Sam's for Valentine's Day and your crush just happens to hear a customer hitting on you. If they get arrested, can you be their alibi? AKA: This person has a death wish and you find out your crush might be jealous?

Note: Each one is random and some will be longer than others. If I made everyone the same length this thing would be MASSIVE and I would probably die.

Happy late V-Day :)

Malleus is forever amused at the many holidays humans entertain. They're certainly festive and unique. This one relies on red, pink, white, and sweets! He's absolutely fascinated by the sheer amount of heart-shaped items and clever cards but the idea of so many sweets turns his stomach a bit.

Just a bit.

The almost-cloying smell of sugar hits his nose and it's nearly enough to make him leave the shop. He reminds himself that he's not required to eat the sweets nor get anything massive and that does well enough to settle his stomach. He stoops to enter, green eyes turned skyward lest he tangle himself in the cute, frilly banners strung back and forth across the store. Sparkly pink pens draw his attention, the tops decorated with hearts, and he wonders if his grandmother would be interested in it.

Perhaps the heart-shaped trinket box next to it? She's always looking for things to sort and contain her hoard. He picks the deepest one, a great red heart, and puts it in his basket along with the pen.

He meanders through the aisles, picking up an obnoxiously adorable pillow for Lilia. It's meant to look like an envelope sealed with a heart sticker and would do well for his back on gaming nights (which are most nights). Silver and Sebek are much harder to buy for, as they're quite practical and not really prone to whimsy like Lilia. Malleus recalls Lilia trying to broaden Sebek's...people skills...and sets his basket between his feet as he peruses the books. Some of the titles are simple and honest but he thinks Sebek would be hurt if he opened How to Make Friends so he opts for Success in Every Situation.

For Silver, who has hobbies but is always wondering how to incorporate things into training exercises, he picks up a crocheting kit and an origami practice book. Both of these things rely on manual dexterity and patience, the perfect compliments to swordsmanship! Satisfied, Malleus rejoins the line. He's distracted, untangling a heart-shaped hanger with curly gold ribbon when he hears it.

He can't UNHEAR it! Not with his fae ears.

How much do you cost? Malleus clucks his tongue in disapproval, careful not to move his feet lest the magic push down into the shop floor and start to splinter it. Because it needs to go somewhere, he's not surprised that it radiates off of him and starts shaking the shelves. Glimpses of light peeking through slats in the front of the shop are snuffed out by darkness as thunder roars in the distance. The shop lights flicker and buzz as if to protest the conversation on his behalf.

The shop goes deathly quiet. It's enough for him to reign in his magic, that cretin's voice no longer grating on his ears. Malleus swallows down the smoke tickling his throat and walks calmly to the front. His shoes echo quietly but pointedly on the floor. He can see the cretin shrinking with every step and it has nothing to do with the fact that he towers over him.

"Be careful asking the cost of things, human," Malleus looks down at the man, "you may find yourself in a situation where the cost is too steep and the unwillingness to pay leaves you worse off than what you started. So ask yourself: what are you willing to pay? Is the price worth it?"

"No," he whispers in the absolute terror Malleus is all too familiar with. "No, it's not."

You were the first one to not look at him in such a way, and the realization hits him when he locks eyes with you. Yes, the man is running--tripping--out of the store but you look glowing and so happy to see him! His heart swells immeasurably in his chest. Fatally, he fears on occasion.

The lights flicker back to life in the shop, sun caressing the outside once more. Malleus apologizes to the people he cut in front of, gesturing for them to resume natural order but they refuse. He thanks them and hands you his basket. Before you can scan anything, Sam slides in to finish the transaction. "After I check out these lovely imps I'm going to close down for a bit and do inventory, check some things. You should grab what you were looking at earlier!"

You give him a curious look but take the opportunity. Sam probably didn't want to say he was worried about his freezers and fridges after that little stunt. Malleus' magic tends to cast a small effect field that wears off when he's not around. You're careful to hide the ice cream cake from Malleus, glad Sam has charmed bags for cold goods.

"Might I interest you in coming to Diasomnia for the holiday, Child of Man?" Malleus tips his head as he walks out the door. "We've had great success keeping Lilia out of the kitchen this time. He's not fond of marshmallows, you see."

"Sounds interesting! I'd love to! I have something to share, anyways."

"As do we!" Malleus takes your hand and teleports you to Diasomnia where you walk into a small feast catered by various places in town. Diasomnia students were picking and conversating. Malleus guides you to the tea room where there five places set. Lilia, Sebek, and Silver had made their plates and a pot of tea. Malleus pulls out your chair for you and takes your plate and his, not giving you time to make your own.

By the time he returns you've set out the heart-shaped ice cream cake.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Malleus!"

"Quite." he smiles down at you, careful to keep his hair from the food as he sets the plate down carefully.

----

Lilia is a bit put out that Valentine's Day doesn't really have any funny gag items like the April fool's day Sebek and Silver loathe. Surely there must be something, right? He can't stop his nose from turning up at the airy sweetness of marshmallows, finding them stuffed damn near everywhere in the store. Marshmallows have no place in his basket but crunchy suckers and candy hearts do. He giggles to himself as he tries on a pair of heart glasses and finds they actually cut the light quite well.

Super cute glasses for super cute him, right?

He gets Silver a cute stuffed squirrel holding a little sign saying 'NUTS ABOUT YOU!' and starts rooting around for something dragon related for Malleus. Lilia's forced to settle for a dinosaur card that says 'I love you THIS BIG! (My arms are short, okay?)' on the inside. Normally he'd get Malleus an ice cream treat but he found the secret stash and doesn't think Queen Maleficia would want him to have too much. Sebek is hard to buy for, as unyielding as Baur, but Lilia thinks a book of exercise challenges will keep him occupied.

Someone had stuffed a heart-speckled, tinsel-rimmed noisemaker near the book and he couldn't be more delighted. Lilia finds a Valentine's-themed confetti popper near fake mailboxes a few aisles over. Sadly, it's the only one of its kind. He consoles himself with a bottle of tomato juice and gets in line.

"How much do you cost? Come now, boy!" Lilia wants to bite his own tongue for saying 'boy' in public like he's old. He's not even 700 yet! Not very cute of him. "Why worry about the price when you don't even have your wallet?" he's waiving said wallet in the man's face.

