#i’m still drunk typing this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

venusheartsyou2 · 2 months ago

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me and my husband | bucky barnes

summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: explicit. 18+ only, MDNI. afab!reader. marriage of convenience. many mentions of alcohol and drinking! yearn city over here, reader is a chronic people pleaser, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, tad bit of angst. flashbacks to endgame, mention of steve and nat death & grieving. mention of benjamin poindexter. vague timeline. oral (female receiving), piv sex, unsafe sex, no use of y/n.

wc: 10.6K (FUUUCK)

a/n: oh my holy guaca-freaking-mole. this. took. fucking FOREVER to write. i hope yall like it, i really do. anyways.. self-indulgent! yippee!!

EDIT: i forgot bucky cant get drunk. please pretend he can for my sake.

heavily inspired by love me more by byexbyez (aka the better written version of this trope, lol)

The soup you made earlier in the day had gone cold. Chicken noodle. It wasn’t your favorite, but your husband usually asks for it when you offer to cook. Your husband’s late again, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was busy. He always is. Life as a congressman isn’t easy. It’s monotonous, boring, and soul-sucking. As much as the empty yet somewhat grand house bothered you, you learned to get over its suffocating hallways.��

The sound of keys jingling in the door knob breaks you out of your little trance. The key sounds act as a little warning that someone’s coming in. Bucky enters quietly and he knocks off his shoes and removes his worn out tuxedo jacket and leaves on the coat hanger next to the door.

“Long day?” You ask. Bucky didn’t expect you to be up still, proven by the little jump he does when he hears your voice. He sighs, it’s just you.

“Yeah, when isn’t it?” He responds. You let out a light breath disguised as a laugh.

“Made soup. It’s a bit cold now, but I can go warm it up if you’d like.” You say as you start heading to the kitchen.

“I’m not that hungry.” Bucky replies. Bucky’s reluctance to eat made you bitter, however there was no use. Behind closed doors, there was no need for pretending. Bucky had asked you to sign that marriage license, however long ago, but there was no sentiment tied to it. It was simply a means to an end.

“You should eat Bucky. I’ll leave it out.” You respond, trying not to push too much. Bucky simply nods, a sign he’s not too interested in continuing chatting. At least when the topic is about him. Stage fright, maybe.

Bucky nervously fidgets with the cuff of his shirt. After a moment, Bucky lets out a deep breath and breaks his silence. “You’re gonna hate me.”

Your immediate reaction is anxiety. “What did you do?” You say, cocking your head slightly.

“There’s a charity event tomorrow.. ”

“Yeah, and?”

“I made a promise I would come.” Bucky says. What Bucky means to say is, ‘we would come’, but he thinks laying you into the news slowly will make your reaction easier to handle.

You would be fine with it, usually. You knew that these superficial galas and events came with Bucky’s profession. The only problem was that your mother was visiting the city for the day, and you had full-day plans for dinner and catching up. Bucky knew about them, as you told him the moment it was planned.

Your lack of a response was enough for Bucky. “I’m sorry. I know you have plans with your mother.” He says, apologetic enough to seem genuine.

“And I have to go?” You ask.

“It would look weird if you didn’t.” He responds. It’s always about looks, isn’t it?

“Right.” You reply, already planning out a long apology text to your mother, who would definitely understand. Can’t help but feel bad. You whip out your phone to start texting your mother.

“I’m buying a dress for you to wear tomorrow.” Bucky says, hoping that works as an incentive.

“Did you choose the dress, or did your secretary? You know I like her taste in fashion better.” You grin at Bucky for a second, then you look back down at your phone to begin typing your large paragraph of an apology.

“She helped.” Bucky laughs weakly. He can’t help but look at you frantically typing.

“Well, I’ll leave the soup out if you want it. You should eat something. ‘Gonna be a long day tomorrow too.” You say, finally, after you send your apology.

Bucky purses his lips and nods. “Okay. Thanks.” He says, so casually.

If anyone had seen how the two of you talk, they would assume you were roommates. Which you essentially were. The two of you weren’t very romantic, at least when the both of you were sober, or while you weren’t in the public eye, of course. Any non-public romantic passes were swiftly ignored the next day. It’s not that you didn’t find Bucky attractive, because you most certainly did, it was mainly the fact that Bucky made it clear from the beginning this relationship was strictly for political gain. Nothing really so hot and heavy about that.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then, Bucky.” You yawn as you head to your bedroom, which was a guest bedroom that Bucky randomly assigned you.

“See you. Be ready by 6PM.” Bucky tells you off-handedly. You give him a thumbs up as you walk to your room.

It’s hard for you to go to sleep, usually. It’s partially your fault. You know that being on your phone before bed isn’t best for getting the optimum amount of sleep. However, you find yourself researching your husband’s political moves every night. Bucky hasn't been able to pass a single bill since he joined Congress, so you note to yourself to avoid talking about that while at the event tomorrow. You hated studying in school, but yet you find yourself studying every night. You have to present yourself as a good wife, or at least a believable one.

You sigh, shutting off your phone after reading a large amount of hate comments on Bucky’s surprising political career. People don’t like change, or at least the fact that an ex-assassin somehow got into office. You shrug it off. Weirder stuff has happened, anyway.

You groan as you get out of bed. You accepted the fact you just weren’t going to get your desired hours of sleep tonight. Maybe it’ll be easier to go to bed after a glass of water?

You walk downstairs into the kitchen to get your glass of water. You enter to see Bucky, sitting with his laptop, with a bunch of paperwork splayed all over the kitchen island. Bucky hears the sounds of your footsteps, and he smiles at you weakly when he sees you. He’s tired, it’s clear by the look on his face.

You walk over next to Bucky, looking at all of his work. Just a bunch of political mumbo-jumbo; nothing of interest to you. You rub Bucky’s shoulder and neck, trying to massage what you can without seeming too touchy. Bucky groans a little, and he’s broken out of his little trance. He realizes just how tired he really is.

Bucky pats your hand on his shoulder and gently takes your hand off him. You’re not sure if that gesture was too affectionate. It shouldn’t be, but you can’t risk making anything awkward. “Thanks.” Bucky mumbles, his voice almost at a whisper. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

“You should go to sleep. You’ll work better after sleeping.” You tell Bucky, as you always do. You see an empty, used bowl. Bucky ate your food. You find yourself smiling.

“You like it?” You ask, heading towards the pot of soup that was sitting on the stove. You mix the soup around.

“It was perfect, thank you.” Bucky grins.

You grab a spoon and taste the soup you had made.

What the hell was Bucky talking about? It was the most watery, unflavorful soup you had made yet. And the soup you usually make is nowhere near gourmet. “What the hell are you talking about? This is ass.” You grimace at the taste.

Bucky grins and shrugs. “Tasted good to me.”

“HYDRA must’ve fucked you up bad.” You joke. Were HYDRA jokes too far? You were about to find out.

To your relief, Bucky let out a light laugh. “Guess they did. I’m just lucky that someone is willing to cook for me at all.”

You smile at Bucky, while continuing to stir the pot of soup. “It’s not a big deal. I’m glad you’re willing to eat it.” You say, while adding copious amounts of salt and herbs to make up for the lackluster taste.

After a moment, Bucky reveals, “I called your mom.”

You turn around. “You did?” You ask, looking a little concerned. Your mother didn’t know the true nature of you and Bucky’s real relationship. When you had told her the news, she was excited that her only daughter was getting married, but she was furious about the fact that she had never known about him before. Which is understandable. However, it wasn’t like you had much time before the fake marriage ceremony to introduce him.

You had asked for a wedding. With a nice dress. As a kid, you had always dreamed of having a perfect wedding, where most of the focus was just on you and your future partner. Bucky tried to deliver, but the wedding just didn’t feel complete. Probably from the lack of true feelings on either party, or the fact that you had to prepare for a new life under spotlight and public scrutiny soon.

The wedding you had was small, mainly just family and select friends. The only proof of the wedding’s existence was a photo you had taken with Bucky at the altar, along with the grotesque amount of photos your mother insisted on taking. You told her to keep the photos private, to which she begrudgingly agreed. All that, and yet the wedding also didn’t feel complete without Natasha there, as she was the woman who had introduced the two of you to one another many years ago.

It’s still weird Nat’s gone. You thank her for a lot of things. She provided you with your first job in the city. She convinced Tony that the Avengers needed a manager to handle all of their public appearances. She then convinced Tony that it should be you, and even with Tony’s unbearable stubbornness, she got you that job. It was there when you met Bucky, or the Winter Soldier, as he was named at the time.

“She wasn’t too mad about you canceling.” Bucky says about your mother, which knocks you out of your trance.

“She wasn’t? That’s a relief.” You respond.

“I’m still sorry that you had to cancel. I’ll make it up to you one day.” Bucky promises. While you’re sure Bucky means to keep the promise, he’s always so busy with work, so you wonder how long you’ll have to wait for Bucky to make it up to you — with whatever he plans to do.

“It’s fine, Bucky.” You shrug off as an instinct.

Bucky looks remorseful, but he doesn’t say anything more about it. “Good night then.”

“Night.”

In the morning, you wake up to an empty house. Bucky leaves for work early in the morning. You work from home – something you had wished for a while – but you have to admit, it gets pretty lonely. After a long day of pointless powerpoints and spreadsheets, you get a text from Bucky’s secretary.

“Mr. Barnes will be bringing your dress for tonight in 30 minutes.” She texts you, overly formal. You’ve told her that there’s no need to be formal, but she insists as she’s on the clock.

Bucky gently knocks on your door. You turn to see him with a box in his hands. “Surprise.”

You grin. “Wow, a present for me?” You say as you open the box. It’s a gorgeous white dress with gold accents. What a surprise – there’s no way Bucky picked this out himself.

“Mia.” Bucky mentions his secretary, notioning that it was her idea. You look up at him and nod. “Makes sense.”

You check your watch. 4:30PM. “I should start getting ready soon.”

“You’ll look good either way.” Bucky compliments, seeming more affectionate than it should. You clear your throat. “That’s kind of you, Bucky.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Bucky says, leaving the box on your bed.

You say bye, as you start unfolding the dress. How the hell do you put this thing on? The dress had two strips of loose fabric, which were meant to be tied together in the back, similar to that of a halter top. At least you think they’re meant to be tied. You brace yourself to fit into this dress. You squeeze in a little, as the dress is a little tight in the back.

The dress was cute, from what you could see. The dress still needed to be tied, and there wasn’t a way for you to reach the back of the dress. You sigh a little as you try your best to make a knot. “Bucky?” You shout out.

“Yeah?” He calls out from downstairs.

“Can you come up?” You ask.

You can hear Bucky’s footsteps slowly come closer to your room. You turn around. The top of the dress folds over the waist of the dress. You turn around, your back facing the door, as your chest is exposed, and you’re not so keen on giving Bucky an unwanted surprise when he enters your room.

Bucky enters your room, surprised to see your torso exposed. He clears his throat and asks you what you need. You tell him to tie the back, instructing him on how to assemble the knot.

“Tie it tight.”

Bucky hums a little ‘mm-hm’. As he finishes the knot, you turn back around to show off the dress. “How does it look?”

Bucky grins a little. “Perfect.”

–

Later, you and Bucky enter the fancy ballroom. Charity events were a bore to you, as bad as that sounds. It always surprised you how much money people had to just give so freely, as you had grown up with so little. Perhaps it was best not to focus on that. It’s good that these people are donating so much for good causes.

Bucky had cleaned up, his hair was slicked back and he was in his best suit. Your hair was tied up and curled neatly. It had taken forever to do, so at least it turned out nicely. You accessorized with gold jewelry, to match with the gold accents of the dress, of course.

Bucky’s arm lays on the small of your back. Servers pass by with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, to which you pick up naturally.

Small talk between politicians killed you. You could not think of a bigger waste of time. You could feel the venom in each of the politicians' voices, but it’s hidden by smiles and charming personalities. You know what you have to do. Smile big, and only speak when spoken to. Best to avoid any slip-ups.

“You’re doing great, just focus on me.” Bucky whispers into your ear. You cough off the warm feeling in your chest.

“Congratulations on the wedding. Still in the honeymoon phase, are you?” A wife of a congressman asked.

“Very much so.” Bucky responded, looking at you with love in his eyes. He’s a good actor. You smile back as you place a hand on his chest.

“She gets me through my day.” Bucky adds, and a flurry of ‘aww’s’ follow suit. You swiftly push down the growing lump in your throat. Gotta act natural.

As you and Bucky break away from the group of people, you find yourself by the sidelines, people-watching. Bucky had left to go network, or whatever it is that he does. You had him in your line of sight, which comforted you in this large crowd.

You drink your champagne, unassuming.