Being an ex-general, it was nothing to pick his pocket. A mix of genuine skill and fae speed, naturally. Maybe a little magic to get him up to the front of the line. "H-Hey! Give that back!" the guy tries to grab it and Lilia casually flicks it back and forth out of reach.

Neither fast nor smart, this one. Sad.

"I'll trade you," Lilia offers with a sweet smile that belies the fact that he's not playing. "You leave this innocent cashier alone and you get your wallet back. Sounds good, yes?"

The man tries to grab it several more times before Lilia flicks it halfway across the store. It lands about six aisles over. Predictably, the whelp goes to get it.

"Next in line, please!" you call out, the two of you grinning at each other.

---

Silver knows he shouldn't enable his father's late-night gaming but when it comes to Lilia, he doesn't have a lot of ideas. The drinks are limited edition, colorful, and somewhat dessert-y. They claim to have vitamins and zero marshmallows so Silver thinks a can or two won't hurt. He picks up a few bags of popcorn and some 'mystery box' style candy snacks. Trying to guess the flavor of the jelly beans and fruit bars was sure to please Lilia's...unique palette.

Sebek's gift was a gamble; the artwork on the Fae and Folklore was absolutely gorgeous--gilded in gold and watercolor--but he didn't know if the contents would turn into a rant about humans and their inaccuracies. He decided he was willing to take the risk. Sebek was an avid reader and it might give Malleus a moment of reprieve (even though he didn't mind).

He'd really only come into Sam's for those two; he couldn't shop for Sebek while out in town with him and there were practically no energy drinks to speak of. Apparently online ordering was popular and someone had bought up quite a few. Malleus' gift was tucked away in Diasomnia because Silver was still on the fence about giving it to him. It was meant for children but you were supposed to be able to dig up your own bones and fossils like you were excavating.

It's the thought that counts, right?

Bags of mixed nuts catch his eye and he stops to grab a few. He meant to get some when he bought birdseed in town but it slipped his mind. Silver waits patiently in line, nearly lulled to sleep when the chatter melted into background noise.

"How much do you cost?"

He startles himself awake. That voice was so loud and begging for attention! Begging to be funny. Dredges of sleepiness disappeared with every blink; Silver's brow furrowed when lines upon lines of price stickers came into view. Who the hell was asking about the price of something when it was posted all over the store?! Sam was quite diligent in that; he would never leave you guessing!

Silver finds himself very awake when he realizes you're being accosted by this nonsense. He doesn't know if you look more mad or upset but the guy is clearly waiting for you to feed into something you don't want. Something in him burns and Silver finds himself clutching the handle of the basket so hard it almost cracks.

He stomps up to the man, his aurora borealis eyes boring holes into him. "Considering how you'll pay for the lack of consideration and insolence?" Silver asks him. He sets the basket down and crosses his arms.

He's prepared to roll up his sleeves and start swinging. Lilia would approve, he's sure.

"Lack of consideration?" the guy guffaws, "What do you mean--"

"Look around you! Who likes this? Who wants this? They don't!" Silver jerks his head to you, "And they don't!" he throws an arm out to the people behind him. The guy starts to look at different faces and Silver knows when his shoulders slump, he's won. Satisfied but still a little pissed, Silver goes to the back of the line and watches the man like a hawk to make sure he leaves.

"My hero!" you tease when he finally makes it up to you. Silver can only blush.

-----

Sebek didn't really see the point in Valentine's Day because you don't need a dedicated day to care for people. You also don't need to tell them, just show them! He's not quite disgusted at the amount of candy and sweets he sees but he doesn't know how to feel about it. It reminds him of all the times his father gave him candy and sweets unprompted. He didn't not appreciate it but he thought it was a little underhanded that his father was a dentist handing out sweets.

Who wants soft things, anyways? They need to make crunchy Valentine's candy! He finds candy bracelets and his mouth waters a little, imagining the sweetness and the crunch. It was about the only tolerable thing in this store. The rest of it was an infestation of pink and red and cute.

Gross.

He weeds through bad puns and tacky cards until he finds one for his mother and father. Not too sappy but not cold, either. Sufficient. The attempt to find Malleus a decent, non-bedazzled pen was almost futile but he thinks his Lord will like it for letters to Queen Maleficia. Grandfather Baur gets snacks these humans might find a little tough but the crocodilian fae will like the chew and challenge.

Silver was last on his list. Sebek tried to control the disgust on his face as he looked at all manner of pillows---fluffy ones, pink ones, fuzzy ones, soft wispy ones, ones with happy faces on them--on the aisle. Against his better judgement, he began stretching and squeezing them. Being half fae, it was drilled into him not to be a poor gift-giver.

And if he had to stand near pink, fluffy, glittery pillows he wasn't going to half-ass this. As he flipped them and patted them, Sebek was sorely wishing he could've found something while he was in town. Lilia and Malleus came so easily!

WHY MUST SILVER BE A PAIN? DUMB HUMAN!

You know you don't mean that, Sebek thought to himself, frowning a bit as he tested what must've been the twentieth pillow. Confident with his choice but disappointed that it was a pink cloud pillow, he tries not to sulk as he gets in line. He snaps to alertness when he hears the idiot human ask how much do you cost.

He can hear you trying to steer the conversation back to checking out and the guy says 'yeah, I'm checking something out' and Sebek is done.

"YOU ARE INTOLERABLE AND THAT IS INAPPROPRIATE!" he shouts at the man, pointing a finger at him.

There is a pause. The man looks down at his basket. "I'm not taking that from a guy with a pink pillow." he snorts.

Something in Sebek snaps. He takes said pink pillow and closes the space before the guy can put his hands up.

"SAM! SAM?" you call out as feathers explode and start raining everywhere. IT'S A PILLOW!

SAM DOESN'T BUY CHEAP STUFF! HOW DID IT BUST?!

You watch as Sebek effortlessly dodges every sloppy punch, pillow bunched angrily in his fist. The guy's already been smacked in the face, the stomach, just about everywhere one could think to aim a pillow. It lands solidly and you're not sure if it's because of the feathers bunched in what's left of the pillow or how hard Sebek is swinging. All of a sudden, the pillow is abandoned and they're grappling.

Sebek has the upper hand in this, too. It's not really a contest when he can wrap around him, slip under him, and fold him up like a lawn chair. He lets the guy flail in his arms, knees pinned to his chest, and drops him unceremoniously. The guy tries to take Sebek down at the knees and he's unfazed. Sebek goes dead weight on the man, falling unapologetically and knocking the air out of him.

The man is stunned and Sebek picks him up in one arm like a limp toddler. He's muttering curses all the way to the door, lobbing the man out like a sack of potatoes. No one moves as he disappears between the shelf and reemerges with a new pink cloud pillow.

Sam walks out to the sight of Sebek AND HIS FLOOR absolutely LITTERED with feathers. Surprisingly, he's not angry. Sebek is allowed to check out on the condition that he helps you sweep. It wasn't your fault, of course, but you're currently on the clock. He waits to the side, cheeks dusted pink, until you hand him a broom.

"Thanks for that," you smile.

"Say nothing, human!" Sebek stares at the floor, sweeping so hard he cracks the broom handle. Sam just sighs and gets another one from the back.

[sparklykaminarii]

PRETTY BOY MOANS₊˚⊹♡

(izuku x reader smut)

synopsis: your boyfriend is embarrassed about his pretty moans, guess you'll have to force them out of him.

warnings: AGED UP IZUKU !! handjob, blowjob, mommykink, subizuku, pervizuku,domreader, whimpering

a/n: I heard a whimper audio on tt, and it reminded me of izuku so...

"p-please-" izuku whines, his voice shaky and strained. his hand reaching for a fistful of your hair as you sucked the soul out of the green haired boy.

your tongue swirled around his tip, his glossy baby pink tip which just had crystal white streams of precum oozing from the slit. you noticed every time your tongue even went near his tip, he would cry out so lewdly, the sounds rivaling those of porn videos.

you and izuku hadn't been too intimate with each other, you guys had only started dating 6 months ago and it never really came up. you two just chose to ignore the obvious whimpers and breathy maons which came from the other side the phone.

the two of you had crazy sexual tension, but izuku was so shy about it. of course he already had thousands of daydreams about how he would pound into you so harshly all you could do is scream out his name, or just erotic thoughts of eating you out on his bed. your sweet arousal coating his lips as he ate you out like he was starved. he dreamt of overstimulating you so much that the only thing that would go through your mind that night was him.

naturally you were fed up with the whole waiting game. you needed to feel his cock thrusting in and out of you, not your fingers. you wondered how it would feel, how it would feel to have him in you, his pelvis meeting your clit every single thrust as he rammed into you from the back. oh the thoughts of his pretty little groans which always rang through your ears. you just had to initiate sex tonight.

and so you did, what went from a steamy makeout session to izuku, laid back against his chair as you say on your knees. in-between his legs, hands covering his cock and saliva dripping all over his length.

izuku couldn't believe the sight before him, he always dreamt about this very moment, seeing you right in-between his legs, your gentle soft hands just jerking himself so well it took everything in him not to cum right there. he watched as your mouth took him in, the wet and warm sensation making him shudder. your puffy rosy pink lips wrapping around the base, coating the shaft with your spit. he knew he was big too, so watching you struggle to take all of him in your mouth, even admiring the imprint of his dick through the side of your cheek just fueled his ego. watchin those glossy eyes stare up at him so innocently, you would be the death of him.

you quickened your pace, making sure that your rough tongue just grazed his tip in that one spot, eagerly waiting for him to reach his peak. izuku bit down hard on his bottom lip, suppressing his dirty moans. you glare back up at him, "aww don't tell me ya getting shy now baby..." you coo, hands sloppily rising up and down.

he shuts his eyes close, clearly embarrassed of his noises. but you, nah you weren't having it. you slap his thigh lightly, though hard enough so you could grab his attention. "if you wanna cum tonight, you better not hold back any of those pretty noises" you warn, eyes coldly staring his.

izuku wasn't sure what to feel right now, he was nervous. he has never seen you so stern and demanding, but every part of him loved it. "m'sorry!.." he groans, the feeling of your mouth overwhelming his mind once again.

you could feel him twitch under you, his thighs shaking and his cries growing my frantic and whiney. "mm- fuck- fuck- fuck-" he cries, the words mushing together as your hand strokes him swiftly. "m'so so close mommy, just l-like that-" he whines out. you giggle, eyes batting up at him so sweetly. izuku groans at the sight "f-fuck mommy can I please cum in?" he whines, his sweet kind eyes staring right into yours.

you smile warmly "anything for my sweet boy, cmon cum for mommy like a good boy" you call out, mouth tangling around his length again. and that's all izuku needed, moaning out strained cusses under his breath as he came in your mouth. his cum spurts quickly, it was thick and a semi opaque white. you make sure to stare at his hazy eyes as you swallow all of his semen, him watching you still so lustfully. all before whispering

"it's your turn now princess, let me make ya feel good"

[hallowxiu]

How the Brothers Would Deal with MC's Mortality

Mammon:

You casually brought it up as a joke

Probably something like “i’m here for a good time, not a long time” or “why should i care what happens in 100 years? It’s not like i’ll be around to care”

Would probably confuse Mammon at first as to why you wouldn’t be around, but he would put the pieces together in the middle of the night when trying to sleep.

A whole, eyes snapping wide opening and flinging out of his bed kind of moment.

Mammon would worry himself sick

Yes, he knows humans can die, hell, he used to mock you for being so frail when you first came to the Devildom, but now? 

Well, now things are different. How he feels about you is different

He's spending all his money on ways to keep you kicking longer. 

Anything he can think of that’ll help, he’s buying it. Vegetables, fruits, protein powder, comfortable clothes, a nice pillow, vitamins, shampoos- anything. He has no idea where to start, so he just starts grabbing everything. 

I mean, something will have to help, right? 

If you notice he looks panicked, don’t point it out, it’ll only make it worse. Unless you want to be smothered to death from his affection and worry, then by all means. ;)

Leviathan:

Look, he can barely handle his favorite anime characters dying, so you? Yeah, no, that’s way too much. 

Nothing actually popped up to remind Leviathan of your mortality, it was because of Satan throwing his books all around the house that did it. 