“Mrs. Barnes?” A man asks out to you, seemingly out of nowhere. You jump a little at the surprise.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” The man laughs as he slowly inches up to you. Your neck cranes upward to look at the man’s face, as he’s much taller than you.

“Of course not,” You grin, “You just caught me off guard.”

The man rubs the back of his neck. “My apologies.” You shrug it off.

“I was trying to reach Mr. Barnes, but he seems to be occupied.” The man sighs as he shoots a glance at Bucky.

“Am I just your next best option, then?” You ask, smiling.

The man turns back to you. “Of course not.” He insists with a charming smile. You’re quick to brush it off and assure him it’s alright.

“Benjamin Poindexter. Most people call me Dex.” He reaches his hand out with a grin. You tell him your name and shake his hand, his grip steady and firm.

“Am I allowed to call you Dex?”

“Call me whatever you like.” He says with a wink. You laugh. As your eyes wander back into the crowd, you see Bucky stare from across the ballroom. You notice that he isn’t paying full attention to the man he’s talking to. You pay no mind and go back to your conversation with Dex.

You invite Dex to people-watch with you, and it’s easy to convince him.

“These events are such a drag.” He mentions off-handedly. You let out a sigh of relief. “Aren’t they?” You respond, more enthusiastically than you have been this entire time at this gala.

“Just a huge flaunt of money.” Dex notes.

“It is. At least it’s for a good cause.” You try to reason.

“I’m sure they could do that without all the pointless attractions.” Dex sighs. You laugh as you stare at all the grand decor, live music, and grand meals. It’s true, this entire thing was just so obnoxious to you. “You get me.” You say.

Dex grins at you as he lightly places his hand on your shoulder. “At least you look lovely tonight.”

“Are you flirting with me, Dex? You know I’m a married woman.” You roll your eyes and grin, your eyes pointed towards the ground.

“Of course not,” Dex responds, “Unless you’d like me to.”

Your eyes widen at his boldness and laugh Dex’s advances off. “You’re funny.”

Dex doesn’t respond, his only response being the faint upward curling of his lips. Before you get to speak again, Bucky appears by your side.

“I’m sorry, could I steal my wife from you for a second?” Bucky says with a tight-lipped grin.

“Oh, of course-” Dex starts to say, only to be cut off by Bucky swiftly grabbing your hand and dragging you out of there.

“Oh, Bucky, Dex — or Benjamin — wanted to speak with you-” You try to say to your husband.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get to that later.” Bucky says, not paying attention.

“Are you okay? What are you doing?” You whisper to Bucky once he fully removes you from Dex’s presence.

“How do you think I look when my wife’s too busy giggling with another man?” Bucky mutters into your ear. You pull back.

“It wasn’t like that-” You say, naively.

“Course it wasn’t,” He spits out, and a brief silence follows.

After taking a deep breath, Bucky says, “Just stick by me for the rest of the night, okay?”

You frown slightly, your face turning sour. “Right, okay.”

The rest of the night killed you. Every boring conversation felt even longer than it had before. It wasn’t helping that Bucky kept his grip on your waist tighter than usual. You counted down the seconds until this stupid gala was over, all with a big smile on your face.

You couldn’t ignore the looks Dex would shoot at you occasionally, but you didn’t let your gaze linger.

The car ride back home was quiet. You couldn’t tell if Bucky was still angry, his face was unreadable.

You two finally get back home, and the door shuts with a click. Bucky immediately lets out a deep sigh. You take that as a sign to initiate your go-to unwind routine, which usually consists of ordering Chinese and drinking. Hopefully Bucky will warm up to you again with some food in his stomach.

“Chinese?” You ask, waiting for Bucky’s go-ahead.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Bucky says, his voice void of any emotion.

You fight the urge to ask Bucky if he’s still mad at you, best not to disturb the lion.

The ring of the doorbell notifies you that the takeout was finally here.

“So, talk to anyone interesting tonight?” You ask as you and Bucky sit down next to each other at your small dinner table.

“Never.” Bucky lets out a light breath of amusement. He watches you as you crack open wooden chopsticks for the both of you. You frown slightly at the uneven crack of the chopsticks.

As you hand over better separated chopsticks to Bucky, you stand up to grab drinks from the kitchen. “Beer?” You ask.

“Always.” He says as he chews on his noodles.

You grab a beer from the fridge, opening it up for Bucky. You grab a wine glass for yourself, pouring your favorite red wine into it.

As you hand over the beer to Bucky, he nods his head as a way of thanking you.

The dinner between the two of you is silent. Not that that’s necessarily weird, as you and Bucky have grown accustomed to uncomfortable silences.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize mindlessly. “For Dex.”

Bucky sighs as he finishes chewing his greasy noodles. “It’s fine. Just.. I don’t want anyone to suspect anything.” Bucky admits.

“Right.” You say, not putting up a fight. The idea of making Bucky angry makes your stomach bubble up in anxiety. You don’t want Bucky to smell your worry, so you bite your cheek to stifle it down.

— 13 YEARS EARLIER (POST CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER)

“He doesn’t talk a lot, but I think he just needs some time to readjust.” Natasha says as the both of you walk past the room of the new addition to the Avengers Tower. HYDRA had called him the Winter Soldier, but Steve calls him Bucky. Steve’s very adamant the rest of the Avengers (and also you) call him Bucky too.

It was your first week at your new job of being the Avenger’s manager. You’re still not sure how Natasha managed to snag this job for you, but it was better to not to question anything. You just couldn’t believe your luck.

Tony seemed apprehensive towards letting you in, but whether he liked it or not, the Avengers were becoming public figures, and they needed someone to manage their schedules. The rest of the Avengers didn’t seem to mind your presence; you were sure they had bigger things to worry about — like the state of the universe, for example.

Natasha had known you for at least a year prior to you moving to New York. She had saved you in an attack in your small hometown. You had no idea what she was doing in a small town like yours, but she had many secrets. You were just thankful she was in the right place and the right time.

As you and Natasha mindlessly tour the tower, you bump into a man much taller than you. It was Bucky.

“Oh— sorry about that.” You apologize instinctively.

Bucky looks at you bewildered. Well, you note that he kind of just always looks that way. It must be hard for him. You knew he was still fighting off the last bits of HYDRA’s brainwashing. It was best to just let him do his own thing, even if his hard stares felt like they were burning holes into your skin.

— PRESENT

You and Bucky finish eating the take-out noodles. They never get any less greasier. There’s spots of grease along Bucky’s mouth. You laugh and gesture to his mouth. “Got something on your face, Bucky.”

“Ah, shit—” Bucky groans as he tries to wipe it off with his hand. It’s unsuccessful, he’s just spread it around instead of getting rid of it.

“Here.” You say as you grab a napkin and start wiping his mouth for him. Bucky tilts his head up towards you as you hold his face. You wipe his lips, cheeks, and chin. You’re too focused on cleaning Bucky’s face that you don’t realize how flustered Bucky looks. “Done.”

You go to wash the oil off your hands in the kitchen sink. Bucky clears his throat to regain composure.

Little moments of soft domesticity like this make this makeshift marriage feel more real. Sometimes, it’s hard reminding yourself that it’s not.

“I should go to bed soon.” You note. You don’t want to end the night early, but you don’t want to seem too desperate for Bucky’s presence.

“Course. Right.” Bucky says. His lack of willingness to keep you around makes you frown. But you know there wasn’t anything to expect. At least it’s a guarantee that you’ll keep seeing him around.

The next morning, you wake up earlier than Bucky. It’s quite rare, knowing your sleep schedule. There’s sounds coming from Bucky’s bedroom. Muttered curses and frantic scribbling. You knock on his door. “Can I come in?”

Bucky looks at the door, his eyes tired. “Oh, yes, come in.”

He looked like a mess. He had fallen asleep at his desk. He was still wearing his suit from last night. That must’ve been uncomfortable, not to mention dirty. “Bucky— are you okay?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“Mmm, yeah. Perfect.” Bucky says as he stares at his endless pile of paperwork. You sigh as you turn Bucky towards you in his spinny-chair. “I have to go to work soon.” He yawns.

“Yeah, you do.” You respond. He wasn’t close to ready. “Come on, get up.”

Bucky doesn’t protest. He lets you drag him into his walk-in closet. There were a plethora of suits that all looked the same. You pick the first one you see, and shove it into Bucky’s hands. “Put those on.” You tell him as you turn around, to give him privacy.

Bucky does as you say, yawning as he does it. He would usually resist your attempts to help him, especially with tasks so mundane as this, but he was too tired to think. You grab a random necktie and wrap it around Bucky’s neck. Luckily for you, you had spent many hours studying on how to tie a necktie for the day of your wedding. You tie the necktie with swiftness. It’s a little lopsided, but it’ll do. You adjust his tie one last time, patting your hand on his chest as you finish. “Good.”

Bucky smiles weakly. “Thank you, I don’t think I could get anything done without you.”

You let out an amused breath. “I’m barely any help.” You say, as you pick up from stray clothes from off the floor.

Bucky softly smiles and shakes his head, while looking at the large mirror. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good. You need the rest, Bucky.” You say. Bucky grins weakly, looking at the ground.

A pause.

“You know, I’m not sure what the hell I’m even doing.” He admits.

It sure was weird seeing Bucky open up. In the grander scheme of things, Bucky wasn’t being vulnerable at all. However, Bucky isn’t one to talk about himself — at all, really. Emotions made him feel antsy. Especially his own.

“Politics isn’t easy, Bucky. I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” You attempt to say some comforting words. You rub one of his shoulders to ground him, or something.

“No.” Bucky laughs lightly as he shakes his head. “I don’t know the first thing about this shit.” Bucky couldn’t admit that his whole sham of a political career was just a ploy to ethically inch himself towards Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Val was hiding something, and Bucky was going to figure it out. That didn’t mean his wife had to be dragged into this.

You purse your lips, unsure of what to say.

“Steve would know what to do.” Bucky sighs. Nowadays, Bucky hasn’t mentioned Steve as much as he used to, but that didn’t mean he never stopped thinking about him.

— 4 YEARS AGO (POST ENDGAME)

There wasn’t much noise from the Avengers anymore. Everyone had gone their own way, feeling lost after the loss of Tony, Natasha, and Steve. You feel sick to your stomach whenever you think about Natasha. Your friend, gone just like that — all for some stupid orange stone. You couldn’t bear to see Clint, his grief clouded him and invaded the space to those around him. You wish you could help him, but you couldn’t even help yourself. You're just grateful Clint at least has his loving family around him.

As you walk around Central Park, you see a familiar face. Bucky. His metal arm stuck out like a sore thumb. The two of you had become acquaintances, and maybe even friends? You could never read him. You also hadn’t talked to him in a while, as he was too busy helping save the fate of the universe. You know, the usual. As you walk up to him, you tap his shoulder and ask, “This spot open?”

Bucky looks up at you and grins weakly. He says your name and scoots on the bench to invite you in.

“How are you holding up?” You ask a dumb question. Everyone was grieving.

“Fine.” Bucky lies. You lean back on the bench.

“Wish I could say the same. I don’t really know what to do with myself.” You laugh, awkwardly.

“Yeah. Same.” Bucky says, seemingly distant.

You and Bucky sit in the silence for a second. “Talked to anyone recently?” You ask.

“Saw Sam a couple of days ago. He’s really busy right now.” Bucky sighs.

“How’s he?”

“Stressed. Steve giving him the shield really put a lot of pressure on him.”

“Can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now.”

There’s another awkward silence as your topic of discussion runs its course.

That’s when you had an idea. You two shouldn’t have to continue living in limbo. You were gonna ask Bucky to hang out, so the both of you guys could be less alone together. Innocent and easy, yeah?

“Let’s get drinks, Bucky.” You ask. He seems confused, but anything sounds better than rocking himself to sleep.

“Really?”

“Why not? I’ve been sitting around for weeks. Steve and Nat would want us to keep living, don’t you think?” You reason.

“I think you’re right. That sounds good.” He says as he gives a small grin.

You get up from the bench and give a hand to Bucky, “C’mon, I know a place.”

Hours passed by, and the night didn’t go quite as well as you planned. You heavily underestimated how much alcohol you could tolerate, as you hadn’t drank in quite some time, and Bucky got carried away trying to drown out his sorrows. Luckily, you could still control yourself, at least when you really focus.

You managed to call an Uber to your apartment. Bucky wraps his arm around you as the two of you stumble into your house. Bucky was sure to regret everything tomorrow morning. But for now, he took his chance to let down his inhibitions and connect with someone else. Bucky hadn’t stopped talking about Steve, which was fine, since you just replied with your own grief about Natasha. The two of you flop on your couch.

“Can’t believe he’s really gone.” He hiccups. “Me neither.”

“He was the greatest.” Bucky mumbles as he lays his head on your couch.

“Natasha was so kind.” You mumble.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Bucky says.

You look at Bucky, his eyes low and fluttery. His lashes look beautiful as Bucky blinks. You sigh as you continue to peer into Bucky’s soul. Bucky would normally feel exposed, but he feels a sense of company he hasn’t felt in a long time. “Me neither.” You say.

There’s a lingering silence. Steve and Nat wouldn’t want the both of you guys drinking yourselves to death over them. The two of you knew that, but it was easier said than done.

“I just feel so alone.” Bucky says as he looks at you. You grab Bucky’s hand, squeezing it tight. You’re unsure of what to say. You should say something comforting, but you feel the same. You feel the same agonizing isolation he feels. You muster up something somewhat comforting to say. “I’m here, you’re not alone.” You say. You wish emotional maturity didn’t feel and sound as corny as it did.

Bucky looks at you. It’s softer than the gaze he would look at you with when the two of you met first at the Avengers Tower. He breathes slowly before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky cups your jaw, and inches himself closer to you. He places a kiss on your mouth. You back away from him a second. He curses to himself, did he mess it up? Maybe he misread the bonding experience the two of you both shared. Maybe you didn’t feel as alone as him, or maybe you didn’t need this as much as he did.

You lean back in, kissing Bucky roughly. Your mouths morphed into one. Quick breaths are taken in between kisses. It was as if kissing was your life-line, and if either one of you were to break it, you would die. Your nose was pressed so hard against Bucky’s face, it felt as though it could break. Your hands were clasped around Bucky’s jaw, your fingers spilling onto his neck. You could feel his heartbeat thunder against his throat. His face was scruffy from his stubble. He felt rough in your hands.

As you break away from the kiss, the both of you take deep gasps of air. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, as he pins his focus on your cheek and jaw. He peppers kisses all along your cheekbones, nose, jaw, and neck.

“Jesus, Bucky..” You whisper out.

The night continues, and you wake up the next morning with you and Bucky’s clothes scattered all over your bedroom floor. Your head felt like it could pop. You felt nauseous as you propped yourself up in your bed. Your twin XL bed wasn’t enough space for you and Bucky. He was nearly falling off the side. You still had enough memories from last night, thankfully. You weren’t sure how Bucky was going to react to it. Shit, maybe this was a bad idea.

— PRESENT

You and your mother had re-planned your previous plans. Your mother was a kind break from the rest of the things on your mind. As you and your mother sat at an outside table outside a quaint little cafe, she let out a little sigh as she looked at you.

“You know, the rest of the family still wants to meet him.” She mentions Bucky.

You loved your mother, but you didn’t love her nagging. “Yeah. Yeah. They’ll meet him soon.”

“You always say that.” Your mother says, as she takes a sip of her coffee. You sigh as you ignore your mother.

After a moment, you finally respond. “I sent them our wedding photos. Surely that’ll hold them over for now.”

“They’re all so nosy. They want to meet him in person.”

You frown. “Bucky’s shy. It’ll happen eventually, mom — trust me.”

“Whatever you say.”

Your apprehension for having Bucky meet your family was understandable. Your family was a lot to deal with, as with every family, you assume. You were scared that Bucky would get scared. You’re not worried about Bucky leaving you over anything, as you were safe as long as Bucky was still a congressman with a ‘family-man’ reputation to uphold. The possibility of Bucky leaving after his term ended made you feel uneasy. Hopefully he likes you enough to keep you around.

— A YEAR AGO (PRE THUNDERBOLTS*)

Bucky had called you to meet him at a nearby bar where he was at the moment. Bucky and you had become proper friends. Friends who don’t really talk about that time they hooked up approximately 3 years ago. You had heard whispers from people of Bucky’s potential political career. Of course, it didn’t make sense to you. But you weren’t one to discourage one from their goals.

You walk into the dingy bar, and wave to Bucky. “How are you, Bucky?” You say as you sit in the seat next to him, making small talk.

“Fine. As good as I can be.” Bucky shrugs, his beer hanging loosely in his hands. You order your usual drink, and Bucky tells the bartender to put it on his tab. Always the gentleman.

“So, what’d you call me for?” You ask.

“Good company. I don’t need an excuse to see you, do I?”

“Course not, Buck — Just didn’t expect it.” You say. You’re always the one who asks Bucky to hangout. The bartender hands you your drink. You thank them swiftly and look back to Bucky.

“It’s good seeing you, really.” Bucky says.

“Is it?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Bucky laughs lightly. “You’re a good break from politics.”

“What are you even doing in politics, anyway?”

Bucky groans. “It’s all for public image, really,” He admits. “Wanna do some good out there, you know. It’ll help the public like me after my whole ‘Winter Soldier’ thing. You know.”

“I think you helping to save the universe did enough for your public perception.”

“People don’t like to forget the past.”

“Fair.”

Of course, Bucky didn’t mention Val. No reason to drag his friend into his ploy. The night went on, and you and Bucky continued catching up. You made sure not to overdrink, only feeling a little looser now than when you walked through the bar doors.

“People don’t really believe my whole campaign. My manager has been saying I need to make my reputation look better.” Bucky mumbles to you.

“How?”

“Well, he suggested I make myself look more family-oriented. Married with kids, and all that.”

You smile as you laugh into your drink. “Good luck with that.” You turn to Bucky silently observing you. His gaze makes you feel exposed. “Something on my face?”

“No, sorry. Just thinking.”

“Whatever you say, Bucky.”

You and Bucky walk out the bar; quite put together, thankfully. You tighten your grip around the handle of your shoulder purse. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”

“Course, you too.” Bucky says as you tap your phone, trying to find yourself an Uber.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

Bucky cleared his throat, looking nervous and antsy. “You can say no. This is going to sound crazy.”

You furrowed your brows and smiled, timid. “What? Just say it, Bucky, you’re making me nervous.”

“You can say no.”

“Just fucking say it, Bucky.”

“Fine.” Bucky says. He still takes a moment to collect himself, his heartbeat beating out of his chest.

“Would you consider marrying me?” Bucky finally musters the courage to ask.

You stared at Bucky, your anxious grin still not leaving your face. He’s right, he does sound crazy.

“What are you talking about, Bucky?” You laugh as you shake your head.

“If I asked you, would you marry me?” Bucky repeats himself.

“You’re drunk.” You laugh off his question, awkwardly.

“You know how I am when I’m drunk.”

“You being sober doesn’t normally include you proposing.”

“You can say no.”

“Why are you even asking me that?”

Bucky flicks his fingers in anxiety. He asked out of desperation, the pressures of appearing family-oriented to the public weighed on him. Also, the fact you were previously the manager for the Avengers could also help with his public perception bullshit. You being attractive also helped. He wouldn’t say that out loud though, he had class.

“Doesn’t have to be real. Just has to look it.” Bucky says. “You can do your own thing, I can do mine.”

“This for your politics?” You guess correctly, rubbing your forehead.

Bucky sighs. “Yeah.”

“I’m not sure, Bucky.. This is a lot to ask—” You say, before getting cut off by Bucky.

“Just think about it. You can say no.“

You bite your bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s been a few days since Bucky asked you to marry him. You hadn’t texted him since, being too scared to do so. Bucky beats himself over it. He was sure he messed up a good friendship for something so stupid; of course you’d say no. What was he thinking?

You walk back into your dark, empty apartment. The dishes you had refused to wash piled in your sink. It’s eerily silent. And cold. Your landlord was neglectful, proven by your heater that had been broken for weeks. You made up for the cold by buying more blankets. You couldn’t buy another portable heater just yet, you were late on last month’s rent. You were trying to find work after being blipped and after the Avenger’s disbanded.

You groan, your head laying back on the edge of the couch. Bucky’s offer didn’t sound so crazy. You’ve been to Bucky’s house a couple of times. A proper heater and A/C sounded more and more appealing. Not worrying about how you’re going to pay rent sounded more and more appealing. Not being so alone sounded appealing as well.

In your moment of desperation, you text Bucky back. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

— A WEEK AGO FROM PRESENT DAY

You were busy wiping the countertops as Bucky came back home. Bucky didn’t drink as much as he used to. You were surprised to smell alcohol off of Bucky’s clothes.

“I’m home.” Bucky calls out as he drops his bag down on the floor.

“Bucky.” You grin. You were happy that the house wasn’t going to feel as daunting as it did when you were alone. Bucky’s good company, whether or not you liked to admit it.

Bucky smiles at you. The smell of alcohol invaded your nostrils. “You drank?”

“Only a few drinks. One or two. Maybe three.” Bucky says. You roll your eyes, smiling softly.

“Jesus, Buck.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“Not.” Bucky says as he sits on the couch.

“Need anything? We got some leftovers, if you’d like.” You offer. Bucky looks back at you, tempted. You heat up food for him, and hand it to him carefully. “It’s hot, be careful.”

“What would I do without you?” Bucky says with his mouth stuffed with food.

“Probably die.” You say, as you pick off food from his face. Bucky giggles. “Yeah. Probably.”

Bucky brings his plate to the sink and starts to wash it. You attempted to do it for him, but Bucky insisted. He wanted to prove he didn’t need your help with everything — not that he really minded the help.

Bucky comes back to the couch. Later, he’s mindlessly watching TV as you’re attempting to read the book you promised to finish about 3 months earlier. His hot body lays on top of you. Like a custom heated, weighted blanket. Bucky’s hot body clashes with his abnormally cold metal arm. You’ve usually found yourself placing your hands on top of Bucky’s arm, as to cool your hands that are always hot. You and Bucky have formed your own mutualistic relationship. In terms of body heat.

The walls Bucky usually has up are lowered, thanks to the alcohol. He gently inches closer to you, resting his head on you. You smile softly. He’s usually like this when he’s a little tipsy. You can’t blame him, you know a lot of touchy drunks. You gently play with the ends of his long hair. Bucky nearly purrs from the soft sensation. He’s like a cat in your touch.

You lay on the couch, to which Bucky adapts and lays on your stomach, his arms wrapped around you. How silly. You continue brushing your hands through his scalp. The soft companionship makes you feel warm inside.

You had finished about 30 pages of your book when you realized that Bucky hadn’t spoken or moved much in a while. He had fallen asleep on you. You laugh as you look at the large man on you. It was a funny sight, for sure. You go back to reading your book. Reading usually makes you sleepy, though. It’s not a surprise that you fall asleep not too soon after.

— PRESENT

You fidget with the ring on your finger. It was a plain, gold band. You didn’t want to run through Bucky’s pockets when trying to pick out a ring. It would be nice to have a pretty ring, though. Bucky was going to come back home anytime now. He texted you that he was going to pick up food on the way back. You had nothing to do, no more work for the day and no food to cook for someone. It felt weird, but you tuned out the little itch in your head to be useful by mindlessly doom scrolling.

Bucky opens the door with his keys. He groans as he knocks off his shoes and takes off his jacket.

“What’d you get us?” You ask, from the couch.

“Thai.” Bucky mumbles as he lifts up the large bag to show you. He sounds tired.

“Oh, my favorite.” You say as you grab the large takeout bag from Bucky’s hands. You place the bag on the dinner table, and rush to grab cutlery for the two of you.

“Actually.. I think I’m gonna eat alone.” Bucky says as he grabs his food and laptop to bring to his room.

“Oh. Okay.” You say, disappointed. You don’t want to shove your company onto Bucky, so you just agree. Compliant wife, or whatever. Bucky didn’t stay long, he immediately headed towards his room. Did you do something wrong? Why was being like this?

After Bucky had got up and left for his room, you grabbed your portion of the food and brought it towards the coffee table in front of the TV. Eating alone while watching TV reminded you too much of your life before you decided to “marry” Bucky.

After approximately 30 minutes, Bucky walks out his bedroom, with his takeout trash in his hands. You get up, walking towards Bucky. “I can get that!” You say, desperately trying to help out.

“Oh—” Bucky says, surprised.

“You need anything, Buck? I can go fill up the tub, or clean your room. Ugh, I’m sorry I didn’t clean before, I really should’ve, that’s on me—” You ramble. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name.

“Stop. It’s.. it’s fine.” Bucky says, looking overwhelmed and overstimulated. You bite back a whimper as you nod your head. You so desperately want to be a helping hand, and yet now, you just feel like an overwhelming burden. “Sorry.”

Bucky purses his lips. “I’m just going to go to bed.” He says, as he throws his trash away by himself.

“Right. Okay. Goodnight.”

The next day, you stay at your friend’s place. You had the day off, and you thought it was best to spend the day with someone that wasn’t Bucky. Or your mom. During the day, you think back to how Bucky was last night. He has a lot on his plate. Maybe you really were being too much. As much as you didn’t wish for it to happen, you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky.