Suddenly, it was all he could think about. How did he not think of this before? 

Leviathan is no Satan though, and he’s certainly not Lucifer. Researching medical documents and trying to think of things to keep you alive longer are a little over his head. That being said, there were some things he could do.

Leviathan dove into his own research that would be within his realm of understanding, studying that humans who have more positive mindsets and who are less exposed to depressing forms of media, may live longer than the average person. This- this was something he could work with. 

Suddenly, you were constantly being invited to his room, Leviathan having a variety of slice-of-life anime for you to watch with him, all of which had happy endings to boot. If an anime was even remotely depressing, he made sure to keep that out of reach. 

Video games? He’s keeping it safe; he’s not risking anything here. If it’s not similar to Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing, Dreamlight Valley, or The Sims (which must be on a good day), you’re just not playing it. Kingdom Hearts if you’re lucky. 

Satan:

Would do an insane amount of research 

Likely overheard the topic on a news segment about the tragically short lifespans of humans before it all clicked together.

Satan, unlike the other brothers, has never experienced death before, so while it sounds silly, he never had reason to think of you dying.

Looks up humans who had long lifespans to see how he can implement those things into your lifestyle.

Books will be littered everywhere (although that’s not really unusual, but what is would be the topic of said books- The Long Lives of Humans, Human Lifestyle for Dummies 101, The Road to Human Immortality, etc. etc.)

This is when Satan learns just how easy it is for a human to kick the bucket.

Heart attacks, brain aneurysms, strokes, seizures, cancer, the list goes on and on and it’s starting to scare him. He didn’t know humans could just drop dead. 

He’s going to start researching curses to increase your lifespan, or at the very least he’s going to make sure you’re careful as hell. 

You won’t even get as much as a cut without him being aware of it; he’s going to hover around and mother hen the absolute shit out of you. 

Try not to get too annoyed with him though, it all stems from good intentions. 

Asmodeus:

He’ll be damned if his shopping partner for life is going to die on him.

Asmo isn’t stupid; if anything he’s pretty emotionally aware. He's known for a long time just how short the lifespan of humans is.

But still, it came in the form of a nightmare. One where he couldn’t save you, despite giving his best efforts. The way you died was tragic, long before your life should have ended. 

This sent Asmo somewhat into a frenzied state trying to find things to keep you alive once he woke up. 

Vitamins, vitamins, vitamins

Humans benefit from vitamins, right? Surely you’d benefit from Devildom vitamins then. If it’ll increase the lifespan of a demon, he sees no reason why it wouldn’t increase your lifespan. 

Of course, it really only gives you nicer nails and shinier hair. 

He’s 10x more intense with your morning and night routines. 

He will be unloading all his facial creams on you, and telling you the benefits of each one and how it might add a few years to your lifespan. 

You want to stay up late at night to finish homework? Maybe watch a movie? Yeah, no, not on Asmo’s watch. 

Your ass is going to bed every night at 10pm, right along with him. You do realize you’ll be getting exactly 8 hours of sleep each night, too, right? 

Beelzebub:

Regarding his trauma with Lilith, it came as no surprise when he started to fret over your well-being. 

Poor Beel saw an article that discussed how tragically easy it is for a human to die. The cherry on top? How they could die from simply overeating. 

Overeating isn’t a concept Beel is overly familiar with (because to him, it’s never overeating), and while he knew most people couldn’t keep up with his eating habits, he didn’t think it could actually cause harm to a human, let alone kill them. 

Grocery trips are now a more anxiety-inducing event. 

He’s suddenly paranoid that any of the Devildom food could and will kill you. Are you allergic to anything? How would you even know? 

What if one day he serves you his favorite boiled dragonhead and you just drop dead at the dinner table?? No, that will never do. 

There’s a list of Devildom foods that he knows for sure you can have without dying, but then comes the issue of portion control. How much is too much for a human? 

Beelzebub swore he would never lose another loved one again, and it’s a promise he intends to keep. From now on, you will only eat what he deems safe. 

You want to try a new food in the Devildom that you’ve never had before? You better get some seriously good convincing skills if you want him to cave in. For someone who only ever thinks with his stomach, he’s surprisingly stubborn. 

Belphegor:

He’s still plagued with nightmares about Lilith, especially since he still thinks it’s his fault. Tack that on to the way he blamed you and the rest of the human race for it? The man is walking trauma. 

 Like Asmodeus, this was brought on by nightmares about you dying. Different from Asmo’s, however, you usually died by his hand. Naturally, considering your tumultuous history. 

Belphegor, unlike his brothers, takes a different approach. He just doesn’t approach you at all. 

What better way to keep your lifespan long than by staying away from you altogether? 

Is it something that he wants? Of course not! But how can he trust himself to never hurt you again? To never kill you again. 

He can’t. 

So, he locks himself away in his room, sleeping most of the day or just avoiding the areas you normally like to lounge. 

On a normal day, almost everyone in the household, including yourself, would notice this behavior change. However, since you’re now being cornered by all the brothers and their concerns about your lifespan, it’s easy for Belphegor’s absence to slip your mind. 

This hurts Belphegor, but at the end of the day, he believes this is for the best.

Lucifer: 

Lucifer didn’t need a reminder of your short lifespan; if anything, it’s something he’s thought plenty about. 

Lucifer has trauma, we all know that much. After Lilith, he’s absolutely terrified of losing another loved one to something outside of his control.

And your lifespan is not something that’s out of his control. At least not how he sees it, anyway. 

If you thought he was overbearing or overprotective before, brace yourself. He’s going to step it up several notches. 

No excess of junk food, no more pulling all-nighters, no more sitting around the house gaming all day, and definitely no more overexerting your use of magic. He’s no fool, he knows the toll your magic could eventually take on your body. 

Honestly? He wasn’t this bad until his brothers started to panic about your mortality, and though Lucifer told himself he was above such nonsense, he quickly found himself taking all the precautions they were taking (and then some). 

Fortunately, if you find yourself becoming overwhelmed, they’ll be more than willing to listen to you (granted you take some of their concerns into account).

[innerfare]

Nightmares - Part 2

Summary: What sorts of nightmares do they have about losing you?