The idea that you had planted into your own brain, the idea that Bucky might leave you after his term ends, haunted you. It seemed silly. He wouldn’t just leave, right? Well... there’s been no signs that Bucky would necessarily stay. He wasn’t obligated to, and neither were you. You wouldn’t leave, though. You’ve grown accustomed to your new life with Bucky. Bucky on the other hand, might want to return to his life of peace and quiet he had before he married you. God, this whole thing made you feel sick.

Your friend had seemed worried about you, but you were adamant you were fine. You didn’t allow her to worry about you. Nothing for her to worry about, after all.

It was late at night when you returned home. Using the keys Bucky gave you, you tried to enter as quietly as you could.

Bucky’s at the dinner table, looking concerned. He eases once he sees you.

“Where have you been?” He asks, standing from his chair.

“At a friend’s place.” You tell him. The conversation sends you flashbacks to your teenage years; when your parents would be worried sick about your whereabouts. Is this what your relationship with Bucky has amounted to? Some kind of parental relationship?

“You should’ve texted me.”

“Right.”

“I’m being serious.”

You feel uneasy, and also annoyed. Why the hell did Bucky care? You two weren’t actually together. Roommates don’t have to always know where the other one is. That doesn’t change with Bucky — who’s basically your glorified roommate.

“Sure.” You mumble.

Bucky glares at you. “What the hell’s your problem?” He asks. You don’t get into fights with Bucky often. Fighting also makes you anxious. Perfect combo for you.

“Nothing, Bucky.” You say, as you hang your bag and outdoor clothes on the nearby hangers.

“Obviously there’s something bothering you. Just spit it out.”

You roll your eyes, which makes Bucky’s jaw clench. Bucky doesn’t need to pretend he cares. “Let’s just leave this alone.” You say, as you try to head to the bathroom, to freshen up before going to bed.

“No. What’s going on with you?” Bucky says, as he grabs your arm, holding you back.

You stare at Bucky, taken back by his audacity. “Fine.”

Bucky drags you to the couch. The place where a week ago, you were sure Bucky and you had a proper, domestic moment. Maybe he didn’t think much of it. He was tipsy, after all. Would Bucky still want to be tender with you if he didn’t have a couple drinks in him? Did you sicken him that much?

“Why have you been avoiding me? Did I do something? Please— just tell me.” Bucky pleads, hints of worry speckled in his soft, blue eyes.

Being vulnerable never came easy to you. The feeling of burdening others with your mundane emotions made you feel sick. Feelings of anxiety bubbled from your stomach to your chest.

“I.. haven’t been avoiding you—” You say, before you’re swiftly cut off.

“You have been. I’ve texted you multiple times today.” Bucky says, matter-of-factly. You clear your throat, feeling too exposed.

“Okay, well..” You find yourself trailing off again.

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky says, while also saying your name, distressed. “Just fucking say it.”

Bucky’s attitude was out of control. You scoff with your eyebrows furrowed, staring holes into Bucky.

“Stop fucking doing that.” You say, biting your bottom lip in uneasiness.

“I will if you just fucking let me know what’s been up with you.”

“Fine! Fine.” You say, trying to sort your thoughts. How much are you willing to expose to Bucky? Are you really willing to spill to him that you actually do like him? Well, not that you’re like, in love with him or anything, but the idea you’ve planted in your head that Bucky might choose to leave you after he leaves his failing career in politics lingered in your brain. Shit, who were you kidding. You were in love with Bucky. You were in love with Bucky and it was eating you up alive. You’re not used to being so open. It feels so invasive.

“You can tell me anything.” Bucky attempts to be comforting, but he’s unsure of its effectiveness. He grabs your hands, and rubs loving circles with his thumbs. How unfair.

“You know, it’s stupid..” You say.

“Not stupid.” Bucky responds.

“I was just mad.. That you seemed distant. Last night.” You let out.

Bucky lets out a deep breath. “Right.”

“It’s stupid. It’s not like you always have to be around me.” You try to explain, but Bucky cuts you off short.

“No. It makes sense. I’ve been really stressed out recently.”

“No, no, right, right. That makes sense. I told you, it’s stupid.” You find yourself rambling over Bucky again. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name yet again.

“Stop. Breathe. It’s fine, really.”

You take a deep breath in. It makes you feel less like you’re about to pass out, but the antsiness never leaves your chest. Bucky places a hand on your knee that had been bouncing like crazy. You didn’t even realize it was shaking.

“Well, that can’t be it, right?” Bucky urges you to continue. You pick at your ring, a tic you’ve picked up on during the last couple of months.

“I just.. feel-like-a-burden-to-you.” You say quickly, hoping the faster you say it, the faster this whole conversation will end.

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. He looks almost.. hurt? “Why would you think that?” He says, almost too lovingly. What a considerate asshole.

“I just.. I know I overwhelm you. I just want to feel useful. Make you feel like you didn’t make a mistake in choosing me as your fake wife.”

“I fully knew what I was doing when I asked you.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Bucky says, quietly.

You fight back the urge to say, ‘You’re just saying that.’ He was just being nice. God, you hate that he managed to fish all this out of you. You felt so bare. Bucky knocks you out of your trance by saying your name.

“Look at me, okay? You don’t have to prove anything to me.” He says, with a face too genuine it makes your stomach churn. You spin your ring around your finger. How easy would it be to just give it back to him? He’s just gonna leave you anyway when he decides to leave politics.

“You should have this back.” You say, gesturing to the ring. You didn’t mean to be so dramatic in the way you decided to hand back Bucky his ring. Just fell out that way.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, looking bewildered.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep being with me even after your term ends. This whole thing was to appear family-oriented to the public, right? So, when you’re done, you should be able to do your own thing. I don’t want to hold you back.” You let the words flow out your mouth. While it did make you feel like a burden had been lifted off your shoulders, with the way Bucky looked at you, it didn’t do much for making you feel any better.

“What?”

You sigh, biting your lip. Little droplets of blood bead at your lip from where you bit. You wipe it away, hoping Bucky doesn’t overanalyze how you’re acting.

“You should be able to meet someone else, you know. Someone you actually want to spend the rest of your life with. You don’t have to do this whole charity thing, you know.”

“Charity?” Bucky repeats, baffled. “Is that what you think?”

“You know, I’m surprised you hadn’t seen anyone during the time we were together. Missed opportunity, I think.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says, his words tinged with a slight tone of disappointment. You hate the way it makes you feel.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, but you could tell small bits of anger was boiling inside him.

“That why you were so close and personal with that fucking guy— what was his name.. Dex? You thought I was out here, doing the same shit?” Bucky says, his jealousy reaching his throat, choking on his own words.

“I..” You struggle to find the words. “I wasn’t doing anything with that guy.”

“You know, the way you looked at him made me feel fucking sick. Jesus, I’d never want anyone to feel the way I felt then.”

“Jesus— Bucky, you’re making me sound like some kind of monster.” You scoff.

“And you’re making me sound any better?” Bucky retorts. Bucky’s words make you choke up on your own. “You make it seem I was just trying to use you.. Like I don’t appreciate you, at all.”

“Which isn’t true.” Bucky adds, at the last second.

You groan, sinking into the couch. It would be convenient if the couch swallowed you whole, right about now. It would save you the trouble.

“Talk to me.” Bucky pleaded, again. His eyes were glued onto you. His fleshy hand felt clammy.

“You’re going to hate me.” You mumble. “I could never.”

You take a deep breath in, trying to compose yourself the best you can. You’re so anxious, you can barely find the words you want to use.

“God.” You say.

“I fucking love you, okay? As if it’s not glaringly obvious. Fuck.” You say, to Bucky’s surprise. “I want to feel helpful, I want you to want me around you, and I want you to want me the way I want you.” You say, truthful, for once.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. Well, he’s happy, of course. Thrilled, one could say. He didn’t want to jump at his chance to be with you so fast, out of fear of looking starved and desperate. But life was too short to worry about how he was perceived. His grin spread from cheek to cheek. You didn’t know if that was necessarily a good thing or a bad thing. His stupid, beautiful fucking face shone at you.

“Say something. I feel like I’m gonna vomit.” You say quietly.

“Jesus Christ. You know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that shit?” Bucky says before he clasps your face, bringing you towards his face with a clash. Bucky kisses you like he did that one night many years ago. But yet, now, it’s more caring. More careful. You melt like a puddle in his hands. This is everything you wanted, but your fear of underperforming haunts you.

“Just let me guide you.” Bucky breathes out, saying the perfect thing. It’s like he could read you. He knew you through and through. Bucky’s tongue slips into your mouth with ease. He lovingly kisses your top and bottom lip. He did exactly what you needed. He guided you through it.

Bucky grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up and taking you to his bedroom. He mindlessly opens the door. He’s too busy being engrossed by your presence. It’s intoxicating. Bucky feels his way through his room. He lays you gently on the side of his bed.

“Fuck.” He whispers out, as he grabs the side of your face, lifting your gaze up to reach his. You looked so beautiful under his touch, and he was dedicated to making you never doubt how much you mean to him again.

Bucky sits beside you, shoving his mouth on yours again. His tongue follows down the path of your throat. His hands slowly graze the sides of your thighs. You felt soft in his hands. It made him feel insane. Bucky let out small praises, whispers of ‘So gorgeous’ and, ‘I needed this’ exit his mouth. You took your hand, the hand that wasn’t clasped around Bucky’s face, and palmed at Bucky’s unmistakable boner. Bucky lets out a deep groan. “Jesus.”

Bucky reacts by swiftly removing your top, still kissing you. He was desperate to see you. You unbuckled Bucky’s belt, and unbuttoned his pants. “Tell me what you need.” Bucky says.

You laughed into the kiss. You felt the growing knot in your stomach expand. You needed Bucky as much as he wanted you. “I want to sit on your face, Bucky.”

“Course you do.” Bucky responds, as he pulls off your clothes. Bucky lifts you over him, so you’re straddling his chest. It was embarrassing, having Bucky feel the growing wet spot from your core on his skin. You couldn’t really think much of it though, you had bigger things to think about right now.

Bucky adjusts himself just perfectly under you, his eyes looking at you, filled with lust and care. You fall forward on the headboard of the bed; the first touch from Bucky’s tongue on your pussy making you reel forward.

Bucky was an animal. His tongue drove into you like a machine. He would spend time easing you into it, but he was selfish. He needed you, and guessing from the sounds you’re making, you needed him too.

“Fuck— Oh my god!” You moan out.

You rest your arms over top of the headboard for support. You leaned your head on top of your arms, only making the bottom of your face visible to Bucky. He reaches his hand towards your chest and pushes you back, notioning that he wants the full view.

“Fuck. Fuck, Bucky— I…” You whisper out as you lean your arms back to support yourself on Bucky’s torso. Your boobs jiggle over Bucky’s face in a mesmerizing way. Bucky wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on it. You’re so wet already, it’s proven by the ridiculous sounds Bucky’s mouth is making while eating you up.

As you inch closer and closer to your high, you’re cut off by Bucky’s frantic slapping on your thigh. You get up from off of him immediately, to which he gasps in a big breath of air. He was nearly drowning in your pussy. Which, honestly, Bucky wouldn’t mind it if that’s how he was going to go. His mouth is filled with remnants of your arousal, to which he swallows easily. There’s even some in his nostrils. Jesus. How fucking grotesque.

“You’re gonna kill me, darling.” Bucky laughs out. “You’re gonna kill me first.” You breathe out.

Bucky grins as he grabs you and flips you on your stomach with ease. He takes off his boxers as quickly as he can, eager to feel you. The cold feel of the blankets and pillows is a nice contrast to how hot your body feels against Bucky. Bucky grabs your ass, lifting it up as his erection springs out his boxers.

The first thrust into you feels like heaven. Bucky fills you up, and your pussy stretches around him. Bucky swears this is heaven. Bucky pounds into you with ease, the bed shakes under the two of you.

“So good. Oh my god—” You manage to say out loud. Bucky leans over you, reaching his fingers to your sensitive clit. The sensation is nearly too much. Your eyes roll back into your head, and you’re only a little glad that Bucky can’t see just how much of a mess he’s making you.

“Jesus, baby. You’re being so good for me.” Bucky mumbles lazily. He’s becoming nearly undone. He feels as though he could cum any moment now. “Taking it so well, yeah?” Bucky asks.

The only answer you could give him was a nearly inaudible, “Mm-hm.”

Bucky laughs. He slowly envelops his hands with fistfuls of your hair. He pulls your head back to look at him. You have one hand on the bed, one hand on the headboard. Your eyes peered all the way back at Bucky. “Tell me, tell me how good you’re being for me.”

“I’m.. fuck, I’m being good for you, Bucky.” You mumble out, mindlessly. Bucky loved seeing you come undone by him. Made him feel good. You feel tears prick up in your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. You can’t keep holding on for much longer, your high was near. Pathetic moans exit your mouth repeatedly. You were gasping for air, and you bit on your bottom lip to help you deal with the pleasure consuming you. Bucky thrusts get sloppier and more inconsistent, the closer he gets to his own release.

Bucky continued pounding into you. “Do you even remember that fucking loser’s name?” He groans out, mentioning Dex. To be fair, you weren’t far from forgetting your own name. You shake your head no rapidly. “I don’t— I don’t remember his name.” You babble out.

“Good. God, you’re so good under me.”

“Oh my— gonna, gonna cum, Bucky.”

“Cum, please— oh my god.” Bucky begs you, his mind getting too clouded by his own pleasure.

You do what he asks of you. You cum around his cock, and he revels in the sensation. He fucks you through the high, which nearly makes you scream out. Bucky had already planned on leaving this stupid politician shit behind him. But seeing you like this, all fucked out for him, was the icing on the cake. He could have you like this all the time, with no shitty and pointless job to hold him back.

“Cum inside of me.” You beg, desperate. Bucky bites back a guttural moan from that. His thrusts are becoming incredibly sloppy. He does as you ask of him, and cums inside of you. The feeling drives you insane. Bucky falls on top of you, the weight of him crushing you. Bucky rolls off of you, his breath shaky and uneven. Bucky presses hot kisses on your back and neck.

After a moment of recovery, you turn to Bucky, giggling. You felt safe with Bucky. Bucky wrapped his arms around you, kissing your head softly.

“Still think I’m gonna leave you?” Bucky asks, his tone light.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky— Shut the fuck up.”

4K notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 5 months ago

Text

♡ TW: break-up, angst, hung-up yandere, anger issues, insecurity, threats to regrets

♡ GN reader

Thinking about pro-athlete ex-boyfriend…

You know, the one you broke up with because he couldn't focus on anything but his career, the one you just couldn’t stand by and watch any longer as he nearly ran his health into the ground—not to mention your relationship—all to reach his goals.

He’d been so mean—meaner than you ever thought possible when you told him you couldn’t do this anymore—said it was a real class act of you to abandon him now when it mattered most. He’d made it about you not wanting a pipe-dreaming wannabe sportsman for a boyfriend, how you never believed in him anyway, how you never cheered for him, how he thinks you don’t even want to see him succeed.

He’d been so loud and so ugly you’d been in shock for weeks afterward, unable to wrap your head around it. You didn’t even dare tell anyone—feeling it was a beast of burden you ought to keep for yourself. Oddly enough, you felt that if anyone knew or saw him like that, it would be not just detrimental to him and his image but embarrassing for you both.

And you hadn't spoken to him since. At least not face-to-face. He’d sent you a few drunk texts then and there, which you’d replied to in short, though mostly ignored. You’d thought about blocking him at one point, but you didn’t want to be dramatic, either. And suppose, in some way, you were still waiting for an apology.

But months passed, and nothing like it ever came, and so, instead of being bitter, you accepted that was just how the two of you ended. And that was that.

Still, it's a little awkward. You wonder if you should congratulate him on his rise in popularity, how he’s finally getting all those long hours spent training back in full—but somehow, you feel it would just sound petty coming from you. And so, you don’t bother.

He’s got other people in his life cheering him on now—he doesn’t need a measly text from his ex. No, it's better to leave it be, is what you think.

Which is why it’s surprising when you get the dinner invitation.

And following the initial surprise, you don’t really know what to expect of it either. But you end up accepting—some part out of curiosity, wondering what he might want after all this time, and another part hopeful it was to finally address the awful break up so that the both of you could move on without it hanging heavy over your heads and hearts.

This, however, was the last thing you had in mind when sitting down with him for the first time in a long time.

“Will you marry me?”

Your whole body flares up with something reminiscent of the feeling when you trip and fall—that type of split burn that rushes through you from head to toe and then leaves you feeling cold all over. Heart in your throat, you’re speechless.

Or no, you just don’t know where to begin.

“What are you doing?” you end up accusing—a little too harshly, maybe, but who could blame you? Looking around, you’re glad your table’s in a more private sector of the restaurant before you look back at him, eyes wide and brows knit.

“I–we broke up a year ago and haven’t seen each other since—and you’re—” Your eyes fall back to the thing in his hands. It’s an outrageous ring. “Asking me to marry you?”

He makes no move to withdraw the offer—keeping his hands where they are, on your side of the table. “You said yes to the dinner. That must mean something. I thought—”

“Yeah. It means that I still worry about you,” you say. “It doesn't mean–”

“I fought my way up. I’m finally at the top,” he cuts you off in earnest. “I’m the best, and the world finally knows it now–”

“I don't care about any of that,” you state, feeling it should have been something you told him from the very beginning. “I'm sorry. But I never cared about you being the best. I just wanted…”

You just wanted the two of you to be like other couples—together and happy. You just wanted that to be enough, but it never was for him.

“Never mind…” you end up saying. “I think I should go.”

You’re about to get up when his hand, suddenly around your wrist, tightens in a harsh grip.

“I don't think you understand,” he utters, voice lowered with a hint of a growl. “It’s either this ring or I bury you in rumors that won’t leave you a moment’s worth of peace.”

You go stiff while looking back at him.

Did he just… did he just threaten you?

You blink. He's got that same warped expression you remember from the last time you saw him, that very odd look as if the guy you know has been switched out with someone entirely different.

Only this time, it just as quickly disappears, and he lets go of your wrist, quickly pulling his hand to himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that–I’m just—” he apologizes with a stutter, looking startled.

He puts his face in his hands. Then there's a sound—close to a sob.

“I’m just a mess without you.”

Goosebumps rise on the surface of your skin when hearing it. And swallowing thickly, you sit back down again, albeit a bit begrudgingly. But spotting how he trembles, you just can’t stop feeling sorry for him.

You sigh. “No, you’re not. You just…” Reaching across the table, you stroke his arm. “You just lose your head a little sometimes, that’s all.”

He peaks up from his hands. A sheen under his eyes reflects the ceiling light, and your heart twists in your chest.

He really is a mess.

“But I know you…” you try smiling. “You were always destined for greatness.”

He takes your offered hand in his, stroking it, then sniffs, voice fluttering weakly, “Yeah, well…”

He keeps his head low, resting it in his other hand as if he just couldn't muster the strength to sit straight or even attempt to pull himself together.

“If I'm so great, why wouldn’t you stay?”

He sounds as if he’s been holding things back for the entirety of the year since you left. Broken now... it's all spilling out.

“Because," you start, even though your throat’s tight and you’re fighting back tears of your own, your mind hasn’t changed.

You didn’t come here to get back together.

"You want to go places, I just can’t follow.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Aki ♡ BLLK – Reo, Isagi, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Karasu, Shido ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Sakura, Suo, Kaji

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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landopoet · 2 months ago

Text

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with.

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password.

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously.

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?”

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into.

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you.

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open.

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless.

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.”

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried.

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights.

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite.

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?”

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.”

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.”

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss.

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again.

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter.

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest.

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away.

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture.

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated.

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze.

Max stares at you, jaw clenched. “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich.

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white.

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.”

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation.

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out.

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.”

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear.

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?”

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips.

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.”

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter.

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest.

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body.

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it.

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features.

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm.

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?”

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.”

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?”

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup.

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away.

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words.

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you.

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink.

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room.

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away.

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting.

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye.

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.”

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound.

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips.

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people.

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall.

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?”

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.”

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard.

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow.

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house.

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw.

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.”

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm.

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of.

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips.

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment.

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body.

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks.

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you.

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones.

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin.

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you.

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier.

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing.

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil.

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay.

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders.

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.”

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.”

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?”

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.”

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason.

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion.

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.”

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night.

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?”

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be.

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake.

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Max sighs. “What about it?”

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?”

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.”

“Why is this relevant?”

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.”

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry.

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well.

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.”

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again.

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.”

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them.

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party.

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.”

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.”

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore.

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it.

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.”

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?”

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.”

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.”

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would.

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you.

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that.

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.”

That’s when it comes.

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing.

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier.

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you.

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.”

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants.

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it.

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling.

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead.

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined.

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him.

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room.

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark.

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room.

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could.

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone.

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills.

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation.

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest.

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?”

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.”

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what?

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air.

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever.

And that scared him.

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you.

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing.

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you.

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well.

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while.

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking.

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any.

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep.

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot.

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.”

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl.

“What are you doing?”

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?”

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.”

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking.

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands.

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy.

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug.

“He said he’s ending things with you.”

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.”

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt.

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.”

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter.

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.”

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.”

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread.

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout.

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door.

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face.

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room.

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in.

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.”

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks.

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely.

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.”

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.”

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself, a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face.

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked.

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.”

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.”

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in.

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight.

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.”

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again.

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.”

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.”

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.”

“A break?”

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is.

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot.

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute.

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways.

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away.

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word.

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant.

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass.

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max.

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten.

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up.

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble.

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet.

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?”

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?”

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip.

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades.

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises.

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple.

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago.

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight.

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder.

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his.

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again.

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded.

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed.

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.”

“To you, always.”

#lando norris #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 #lando norris fanfic #f1 x reader #lando x reader #formula one #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando smut #lando norris imagine #formula one fic #f1 fic #fanfic #ln4 mcl #mclaren #ln4 x y/n #ln4 fic

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brokenengene · 8 days ago

Text

*ೃ ༄ 𝒏asty - p.sh

"How many guys have you been with—since me?" "You don't get to know that answer—" "How many made you come?"

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: exes to lovers, smut

This content is only for readers 18+

word count: 4.1k

content warning: strong language(they say fuck like 100 times), explicit smut, scratching, glasses kink, dirty talk, size kink, deep fingering, spitting, face painting with arousal, messy missionary sex, slipping out, cumplay, safe word mention, almost losing consciousness, emotional vulnerability

soundtrack: nasty - ariana grande

“So you’re not going to let me in? Seriously? I bought you dinner!”

You sigh, hand resting on the door handle of your apartment. Another date from those stupid, stupid apps.

“I’m ok really, I work very early in the morning…” You reply, back pressed up against the door, hand gripping the door handle even tighter.

“Fine! Don’t expect to see me again if you’re going to waste my money and time.” He yells before turning on his heel, stomping down the hall muttering to himself with frustration.

You scoff with disbelief as you unlock the door to your apartment. Double-triple checking to make sure it's locked.

You immediately jumped in the shower to rinse off all the dirt from your less-than-impressive date.

You’ve been back in the dating pool for a few months after cutting things off with Sunghoon. One too many arguments, one too many misunderstandings.

You feel the ick rinsing off your skin as the warm water cascades over your shoulders and down your body to pool at your feet.

This guy seriously thinks he can buy you for a twelve dollar all star meal.

The fucking nerve.

Most guys you met were either at the bar or through the apps.

Hell, pure hell is what it was. And apparently that’s where the bar is too.

You step out of the shower into the steaming bathroom. Finally feeling clean from the bad energy shifted onto you from your date.

You dry off your hands before picking up your phone from the bathroom counter. Heart-stopping, nearly dropping it as you see the notification flicker on your homescreen.

Sunghoon Park(11:19pm) You called?

You read the message again. You didn’t call? Your brows furrow with confusion as you open up the message. Fingertips hovering over the screen before you scroll through your call history.

“Shit—“ you curse to yourself.

Sunghoon Park - Not Received(Friday 1:47am)

Your heart sinks. You curse again. This is exactly why his number should be blocked. His number shouldn’t even be saved in your phone.

You(11:21pm) Sorry didn’t mean to bother you. Must’ve been drunk.

You throw your phone onto the bed, watching as it bounces off the pillows. Your heart races. Why are you even talking to him right now?

You hear your phone vibrate under the covers. Your chest already feels tight. You can't let him have this much power over you still. Especially not over the phone.

You let your shoulders drop their tension as you climb onto the bed, searching for your phone in the sea of pillows and blankets.

Sunghoon Park(11:23pm) so why'd u call?

You grit your teeth as you stare back at the message. Your fingertips hover over the keyboard as you think hard and deep about what insults to throw back at him as you tell him off via text message.

Sunghoon Park Is Typing...

Your heart skips a beat as you watch the typing button disappear and re-appear on the screen as he types out his message, deletes it, and types up another one.

Sunghoon Park(11:25pm) want me to come over?

You swallow hard, your fingertips tremble as you hesitate to do the one thing you know you shouldn't.

Not that things can get much worse after your last date.

You(11:26pm) doors unlocked. you know what floor i'm on.

You bite the inside of your cheek as you sit on the bed in your bathrobe. This has to be a prank. He's got to be pulling a stunt to make an absolute fool out of you.

Twenty minutes go by.

And a knock at the door interrupts your spiraling.

You drag your feet across the cold, hard floor. Fingertips trembling as you open up the door.