Characters: Shanks, Beckman, Mihawk, Crocodile, Doflamingo, Corazon, Smoker

Genre: Angst

CW: SFW // that being said, caution- contains mentions of death and suffering

——— 

Shanks: 

It’s all fun and games as he chases you down the beach under the full moon, both of you splashing in the shallows, the mugginess of the summer night somehow refreshing after a few too many drinks. He doesn’t run very fast at first, giving you the head start he always does, the one you complain about, but when he does decide he wants you in his arms, he picks up his pace, only to realize you’re much further down the beach than you should be. He runs faster and faster, and with each step, you seem to get three more away from him, until the outline of you is rapidly disappearing. His throat begins closing up as he realizes he’ll never catch you. And when he wakes on deck, a half-empty booze bottle in his hands, he sets it aside and searches the ship for you, not catching his breath until he finds you sleeping in his bed, right where you belong. 

Beckman: 

You’re in the clutches of the marines. Beckman had a past before Shanks, a past that involved deserting the marines and going on the run from the World Government, and there’s a small part of him that never did overcome the fear of that past catching up to him. Worse still, he has a fear of that past catching up to you, and that fear comes to life in his dreams, when you’re thrown into Impel Down for his crimes and he’s forced to watch them dunk you in boiling water over and over again. He wakes with you asleep on his chest, the same as every night, and the skin to skin contact calms him down, but not enough for him to go back to sleep. 

Mihawk: 

He sent you away for your own good. He had a premonition the Navy would be coming for him, and with them, a slew of bounty hunters that would have no qualms about using you against him. And yet, you remained in his dreams, though the hot and heavy ones he once had were replaced by cold fear. Every time he went to sleep, a different scenario, though the crux of it the same: you were being used as a pawn to get to him, a pawn in a lot of pain. And every time he woke up, the same: your side of the bed was empty, the shape of your body tangled in those satin sheets now but a memory. For your own good, he kept reminding himself, though he believed it less every time.  

Crocodile: 

You betray him. Of course you do. He would betray you in an instant, and not even for a whole lot. A business deal, or perhaps the freedom of one of his more valuable people. From the look on your face, it’s not difficult for you, either. In fact, you seem to relish the pain on his as you inform him you’ve taken a deal with one of his enemies- a lucrative one, at that. And all you had to do was set him up. He wakes with a start, sitting up on the sofa in his office he often crashes on when he doesn’t feel like dragging himself to bed. You’re nowhere to be seen, and that’s what he needs for the next few days. He only stops giving you the cold shoulder when he figures out a way to approach the topic of betrayal without telling you how pathetically heartbroken he would be if you ever did turn on him. 

Doflamingo: 

The angry mob gets you. That same mob that went after his family, that same mob that went after him. They’re after you, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s not a warlord, not even a pirate, hasn’t eaten his devil fruit or met Trebol, hasn’t done anything to make himself powerful enough to protect you. You’re supposed to be his, but the mob is determined you’re theirs, and what is he supposed to do about it? He wakes in a cold sweat, leaning forward in his chair with his chest heaving. He takes a moment to massage his temples before climbing to his feet and stalking out of the room in search of you, determined to lay eyes on you (and probably to increase your security detail, too). 

Corazon: 

His brother has you tied up like a piñata for the executives to beat. Everyone in the family is there, even Law, and Corazon cries out, but he really is mute, completely unable to protest your treatment. He can’t move, either, can’t do anything but watch as everyone takes hits at you, from his brother to his son. He wakes in a fit of desperation, calling out for you. It’s the sound of his own voice- hoarse and frantic- that finally calms him down, though ultimately, he doesn’t take another calm breath until you appear at his side, your brow furrowed, asking him what’s wrong. He knows it’s crazy, but he just has to check you over for marks. 

Smoker: 

He comes home after months at the sea and finds your home wicked, windows shattered and furniture overturned. He approaches the bedroom with a lump in his throat. Just as he rounds the corner, he wakes up, but laying there in bed, he knows what he saw, knows what a crew of vengeful pirates did to his beloved. Though he had been firm on not telling anyone about you or your relationship for fear the wrong person would find out and your life would be in danger, he makes the decision to put in a call to an old friend and ask them to drop in on you every week or so to be certain you’re safe. He also installs a new, state of the art security system at your place as soon as he gets leave. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[voxslays]

OSHIBANA — HWANG IN-HO

SUMMARY: Days before your passing, In-ho gives you a lovely bouquet filled with your favorite flowers, as he spends his days by your side—only to discover you turned it into art and preserved it for him to find years later.

This was it. You were dying. He had tried everything to save you. First it was taking out the loans, accepting ‘bribes,’ begging the doctors. Then, it was the games. He had won and come out of the, victorious just for you and your unborn child—which by the time he had arrived at the hospital, was placed into his arms.

It was a happy, bubbly baby girl, and In-ho couldn’t have been happier in that moment…until, he learned of your condition. You looked fine on the outside—maybe a little tired, but overall, you looked like a healthy new mother. But on the inside, your liver was failing. When In-ho was told the news, he couldn’t help but burst into tears, which was becoming less and less rare for him.

The doctors were unsure how many days you had left, so In-ho decided to make them your happiest. He grabbed a bouquet of your favorite flowers. There were orchids, lillies, hydrangeas and many more. Your husband couldn’t help but smile when he saw your bright beaming expression as he handed you the bouquet.

It was ironic. As your breaths grew shorter and shallower, the flowers started to lose their vibrant colors. As you started to decay, they did too. And one day, they were completely gone and the case was left empty. In-ho assumed one of the nurses had taken them, which upset him more than he cared to admit. Couldn’t his beautiful wife get one last glimpse of her favorite flowers before she was gone forever?

But before he knew it, you were dead. In-ho was left as a wealthy widower and single father—left to wander the struggles of parenthood alone. You always knew just what to say to cheer him up, but now that you were gone, he just felt numb and empty inside. A husk of himself before all the games and struggles.

————

Today was the sixth anniversary of your death. In-ho had packed up everything and brought himself and your daughter, Ae-cha to the island per Il-nam’s request. Life as the frontman wasn’t horrible, but he noticed himself spending less and less time with your daughter, the circle guards taking the jobs of nanny’s and childcare workers to please their busy boss.