Sunghoon stands in front of you. His appearance was messy a uncoordinated, like he really did drive over here on a whim.

You look him up and down, noticing his messy dark hair, his glasses slightly crooked on his nose bridge. The way his plain black shirt hugs his body, the way the gray sweatpants he has on conceal absolutely nothing.

You cross your arms over your chest as you let him in. Shutting the door behind him, watching as Sunghoon steps past you into your apartment.

The familiar scent of those fall-scented candles you burn year-round hits his senses, making his heart swell in ways it shouldn't have. Not anymore, at least.

"So why'd you call me?" He asks as he looks you up and down. His eyes scanning you from ankle to collarbone like he's reminiscing on something he lost.

You let out a huff of disbelief, in return, scanning your eyes over his disheveled appearance in the dim lighting.

"It was an accident. Probably fell asleep with my phone in the bed, or butt dialed you at the bar last Friday." You say as you uncross your arms from over your chest. revealing more of your soft skin to his line of sight.

The corner of his lips curves up into a smirk. He laughs under his breath before he looks back up into your eyes.

"An accident, seriously? Then why'd you text me back?" Sunghoon asks as he steps closer to you. The familiar scent of his cedarwood cologne brushes past you. Reminding you of all the good—and the bad.

"Why am I not blocked is the real question. You shouldn't even be getting my calls." You spit out as he steps closer.

He’s close enough for you to glance at his dark eyes behind the large frame of his glasses. Close enough to recognize the sparse freckles across his pale skin.

"Admit it, you missed me," Sunghoon says, voice dripping with tension as his hand gently cups the side of your face. His fingertips brushed against the familiar texture of your hair.

"Did not"

"Stop lying—" He says, his voice husky and deep, like he's trying to hold back unchecked restraint.

Before you can open your mouth to respond, his lips crash into yours.

He kisses you, gripping you harder, backing you up until the edge of the kitchen countertop digs into your spine.

Your hands rest on his broad chest, hesitating. You don't know whether to push him away or pull him in.

Sunghoon moans as he gently nips at your bottom lip. He smiles with satisfaction as you let out a sharp hiss, kissing you exactly how he remembers you like it.

You gasp as his mouth melts back into yours. Moans catch deeply in his chest as he pushes into you more, his knee pressing between the expanse of your thighs.

You break away, gasping for air like he just took the rest out of your lungs. His forehead rests against your own as his hands slide to your waist. His rough fingertips gently toying with the tie of your robe.

"Still gonna keep pretending you don't miss me?" He whispers before kissing you again softly.

Your lips melt against his like second nature. And you can't decide if you love it or despise it.

He gazes into your eyes. Heavy, charged behind the large frames of his glasses. He doesn't look away as his fingertips fidget with the knot of your robe.

He lets the satin slip off your shoulders, the fabric pooling on the floor at your feet.

You should tell him off, you should scream at him to leave.

But you don't.

Your eyes stay locked on the way his bottom lip fits between his teeth. A shiver goes up your spine as the cool air of your apartment hits your exposed skin.

The robe settles, giving Sunghoon an unfiltered view of everything you have to offer. Except it's not like he remembers.

It's better.

"You still don't wear anything underneath—" Sunghoon mutters as his hands hover right above the curve of your waist.

"Still acting like you don't want this?" You whisper, your voice low, dripping with a promise of more.

"Fuck—" He groans as his hands find your waist, a familiar warmth shooting through his fingertips as he leans in again. His thumb brushes the skin beneath your ribs as his mouth captures your own.

He moans through the kiss, his hands slow as they trace all the lines and curves that long faded from his memory.

"How many—fuck," Sunghoon whispers between heated kisses, his chest rising and falling as his breath strengthens.

"How many guys have you been with—since me?" Sunghoon pants against your own swollen lips.

Your fingertips slide up his sides, tangling in his dark hair as you kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm.

"You don't get to know that answer—" You mumble against his lips.

"Fine, be that way," Sunghoon whispers into another kiss, his hands sliding down to your hips, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hipbone.

"How many made you come?" He gasps as his lips drag down your jawline, finding the thin skin of your neck.

"They—I" You stutter, the words getting caught in the same throat he simultaneously drags his lips down.

"That's what I fucking thought. Poor baby, bet they didn't even try, did they?" He mumbles into your neck as his lips drag further down your skin to your collarbone.

His hands slide from your hips to your ass, and you whimper at the contact. Familiar yet so different.

You want to curse him for being right. For calling out the fact that you haven't had a proper orgasm since the two of you broke things off.

Sunghoon lets his hands slide down the back of your thighs, your arms wrap around his neck on instinct as he picks you up.

Your head rests in the crook of his neck as he navigates the dark hall to your room with no instructions. Remembering exactly which door is yours.

"I can't Sunghoon—I fucking can't, not with a fucking toy, not with anything else." You confess into his shoulder as he lies you down in the center of the bed.

"Yeah? Missed when I used to fuck you nasty? Missed how I used to make to come over and over on my cock, yeah?" Sunghoon coaxes as he looks down at you. His fingertips are soft as they brush your hair out of your line of sight.

"Missed you—" You choke out, your throat feeling like it's wrapped in barbed wire at the confession.

And that's exactly what he wants to hear.

Sunghoon stands at the corner of the bed, swiftly pulling his black shirt up and over his chest. Revealing all the hard muscles of his pale skin.

He slips between your legs grinning against your lips as he kisses you back.

“I missed you too, so fucking much.”

His hand slides down your body, your thighs parting for him without request.

He shamelessly slides his fingers through your folds, spreading the slick wetness across the expanse of your pussy.

“Goddamn, it has been a while,” Sunghoon swears under his breath.

He bites his lip, staring down at you as his fingertips press into your aching hole, pumping in with gentle force.

You smile up at him, hands reaching to the side of his face to remove his fogged-up glasses with a weak laugh.

Sunghoon shakes his head, breath panting as his fingertips curl up, hitting that sweet spot that still makes you weak.

Your hips arch off the mattress. Sunghoon chuckles deeply as he watches you get off with just his fingers. You moan shamelessly, already clenching around his invading digits.

You gasp as he spits on you with no warning. Fingertips pulling out of your aching hole, strings of wetness following as he drags his fingers roughly through your swollen folds to rub at your clit.

You choke on another moan. Thighs clenching, back arching off the mattress at the delicious friction between your thighs. So slick, so wet.

“That’s it, let me hear you, God I fucking missed this, missed you,” Sunghoon confesses as he pumps his fingertips in and out even more, curving them to punch against that sweet spongey spot inside your fluttering walls.

You cry out, hands gripping the sheets as he ruined you with his fingertips. You feel that familiar warmth pulse between your thighs.

It’s been so long.

His hand dives in, punching harder and harder into your hole. Watching as he stretches you out. Watching as you take everything he gives with no rebuttal.

You wince as he slips another finger in, the rim of your hole stinging slightly with the aching stretch. Your lungs feel tight as he fills your channel up with his fingers. Aggressively punching your g-spot with each thrust making your eyes water in response.

“Fuck…Sunghoon, I need—“

“Thought you’d never ask.” He says bluntly as his fingertips withdraw from you. You gasp at the empty feeling. Hips twitching underneath him.

He brings his hand to his lips, tongue shamelessly licking off all your arousal without hesitation. He lets out a moan as the sweet taste hits his tongue.

“Did you get sweeter while I was gone?” Sunghoon teases as he licks the rest of your wetness from his fingertips.

“Did you get bigger? Seriously look at you.” You reply as you glance at him through hazy eyes. Following the curve of his shoulder, the lines of his abdomen.

Sunghoon chuckles weakly as he shoves his fingers back into you, gathering your wetness. You watch from below as strings of arousal connect his fingers to your pussy as he withdraws them once more.

He locks eyes with you, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips, painting them with your own arousal.

“Fuck…” he whispers under his breath as he paints your lips with your own juices. Your lips are already so swollen, and plump from the fiction of his.

“Open?” He asks reluctantly, like he’s asking for permission to push this to another level before it’s really even got started.

The curve of your lips tugs up into a weak smile before you open your mouth. Letting him shove his wet fingers in with a sharp gasp.

You taste yourself on your tongue, moaning at the gesture. Making sure to lick his fingertips clean before he reluctantly pulls them out of your mouth.

Sunghoon rests above you, panting, gasping for breath as his fingertips hook into the waistband of his sweats, gently pulling them down enough to let his hard cock spring free.

You moan at the sight, he’s huge, hard, already swollen, and leaking with need. Your legs subconsciously part without instruction as you look at the cock you’ve been missing.

The sound of sharp breathing fills the air as he hooks one of your legs overtop his shoulder. Preparing to hit angles that are sure to make you see stars.

His brows furrow as his tip slides between your wet folds. A soft gasp falls from your own lips.

It feels so fucking good.

You melt into the bedsheets, feeling his pre-come mix with your wetness as he slides his swollen tip between your crevices, his eyes locked on the sight, lips parted.

He lets out a deep, punishing moan as he slides through your slick again, watching as your wetness drips onto his pale cock, the light reflecting off the wetness coating his length.

His eyes roll back as he slips through you’re slick mess. Your hands grab his shoulders, nails digging into his pale skin at the heat of his cock between your lower lips.

“Holy fuck…” Sunghoon curses as he notches himself in your dripping hole. Shutting his eyes tight to steady himself.

You clench around his invading length. Walls fluttering at the pleasured stretch. His swollen tip stretches your hole, the sight erotic as you struggle to open up and take the size.

He glances at you one last time for consent. You nod, already feeling so full from just his fucking tip. You arch off the mattress, scratching at his shoulders as you feel him forcing his way in.

His forearms steady on either side of your head as he pushes inside you. His cock was already throbbing from the wet stretch.

He forces his way in, brutal inch after inch. Gasping as you clench him like you don’t want to let him go.

Sunghoon moans deeply his lungs full as the feeling of you gripping him sends warmth through his entire body. His arms shake at your sides as he bottoms out inside your wet hole.

“Goddamn…” Sunghoon curses as he stalls for a moment. Sweaty forehead resting against your own as he struggles to breathe normally.

He grips the sheets on the side of your head, using the force of his spine to pull back his hips. Earning another gasp from your lips.

A smile tugs at the edge of his lips with disbelief. Disbelief that he went so long without this, without you.

“Fucking missed that didn’t you?” He groans as he pauses with his hips back. Swollen still notched inside your wetness.

“Sun—“

“Say it. Say you fucking missed all of me.” He gasps as his forearms burn with the strain of holding his body up.

He pauses, letting you clench around the inch of his inviting tip. Aching to pull the rest of him back into your warmth.

“I missed you. GOD FUCK—“ you yell as he slams back into you with bruising force. His cock stretching you so wide it makes your eyes water and hips buckle.

“Fuck yeah. Look at this pussy. Fucking taking it, keep taking my cock, God—“ Sunghoon pants as he bottoms out inside again, your legs cramping at the fullness.

The tip of his dick kisses your cervix as he grinds deep. He drops down, letting his lips brush against yours as he gasps for air. His mouth breathing in the oxygen of yours.

He rolls his hips up, making your vision go blurry with the agonizing force. Your back arches off the mattress as your nails drag down his biceps, leaving scratches deep enough to last until morning.

“Fuck, I can’t—“ you gasp for air as he takes it out of your very lungs, with his cock, with his lips.

“You can…look. You’re taking it," Sunghoon coaxes as his lips drag across your jaw. Kissing your hot skin as he grinds into you slower, deeper.

He slows his movements, the lack of friction making you whimper with the ache. One of his hands lifts off the bed, gently brushing your hair behind your ears. Gently cupping the side of your face.

He leans in to kiss you. Slowly, deeply, as he pushes out all the emotions of regret, want, everything into your mouth.

You take it, swallowing it back as your tongue slips through the seam of his lips. Tangling with his own, as yours caresses it back.

He pants as you come apart, his hair sweaty, sticking to his forehead as he starts to thrust into you again.

Your eyes roll back with the pleasure. Arms weak as they fall to from his body your sides. You’re completely out of his as he laces his fingertips with your own.

You feel the wetness running down the sheets, warmth hitting your lower back as he thrusts into your wet hole. Dripping more and more with each delicious thrust of desire.

“You're soaked…” Sunghoon mumbles as his hands gently release yours to anchor your hips harder to the bed.

He adjusts your ankles to rest on his shoulders as he thrusts in deeper and deeper. Lips parted as he watches you take all he has to offer you.

Your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts. Your head rested against the pillows as he set a steady rhythm.

“Oh my God, I’ve never seen you make such a mess—shit.” He gasps as his massive cock slips out of your wetness.

You wince at the cold, empty feeling, eyes hazy as you watch his cock slap against his lower stomach, more of your arousal slapping against the top of his thighs.

“Sorry..I can’t—“ you cry out, pussy throbbing at the emptiness.

“Don’t…no this is just—holy shit—“Sunghoon breathes out as his hand wraps around the base of his cock, using your slick to give it a few steady pumps before he lines himself back up with your aching heat.

“Still with me?” Sunghoon coaxes… his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed softly against the fullness.

“Yeah…yeah—“ you pant, sweat sliding down your temples as he kisses you again. Thrusting back into your heat with slick ease.

His hands slide down your sides, gently lowering your legs off his shoulders to push your thighs back towards the mattress.

The back of your thighs strains as your knees hit the sheets. Your pussy completely exposed for him to brutally ruin.

He continues his pace, thrusting slower, deeper, harder. The new angle makes you slip in and out of consciousness as he hits those deep spots that send a slap of pleasure throughout your whole entire body.

The wet obscene sound of your slick bubbling around his cock interrupts the sharp breaths between you two. It splashes out of your hole, against the top of his thighs with each rough thrust.

“Fuck..I can’t stop dripping..” you whimper as your head falls back against the sheets. The coolness against your skin making you shiver.

“Never said I wanted you too.” Sunghoon finishes as he thrusts down and up. Knowing the inside of your body like no one else.

“Fuck I’m gonna come…” You gasp as you feel your thighs grow tense. Pussy throbbing as you grip him with every dragging thrust.

Your abs tighten, back arching up to meet the angle of his brutal movements.

Your eyes flutter shut as your vision goes blurry. Fingers and toes feeling numb at the intensity of how hard he’s fucking you. Your grow limp fighting not to slip out of consciousness.

“Shit..you still with me? Stay with me..come on” Sunghoon gasps, gently patting the side of your face to keep you from slipping away.

“Coming…coming..” you whisper weakly as your body tenses up. Back arching as waves of arousal flow through every nerve in your body.

You clench down on him hard, pulling his fullness in as you release around him. Dripping onto his cock, his thighs and the sheets.

Sunghoon lets out an animalistic groan at the heat, at the tight pull. He gently rocks into you. Eyes wide as he watches every flutter of your lashes as you come down from your high.

You feel him pulsing inside, his hips jerking as he gets closer and closer to his own release.

“I’m gonna come..fuck, where do you want it?” He gasps frantically on the edge of release.

“I—“

Before you can respond he’s coming undone, pulling his cock out of your slick as ropes of cum drop onto your stomach and tits.

He groans deep as he pumps himself through his orgasm, coming hard and long.

You moan softly as his hot cum paints your skin. Mixing with the wet sheets and sweat, making everything so fucking wet and sticky.

He collapses on top of your body. His hot skin falling into his own cum as his body goes completely limp.

His eyes widen and his heart races as the image of your weak face flashes over and over. His hands hold you tighter, gripping your sides to make sure you’re still here with him.

“I’m sorry..was I too rough? Fuck you just felt so good, I—didn’t realize. You almost passed out on me, you stopped talking and I—..” Sunghoon confesses, his brows furrowed with worry.

You interrupt with a soft chuckle. Smiling up at him in the mess. Fingertips gently pushing his damp hair out of his eyes. You reach over to the bedside table. Grabbing his glasses and gently sliding them back on his face.

You laugh softly as you adjust them. Sunghoons eyes wide as you straighten the glasses on his nose.

“I did pass out—well, almost. But I would’ve told you to stop if I didn’t want it,” you confess gently, cupping the side of his face.

“Like I said. I haven’t come in awhile.” You say voice cracking at the confession.

“We need a fucking safe word..” Sunghoon says weakly as he kisses you again—Slow, uncoordinated, and sloppy.

You smile against his lips., his glasses already fogging up from the heat between you two.

“So you’re suggesting you’ll be back rough enough for me to need one?” You say with a cheeky smile. Hands gently holding him close in all the mess.

“Depends…do you want me back?” Sunghoon asks. His voice shakier that it’s been all night.

Your heart races as you look up into his eyes, tugging you right back in his direction. Even if the path ahead doesn't look picture perfect.

“I do.”

kate's note: Like promised, here is "nasty" It was heavily inspired by the whole Positions album(iykyk). I really stepped out of my comfort zone with this, but I'm overall happy with the result. I hope Sunghoon's brokenengene debut lands strong. I've been wanting to write for him forever, and I've finally got this fic all tied up in a nice bow for you guys.

I also have a long fic coming soon for the sunghoon fans. The taglist is open if you want to be notified when it drops!

Like always, I appreciate all the feedback and support

I wish all of you well,

xoxo kate <3

perm taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso

#enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen fic #enhypen scenarios #enhypen au #enhypen angst #kpop x reader #kpop smut

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neellscapsule · 24 days ago

Text

the perks of time

summary | a night spent together in silence changes everything between bruce and you; from then on, there's no turning back.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, bruce being a sugar daddy ? not actually but he's totally the type to try to win you with gifts. there's a bit of sadness around because bruce is depressed inside. THEY KISS

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. this can be read as part 3.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippingdots @sirlovel @aixaaingela @pjmgojo

THE NEW YEAR CAME GENTLY TO THE KENT FARM.

It wasn’t loud or wild. But there were fireworks. No grand countdown parties. Just a quiet, perfect evening.

Clark cooked dinner, insisting he had perfected the recipe for pot roast (he hadn’t), and Ma made her famous four-cheese cornbread. Pa sat by the fire, poking the logs and drinking cider, humming a Johnny Cash song under his breath. The snow outside muffled everything else. No wind. No trains. Just the slow creak of the old house settling under another year.

At eleven-fifty-five, Clark pulled out a small radio, fiddling with the dials until he caught the New York countdown broadcast. You spent most of the night in thick wool socks and a sweater that Clark had outgrown and then handed down to you ten years ago. The sleeves still covered your hands, your back pressed against the couch, the blanket Ma made you wrapped around your shoulders. You and Clark counted together—off by a second or two, laughing when you realized.

Then came the clink of cider glasses. A kiss to your forehead from Ma. A bear hug from Pa.

Clark swept you up into a spin that had your socks sliding on the wood floor.

“Happy New Year, little sis,” he whispered against your hair.

“Happy New Year, Clark,” you said, laughing.

The old farmhouse clock chimed twelve. The stars glittered above the snowy sky. Kara joined the family a bit after, hugging you just as strong as your brother had. While you and her had no actual family link, you still considered her a cousin, and you knew she did as well.

So, no, you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except you did, when the phone rang.

It was late. Clark and Kara had gone out for a flight, Ma and Pa were already tucked in. You sat on the front porch in a coat, your breath visible in the cold, your phone warm in your hand.

When the screen lit up again—Mr. Wayne—your heart squeezed.

You answered immediately.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak at first.

But when he did, his voice was quieter than ever.

“Happy New Year.”

You smiled so softly it felt like your face might melt with the warmth of it.

“Happy New Year, Bruce.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t going to call,” he admitted.

You looked up at the stars. “I’m glad you did.”

Your smile twisted, fond.

“You drunk again?”

“Mm,” he murmured. “Probably.”

“What did you drink this time?”

“Something expensive,” he said. “Didn’t check the label.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like you.”

He didn’t argue.

Another long silence. You could almost hear the ice clink in his glass. The way his voice dragged low and slow, a little too heavy, just like before.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Porch swing,” you said. “Back at the farm.”

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“You don't have a blanket?”

“Yeah, Ma’s. It’s blue. Well, is not actually hers. She made it for me.”

Another pause. You let your voice fill the silence, telling him about the pot roast, the way Pa fell asleep halfway through the countdown, the way Clark had gotten cider in his sock, how much pie had Kara ate. You told him about how the snow had glittered that morning, how you’d stayed in your pajamas all day.

You talked about your hopes. About turning twenty-two. About how you wanted to try painting again. About how you might look into night classes, maybe something with writing.

“I think,” you said, playing with a loose thread, “I want to do more things that make me feel like myself.”

You didn’t hear him speak again. But you heard him breathe.

And then you knew.

He’d fallen asleep with the phone still in his hand. Your voice still in his ear.

You stayed on the phone anyway. It was easier now, somehow. Letting him rest while you carried the quiet.

You only hung up once his breathing slowed and steadied again, the sound of it like a heartbeat through your phone.

You whispered, “Goodnight,” to a man who wouldn’t hear it.

And then let yourself fall asleep.

January moved like a quiet fog.

You came back to Gotham the second week of the month, your cheeks still pink from the Kansas wind. Your apartment was exactly as you left it—neat, small, slightly cold—and everything in the city had a thin coat of gray slush. Life fell back into rhythm: you unpacked, did laundry, bought groceries, dusted your bookshelves, and fell asleep early.

Bruce didn’t call right away. But on Thursday, your phone buzzed just after 2 a.m.

You didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t say much. You knew the rhythm now. These calls weren’t for long talks—they were for breathing. For silence. For your voice.

You told him about a short story you’d started writing. About how you missed the stars in Gotham. About how your upstairs neighbor seemed to be bowling at 1 a.m. every night.

He didn’t say more than six words. But he listened.

On Saturday, he called again. Same time. Same quiet. Same half-drunk hush in his voice.

You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your knees, and this time, you read to him. A chapter from the book Ma had given you for Christmas. You didn’t know if he liked it, but he didn’t hang up, so you kept talking.

You knew he’d only call after being out there. After being Batman.

Like his mask didn’t quite hold when your voice was there. Like something softened. Like he could come down from the rooftop and be something else. Something human again.

The third Monday of January, your alarm went off at 6:15 sharp.

It was your first official day back at the office.

You dressed in one of your favorite work outfits—something soft and practical, flattering but warm. You pinned your badge to your coat, grabbed your scarf, and made your way down the apartment stairs with a reusable coffee cup in one hand and your purse in the other.

You paused in the foyer.

Blinking.

There was a cab outside.

No—a car. Sleek, black, not a limo. Something newer, smaller, louder. Not a model you recognized—but definitely the kind of car that only a billionaire would think of as “just a ride.”. The kind you only saw in glossy magazines and early 2000s science fiction movies.

Your brow furrowed.

Before you could step outside, the door opened—and a woman beamed at you from the driver’s side.

“Miss Kent?”

You blinked. “Yes?”

She clapped her gloved hands together. “Ah, lovely! I was worried I might’ve gotten the wrong building. This is for you!”

You blinked again.

“I—what is this?”

She moved around and opened the passenger-side door for you with a proud little flourish.

“I’m Rita! Your driver.”

“My—what?”

“Mr. Wayne sent me.”

Your mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“He what?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked, blinking with absolute innocence. Her accent was soft and lilting, Portuguese with a lilt of Lisbon pride. “He said it was all arranged. I’m to take you wherever you need. Day or night. Office, home, grocery if you like. Rain, snow, sunshine.”

You gawked.

She smiled wider, eyes crinkling.

“I used to drive for Mr. Fox,” she said with a warm, confident shrug. “But there has been a . . . change, and Mr. Wayne said he had someone special who needed my help now.”

You blinked. “Special?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s not what he said exactly, but I can read between the lines.”

You flushed immediately.

She laughed. “Climb in, querida. It’s cold.”

You obeyed mostly because your hands were too numb to argue and you had no better options. She shut the door behind you gently and got into the driver’s seat with the elegance of someone who knew the car better than she knew her own apartment.

Inside, the seats were warm. The cup holders glowed faintly. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and leather.

“So,” she said, steering smoothly into traffic, “are you ready for your day?”

“I guess I am,” you replied, still half-stunned.

She gave you a look in the mirror. “You work directly for Mr. Wayne, yes?”

“Yes,” you said. “His executive assistant.”

“Then you must be very good at your job.”

“I try,” you murmured, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks again.

“Well,” she said, nodding sagely, “I will tell you what I told Mr. Fox: when you ride with me, you are safe. I will not let traffic touch you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s very kind.”

“It is professional,” she said with mock offense. “And also kind, yes. And I like you already.”

“You’ve known me five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all I need. I am excellent at character reading.”

You laughed.

By the time you reached the Wayne Enterprises building, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Rita pulled to the side entrance like a queen delivering royalty, opened the door with a bow, and handed you your coffee cup like it was made of gold.

“You have a good first day back, Miss Kent.”

You stared at the building’s towering windows for a beat longer than necessary. Then, you took a breath and you stepped inside.

The doors to Wayne Enterprises hissed open like always—smooth, polished, air-conditioned—and for a moment, the world inside seemed to blink at you like a sleepy beast waking from hibernation.

The lobby was warm, gleaming in morning light, polished marble floors humming under the heels of countless Gotham elite. There was a quiet thrum of familiarity in the air—of keyboard clacks, hushed conversations, the soft trill of phones and printers and the occasional bark of urgency through a walkie-talkie.

You smiled at Eloise first.