But today, In-ho had taken the day off to spend it with his little girl. Ae-cha was still the same bright, bubbly child she had been the day she was born. Yet, she was six now and had started asking him difficult questions—Just like she was now. “What happened to Eomma?” Ae-cha asks, her tiny form cuddling into her father.

In-ho’s breath hitches. He had always known a day like this would come eventually—but it didn’t make him any more prepared. “She’s in the sky.” He responds, taking a sip of his brandy. After your death, he had tried to drink away the pain, only to be given a harsh reminder of the consequences by his very own brother, Jun-ho.

Ae-cha giggles. “So she’s like an angel?” She kicks her legs playfully. There was never a dull moment with Ae-cha around, was there? She reminded him so much of you—she had your eyes after all. Yet, it wasn’t only that either. Her personality, her playfulness, it all stemmed from you, a mother she never got the pleasantry of meeting.

In-ho sighs, looking at his hyper little demon. “Can I see a picture?” She asks oh so innocently. In-ho puts on a warm smile, his eyes slightly crinkling at the corners as he slowly gets up. “Of course, gongjunim.” He strolls out of the small living space in his private quarters and into his bedroom. He walks past his dark blanketed, queen-sized bed and to the door at the very far wall.

In-ho opens it with ease, heading down the basement like stairs into the cold storage room. Inside, many files and portfolios of players from past and present games reside. Yet, one small shelf in the middle is reserved solely for pictures and memories of you. As he goes to grab a picture for his daughter, his fingers brush against an unfamiliar mahogany frame.

He picks it up, examining it gently in the dim light. Yet, even in the darkness of the storage room he recognizes the imagery. It was a frame with preserved flowers. On the side were your initials and the date: 12/3/15, the day before he lost you forever. The flowers were familiar too. In-ho recognized them as the ones he had gotten you whilst on your death bed.

So it really wasn’t the nurse then, huh?

In-ho felt tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he saw a small yellow post it stuck firmly onto the back of the frame. “Something to cheer you up! :)” was written in your messy, but cute handwriting. He lightly sets down the frame, as if it’s the most precious artifact in the world—which to him, it is. It’s your last gift to him. A reminder you aren’t coming back.

Your husband finds a pleasant picture of you and carefully puts the framed Oshibana back into the box. He turns off the storage room light and walks back up the stairs, closing the door. He wipes the small teardrops from the corner of his crinkled eyes. If you were here, you’d say something to cheer him up, wouldn’t you? But you couldn’t, and it was pointless to cry.

You weren’t coming back.

[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. 

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

Perfect. | joel miller x f!reader drabble, 1.6k

Summary: You're full of Joel, but you need him in your mouth, too. Joel delivers.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUT, pwp, rough sex, dom!joel, sub!reader, established relationship, everything that happens is discussed and consensual, cursing, praise kink, size kink, degradation kink, unprotected p in v, minor anal play, nipple play, reader is obsessed with Joel's fingers, hair pulling, (1) ass slapping, manhandling, gagging kink, deepthroat, free use at the end, facial, cum eating, belated aftercare, as always, let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: There's not much to say, this is pure filth, just to cleanse my palette of all the anguish I've brought upon myself! It was written on a whim, so here goes 👀

P.S.: I don't need to remind you how much I hate summaries. I hate them. OK, ily all, bye!

Dividers by @cafekitsune

“Fuck, you feel so good-” Joel pants between your breasts as you take him deep inside you, riding him, “uuuuuh, perfect- fuck- perfect little pussy-” He’s so big, you feel him in your belly. Your cunt is stretched to its limit but you’re so wet from all the orgasms he pulled out of you before impaling you on his hard cock, that he slides inside you with ease.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his feet touching the soft carpet beneath him. His hands cradle your ass, kneading it and maneuvering you up and down on his thick cock, while you lock your hands around his neck for leverage.

His fingertips glide lightly over your asshole as he holds you open and stretched in his palms, feeling your tight ring of muscle clench on his digits. His lower belly and balls are soaked in your arousal, the hairs on his base glued together by your sticky slick. Your clit rubs against them every time you roll your hips.

Joel runs his big calloused palms up your back, sending shivers down your spine and as you arch your back in pleasure, pushing your breasts closer to his face, he cups them, pinching your hardened nipples between his thumb and forefinger. You look down at his hands as he continues to arouse your tits and the sight makes your clit twitch and your cunt clench around him.

His wet tongue enters the game, flicking it up and down over your erect nubs, sending jolts of pleasure through your body and your thighs begin to tremble both from exhaustion and arousal.

Your fingers run through his hair, tugging gently. He moans as his hand comes down hard on your asscheek. You whimper at the spreading pain, your cunt gushing around his cock, the lewd sounds of your joined sexes only making it more obvious.

You fuck him so good and hard, sucking him deep inside you, you start creaming around him.

You become obsessed with his hands. Big, strong, veined and tanned, with tiny freckles, his fingers calloused and skillful; their expert touch, always bring you to completion.

“I wanna suck your fingers. Please..” you coo into his ear, your hands tugging desperately at the unruly curls at the back of his head.

“Mhhhh..yeah?” Joel turns his head towards you, his aquiline nose pressing against your cheek.

Your grip on him tightens as you continue to bounce on his cock, your voice laced with need and lust, “Please, Joel..”

Joel grants your wish and moves a palm away from your breast but doesn’t bring it to your mouth. Instead, he snakes it between your bodies, collecting your arousal from his slick-coated base. He’s going to be the death of you.

He brings his shiny fingers to your face allowing you to take the lead, go on, then. Milky strings of your slick create little webs connecting his digits together.

You encircle his wrist with your delicate fingers and bring his palm to your nose, smelling the combination of your juices and his musk, making your eyes roll. “You dirty little thing..” he mutters to himself, smirking as he begins to meet your thrusts with his own, the sound of your bodies slapping together filling the otherwise silent room.

You open your eyes and slowly wrap your lips around his middle and ring fingers, swirling your tongue around the tips as you would his cock head. “Fuck.” he grunts through his teeth and you feel him twitch inside you, his breath stuttering. You hollow out your cheeks and suck them into your warm mouth, bobbing your head up and down on them, your eyes never leaving his.

“You like that, babygirl? Suckin’ my fingers like you do my cock?”

“Mmhmm..” you all but moan, your face wrecked from the intensity of the moment.

“Wanna gag on them?” Fuck yes.

“Mhhhh” you whine now, sucking even harder to make a point. He pushes his fingers further into your mouth as his cock pushes deeper into you, stroking that sweet spot that only he can reach. He presses on your gag reflex, making you gag and your eyes water. Your grip on his wrist is firm, making sure his fingers stay in your mouth.

“Such a fuckin’ whore f’ me, aren’t you? Stuffing your holes full ’a me, huh?” You clench violently around him, almost to the point of coming, your breath coming in short pants. He leans forward, his lips brushing your ear “Maybe I should stuff your tight little hole with my other hand, I bet you’d like me in there, too. I bet you’d take me so well, yeah?”

His dirty talk drives you wild and you arch your spine again, moaning around his fingers but he quickly withdraws them, strings of saliva briefly connecting your lips to his tips and you whimper at the loss.

He lowers his slick fingers to tap quickly but gently on your swollen clit. You cry out at the stimulation, waves of electricity rippling through your body. “Gonna come on my cock baby? Yeah..” he breathes, his eyes fixed on your face, contorted with pleasure, “Yeah, you are.”

That does it; you come so hard, spasming around his stiff length, making a mess on his lap. Joel stops fucking into you, staying buried to the hilt inside you, feeling the tight grip of your cunt choking him in rhythm.

“That’s it, thaaat’s it, look at me, baby, fuck- fuckmmphh- this perfect cunt-” Joel keeps guiding you through your orgasm, biting where your neck meets your shoulder.

Your mouth is slack from the force of your release but it feels so empty and before you come down completely you are begging for him. “I need you in my mouth, Joel- I need you to fill me with your cum, please Joel, please..” you beg deliriously.

“Christ, baby.” Joel grits his teeth and pulls you off his lap and his hard member, forcing you onto your knees and shoving his cock into your mouth, grabbing handfuls of your hair. He can't deny you when you beg so prettily.

The taste is heavenly. Tasting yourself on him as you breathe in his heady scent makes your head spin with desire. “That’s it, gag on it.” he says as he focuses on his shaft, veiny, swollen and shiny, disappearing into your warm mouth, hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.

He knows. He sees it all in your eyes, you’re so far gone, surrendered to your pleasure and his. Joel begins to fuck your throat in deep, sharp thrusts, his thighs tensing and bulging under your palms. He rests his hand around your throat, feeling it bulge under his fingertips.

You’re utterly ruined. Your eyes are bloodshot and filled with tears, and your lips are stretched and swollen as you drool around him. Your face is coated in sweat, saliva and your arousal. You can taste your cum and his pre-cum on your tongue, along with every ridge and vein of his erection. You just kneel there, between his legs like a toy, letting him take and give what you both need.

“Fuck, look at you. Look at you, my sweet girl, choking on this big cock.”

You don’t react, you just sit there, pliant and doe-eyed and take it; content and worry-free. You make it so hard for him to hold back any longer. He’s about to come and he has this irresistible urge to ruin that innocent, fucked out look on your face.

He pulls his cock out of your mouth and jerks furiously over your face, his biceps flexing from the effort, his other hand firmly gripping your hair to maneuver you as he pleases. You look up at him in total surrender, tongue out, longing for what’s to come.

His eyebrows are drawn together, his jaw is slack and his mouth is open in that perfect shape that his plush lips form, as he breathes heavily. His broad torso, covered in both yours and his sweat, rises and falls rapidly, his muscles flexing deliciously under his skin.

He comes and comes with a deep, guttural moan all over your face; your forehead, your eyelashes, your nose, your cheeks, your lips, everything is marked by his thick, warm, milky cum. Your cunt flutters at this act of degradation and possession.

“Don’t open them; it’ll sting.” you hear him say while catching his breath, referring to your closed eyes and your cum-coated lashes. You do as he says and wait behind the darkness of your closed eyelids for him to take care of you. But Joel just sits there, admiring his handiwork as he comes down from his high.

You can hear his heavy breathing and the lack of sight is the only thing that makes you realize he’s human, like you. This otherwise divine creature is human.

“Let’s clean you up.” you finally hear him say as you feel his thumb wipe his now cold and dry cum from your skin, press it gently against your lips and feed it to you. You swallow every last drop of it, your tongue warm and welcoming around his digit. He leaves your eyes last.

When he’s finished, he holds the sides of your face with his palms, taking a good look at your submissive form, resting his forehead against yours.

You slowly open your eyes as he plants soft kisses all over your face. “Perfect..” you hear him murmur, more to himself than to you.

“Perfect and mine.”

[standamianwayne]

yandere!batfam/damian’s twin!reader

okay so! in these neglected!reader fics Dick is almost always the one who’s like trying to reach out the most. because of this, personally(!) i feel like he’s the kinda guy who just wants his family to be whole so he kinda takes up the position of like father+brother combined (eldest child syndrome lowkey). he kinda becomes the most present figure in the twins’ lives and i think it goes double for reader tbh.

like breakfast lunch dinner Dick is right there with her and yaps her ear off. i think that where Bruce is the kinda dad that wants you to finish what you start, Dick is the kinda brother that’s like “if you don’t wanna do it, then don’t” ykwim? wanna do ballet? he’s at every recital. hate it? well, it wasn’t for you anyways! any practice, game, show, concert, he’s there. and if you decide you absolutely hate whatever it is, he’s there for you too!

just like general supportive older brother, but turned up juuuust a smidge. i feel like in the yandere aspect, he’s not really the type to go try and murder someone. sure he might hurt someone, but he’d at least want to avoid murder. it’s more like he’s gonna try and keep her home/with him as much as possible. like where are you going? it’s family game night! when did we start family game nights? don’t worry about it! now come on, it’s monopoly.

jason, on the other, WOULD probably kill someone. buuuuut i think it’s more so if she get physically hurt by someone would he be pushed to murder. emotionally? he’ll probably just beat them up and threaten them. but if they put their hands on her? mmm yeah you’re dead. sorry!

i feel like jason, who’s literally died and come back to life consumed by rage, would see reader as the opposite of himself. as good, where he is bad. and i think that on one hand he wants to push her away, to not taint her with the darkness that consumes him. but on the other hand, he’s had so much taken from him, seen death at every corner, even met the man face-to-face. can’t he be selfish just this once?

so, in the early hours of the morning, before the sun comes up and his duty as Red Hood is done for the night, he seeks her out. he comes back to the manor, climbing through her bedroom window. she’s still asleep and he just stands there, listening, watching, reminding himself that she is alive and so is he. he doesn’t touch her, he can’t— can’t poison her good with his bad. so, he settles for observing. maybe one day he can work up the courage to speak with her, seek her comfort. but for now, he’s content with simply existing around her.

tim is also an observer in like a borderline stalker kinda way. makes everybody download life360 but he watches her location like a hawkkkk. also gifts her a phone that’s totally safe i swear! don’t mind that any texts from an ex or someone that you have bad blood disappear right after you get them. they probably just unsent them!

he’s like Dick in that he tries to convince her to stay home often. but his way of doing it is… different. you wanna go for a walk on this street? actually there’s footage of a robbery that took place near there recently, probably not safe. wanna go to a friend’s house? um, according to their school records, they got detention in 5th grade. that’s a bad influence, girl! don’t worry, we can play mario kart or something instead!

with duke i feel like, compared to the others, he’s the closest you’ll get to a regular brother. he’s the closest in age to the twins and he joined the batfam after damian in canon. he’s also very kind and soft(?) so it’s unlikely he’s gonna go full stalker and/or killer over his sister. don’t get me wrong, he could kick ass if needed. but when it comes to reader, he’s mostly just trying to bond with her. watching movies in his room, sneaking out to get ice cream together, even at the ‘Wayne Galas’ he’ll stick by her side.

duke is veryyy caring and passionate, plus i feel like he’s sympathetic as well. so when you need comforting, he’s probably the best to go to. cause he won’t be the kind to go find whoever made you upset and ‘talk to’ them. instead, he’s gonna comfort his sis! unless it was someone who physically hurt her, then he’ll probably pay them a visit. but he’s not gonna kill them, i just can’t see him doing that.

next up the batgirls 😛 just as a note this is all my interpretation of the characters. if you think it’s ooc, no you didn’t ❤️

also does anyone have a preference of using third person (she, her) or second (you, your)? i might switch to ‘you’ when i write the batgirls so its not confusing, but if anyone has a preference, let me know!

and thank you all so much for the love on the first part!!!! i’ve never uploaded fanfic before so this is so new to me 😅 but i appreciate it sm! love yall! ❤️

[tanpl-if]

In the summer of 1986 you get a letter informing you of your mother's death.

The first and only letter you get in ten years since you left your hometown.

You stand in the middle of the old, tiny room that you can barely afford to rent and read it over and over again until the buzz at the back of your head quiets down. Until your hands stop shaking.

You think of what it means for you.

I hope you arrive soon. You know Marrowbone will always have a place for you.

The words spin in your head and you think of Marrowbone then—a secret, lonely place, standing at the edge of everything, surrounded by forests and fields, barely acknowledged on the maps.

But it is home.

And whether you like it or not, you are coming back.

There are no people left is an 18+ horror inerractive fiction game for language, themes and potential explicit content

• romance one of the 5 ROs or choose a platonic route

• choose between 3 preset personalities for MC that will open different paths in the story and exclusive scenes

• reconnect with your old friends and make new connections

• explore your hometown

• remember why you left

DEMO: (09.03.25)

Olya - Aside from working the bar left to her care by her parents, she isn't up to much of anything, the days passing by her seamlessly. You watch her work - pale fingers gripping the glass she is cleaning a bit too tight, lips pressed into a frown - and think how much she has changed since you last saw her.

She looks older. More tired too, but more than anything angry. With life perhaps. With you - for sure. The tension hangs between you, threads through every conversation, follows with every touch.

A decade of silence will do that, you think, almost guilty. You wonder if there was ever a chance of putting the fragile pieces back into place.

You wonder if the only thing left for you is to mourn.

Timur - Head held low, he keeps to himself most of the time. You remember him a sickly thing - his parents never letting him out to play, hiding him away in fear for his poor health. You remember sneaking into his room - muted laughter and hushed whispers, when you kept him company.

The memories taste bitter now, after all those years.

He seems more shut off now, and as much as you expected him to forget you, you're even more surprised when he gives you the same smile that reminds you of a sweet little boy that used to be your neighbor.

In the midst of half-forgotten faces and unwelcome memories, he still feels the same as when you were kids.

You're not sure if it brings you comfort or not.

The Doctor - He does his work well, and that's what matters, the doctor says, not in the most friendly fashion.

His face is lined with age, gray temples vivid among the black, as he runs his fingers through his hair, looking at another report with pursed lips and tired eyes.

You don't remember seeing him before, a hard thing to achieve for one of the few doctors of Marrowbone - a surprise and a revelation at the same time.

You know he is local, and your mind burns with questions. You can't imagine anyone in their right mind coming back here if they ever managed to leave - not by choice anyway - but you hold your tongue. It's not your place to intrude.

And it's definitely not your place to judge.

The Gravekeeper - As frail as she appears to be, she manages to be just as cheerful.

The keeper's granddaughter spends her days taking care of the dead - keeping them company, she says - the hem of her dress brushing against gray stone, as she moves around, steps light.

She is all sweet smiles when she talks to you, dimples catching your eye. And though you never saw her before, there is Marrowbone etched into her in a way you can't explain - dark eyes and a knowing pull of her lips - there is no doubt she has always been a part of this town.

The Widow - There is a rumor about her, almost a tale, nurtured by years of boredom from the residents of small town - not much to do in Marrowbone aside from gossiping about your neighbors - about a woman on the hill, lonesome in her manor, a number of husbands lying dead in the small graveyard in front of her home. About a woman always wearing black, forever in mourning. Some believe her cursed, though a more cynical crowd would call her much meaner names - a gold-digger with an exceptional streak of luck.

A witch.

You see her there, standing at the top of the hill - her dress swaying in the wind, black veil covering her face. And though you can't make out a single detail behind it, somehow you know - her eyes are on you.

Sonya - Your mother. You don't know what happened to her.

asks and scenarios are welcome!

tags: @interact-if