She waved from her post at the main desk, where she was already fielding two calls and typing with nails the color of candy canes. “You’re back! Happy New Year, sweetheart. You look fresh out of a Hallmark postcard.”

You laughed. “Don’t let Clark hear you say that.”

She beamed. “He came by some weeks ago, didn’t he? That tall boy could light up the building with that smile.”

You grinned, eyes fond. “That’s him. My brother.”

Eloise smiled sweetly. “Let me know if you want any coffee later—I found a new creamer that tastes like heaven.”

You nodded your thanks and kept walking.

You passed Luis, the janitor, humming along to some Sinatra classic while buffing the floors. You waved, and he waved back, giving you the same crooked grin he always had since your second week on the job. Then a passing intern who gave you a shy smile.

Everything was the same.

Until it wasn’t.

You turned the final hallway leading toward Bruce’s office—familiar steps, muscle memory—and stopped in your tracks.

Your desk was gone.

The space directly outside his office door—your usual spot, nestled beside the potted plant that only half-thrived under the industrial lighting—was empty. Not messy. Not moved aside for cleaning. Simply… gone. Vanished. The carpet beneath was perfectly untouched, like you’d never been there at all.

You blinked, heart fluttering in your chest.

“…Huh.”

Before you could even make a decision—turn around, find someone, maybe crawl under a decorative table—his office door opened.

Bruce stood in the threshold, jacket off, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled, eyes cutting toward the glass hallway wall. He looked up once, probably out of reflex.

Then he saw you. And saw you again.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something in his expression softened.

He tilted his head toward his office. “Miss Kent,” he said, quiet and even. “Come in.”

You stepped forward, caught off guard by the gentle lilt in your name, the way it didn’t sound like a command—more like an invitation.

You entered slowly, heart still kicking unevenly behind your ribs. The door clicked softly behind you. He didn’t seem surprised to see you, just observant. He leaned one hip against his desk, arms crossed.

“I thought I’d be more nervous,” you blurted. “About seeing you face-to-face again.”

His brows lifted, curious. “And are you?”

You considered it. “Not… exactly. I think I’m just—processing. A lot.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what “a lot” meant. Just let it float there, between you.

And then that ache curled up your spine again, like an old memory pressing in. You looked at him—really looked at him—and he wasn’t cold today. Not distant. Not closed off. Just quiet. Calm. Softer than Gotham ever allowed him to be.

Your voice returned, smaller now. “Um. I couldn’t help but notice… my desk.”

He nodded once. “I moved it.”

“I noticed that.”

“You couldn’t find it?”

“No,” you said, trying not to sound sheepish. “I… sort of thought maybe you replaced me for a second.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “And then what? I let the replacement waltz back in?”

You laughed nervously, brushing your knuckles down your coat sleeve.

He stood straighter then, stepping around the desk until he was at your side—not too close, but close enough for you to smell faint cologne and something else you couldn’t name. Metal, maybe. Cold air. Him.

“I thought,” he said, voice measured, “that I can’t very well keep my own secretary in the hallway. Especially not when the receptionist has more privacy.”

You blinked. “Sir—”

“I wanted you to have your own space,” he added. “Somewhere you can work. Breathe. Not get bothered every time someone walks through the floor.”

Your throat bobbed.

“…That’s… kind. I… didn’t mind,” you replied carefully.

“I did,” he said without pause, meeting your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable in his face.

Then he gestured with his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

You followed without another word, the two of you walking silently down the hallway, his steps a slow guide in front of yours. He opened a door diagonally across from his—discreet, tucked away beside the corner conference room. It had always been locked. Always closed. Always marked Reserved.

But now—

Now, when he opened it, light spilled across the most stunning office space you’d ever seen.

It wasn’t just an office. It was yours.

You froze in the doorway.

It wasn’t massive—not the corner penthouse with windows to heaven—but it was yours. Completely, irrevocably yours.

The cherry wood desk glowed warmly beneath soft overhead lights. L-shaped, clean, elegant. The two monitors were huge—far bigger than your laptop, already synced to your usual workspace judging by the light hum of the desktop wallpaper. A thick black leather chair sat behind it, sleek and soft-looking, already reclined just slightly like it had been waiting for you.

The floor was layered with a thick, dove-colored rug that curled neatly under your desk and swirled into the sitting corner with two soft chairs. The bookshelf along the wall was already stocked with some familiar binders, a few volumes you recognized from home—someone must have carried them from your last space.

There were plants. Real ones.

A tiny pothos in a hanging pot, a fern nestled by the window. A pale gold lamp with a dimmer sat in the corner of the desk, beside a crystal paperweight you’d mentioned liking once during a department tour months ago.

And beside the desk, under the screen, sat your favorite mug, filled with pens.

You didn’t say anything. You just… stood and blinked. Once. Twice. Then again. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was watching you. Quietly. Like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d miscalculated.

“I wasn’t sure about the rug,” he said, low. “But they told me it matched the walls.”

You turned to him slowly. Your voice came out too high, and you cringed inside. “You did this?”

“Someone had to approve the requisition forms,” he said dryly.

You blinked again.

He looked toward the corner of the office. “The light’s adjustable. You can change the temperature if it gets too cold. I’ve already rerouted your calls to the phone system here. And I had IT install the dual screens yesterday.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“…Why?” you finally breathed, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. And for once—once—he let it show. Not much. Not everything. But enough. Enough for you to see something warm, something regretful, flicker behind his eyes.

“Because you deserve a place here,” he said quietly. “Not a chair in the hall.”

You stared at him.

And then—

You laughed. Half gasp, half laugh, half breathless kind of noise that bubbled up before you could stop it. Your smile broke through like sunlight, wide and open and real.

“Oh my god, Bruce,” you said, laughing again, almost bouncing where you stood. “I thought I lost my desk, not that I—oh my god.”

You turned in a small circle, eyes wide, hugging your coffee to your chest.

“Are you serious right now? This is mine?”

He nodded, one hand in his pocket now, brow lifted like he wasn’t sure why you were so surprised.

“Thank you,” you said, blinking fast. “Thank you. Thank you—this is—this is so nice, I don’t even have words.”

“You’re welcome.”

You took two steps forward, half-tempted to hug him, then stopped yourself, fidgeting instead with your sleeves.

“I mean it. This is—this is my first office. Like… ever. Properly. And you—it’s so nice, and the—” You touched the chair. “This is a recliner. You bought me a reclining desk chair. Who does that?”

He said nothing.

Your eyes shone. “You do, apparently.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable,” he said softly. “You deserve a space. Not a hallway.”

You shook your head, lips wobbling with a smile.

“This is more than a space, Bruce.”

He didn’t answer, at least not out loud. Just looked at you like maybe he understood. Like maybe this, too, was a kind of apology. A gesture for everything he couldn’t say.

You beamed at him suddenly, walking around the desk to sit in the chair, spinning once.

“I don’t know what kind of spell you’re under,” you said lightly, “but please don’t snap out of it.”

His mouth lifted just slightly. “Noted.”

“And this is my printer now?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t one of those things where you’re going to fire me next week because I sat in the expensive chair too long?”

“No.”

“Okay, but like—hypothetically—if I fall asleep here one night, are you going to call security or…?”

“I’ll leave a blanket.”

You stared.

He didn’t smile, but you saw it in his eyes.

You laughed, and something burst open in your chest.

Because in this moment, you didn’t feel like a girl from Smallville playing secretary to a billionaire with a secret.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything

Rita greeted you every morning like the sunrise.

Bright smile. Coffee in hand. Her curls pulled back beneath a neat scarf that changed colors every few days—today it was plum. Tomorrow, who knew. You’d grown used to the sound of her humming from the driver’s seat as she opened the car door for you, always five minutes early, always excited to hear about your evening like you’d been apart for years.

“Did the cat come back?” “She did.” “Did she steal your tuna again?” “She did.” “Villainous.”

The drive always passed quickly, filled with conversation about whatever book she was reading, whichever telenovela her sister was addicted to, or the old record player she was trying to fix. Sometimes, you brought her coffee too. Sometimes, you just watched the city flicker by, warm and safe in the leather seat with a paper cup in your hands, cheeks pressed to the cool window.

And then there was the building. Your office.

Your name—engraved on the door in polished gold letters: Y/N Kent. Executive Assistant. Right beneath the Wayne Enterprises crest.

Every time you saw it, your heart squeezed a little.

The office itself had become a soft haven, filled slowly with your own touches—a small crocheted blanket over the back of your chair, a framed photo of Ma and Pa by the bookshelves, a little ceramic pig you kept tucked behind the phone. The two monitors you used were brilliant and fast; the light in the room was warm; the seat adjusted perfectly to your back.

Bruce’s office was right across the hall.

And sometimes, you could feel his eyes drift toward your door. Just a second or two. A glance through the glass. You never mentioned it.

You didn’t need to.

The phone calls didn’t stop when you returned to Gotham. If anything, they deepened.

Sometimes they came just after 10 p.m., when your skin was still warm from a shower and your tea was still steeping. Other times, they came at 2 or 3 in the morning—soft vibrations against your pillow that didn’t startle you anymore. You didn’t even say hello most nights.

You just answered.

You talked. He listened.

You spoke about Clark and Smallville and your mother’s new obsession with lavender candles. About a dream you had where the moon fell into the barn. About books you wanted to read, places you wanted to see. Your voice was quieter at night. Softer. More intimate.

Sometimes, Bruce would say a word or two. A hum. A gentle “Mm.” Sometimes, he just breathed.

Sometimes, you swore you heard his breath steadying because of yours.

You’d wake up in the morning to a call that had ended sometime while you were asleep—your phone still warm under your hand.

You never questioned why he called, and he never explained.

But each time your name came out of his mouth, low and soft and a little too slow, it felt like something real. Something only yours.

There was something comforting about it—how routine it became. How safe.

You’d been working late—later than usual. The building was dimmer than it should’ve been, quiet in that oddly still way that Gotham got after dark. You’d just returned from the break room with a second cup of tea when you noticed the box resting on your desk.

Not just any box—a branded one. Thick cardboard, the kind that came from upscale boutiques you only knew by reputation. The name embossed in silver. A thick satin bow stretched across it.

You paused at the door, balancing your coffee and files, staring at the package like it might grow teeth.

You didn’t open it right away.

Your office was silent except for the low hum of your desktop computer and the faint ticking of your vintage desk clock. The late afternoon light was muted and gold, slipping through the tinted windows in warm waves.

You set your cup down. Your fingers brushed the edge of the lid.

Inside—carefully folded, almost reverently arranged—was a dress.

Not just any dress.

This was silk, champagne-colored with a whisper of shimmer, delicate cap sleeves and a soft neckline. It looked like something you’d seen in old movies, the kind that made your throat close when the heroine entered the ballroom and the orchestra swelled. The kind of dress you didn’t just wear—you became something else in.

Your breath hitched.

You lifted it carefully, cradling it like it might disintegrate. The fabric was cool against your hands, light as air.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

You blinked hard and whispered, mostly to yourself, “What the hell is this doing here?”

“You like it?”

You jumped, your heart lurching.

You spun around, clutching the fabric, only to find Bruce leaning against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets, watching you with unreadable eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound like it. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You stared at him. “What is this?”

“The dress.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you like it?”

“I—” You hesitated. “Yes. I mean—it’s stunning. It’s… I didn’t know they made clothes like this outside of Vogue covers.”

He nodded once. “Good. I asked them to send over a few options. That one seemed right.”

You held it against you, blinking. “Right for what?”

“For you.”

You stared.

“If it doesn’t fit,” he added, “or if the color isn’t to your liking, they’ll send another.”

You opened your mouth. “You bought this?”

“I did.”

“…For me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you.

Then finally—his voice even, as if it was the simplest thing in the world—he said, “Yes, for you. For the gala.”

Your stomach flipped.

You blinked again. “The… gala?”

He nodded. “Next Friday.”

“I know. I mean, I helped organize it, yes, but—I wasn’t planning on going.” You looked away. “I figured I’d just coordinate things from here.”

“Y/N,” he said.

You hesitated. When you looked back, he had stepped into the room. Not close. Not intimidating. Just… there.

He glanced down at the dress still in your arms, then back at you. And then he said, “I want you to go.”

You stopped breathing for a second. The room felt too quiet. Your heart too loud.

“You… want me to go.”

“With me,” he clarified.

Your lips parted.

He stepped to your side, slow, deliberate, until his arm brushed yours. He didn’t touch you beyond that. Didn’t crowd. Just stood close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet tension under his tailored sleeves.

You looked up at him.

“I—Bruce,” you started. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

You closed your mouth. He kept his eyes on yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly. “I want to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. He leaned forward a little, just enough that his voice dropped, quieter than before.

“You looked beautiful the last time.”

Your cheeks flushed.

“You were the best-dressed person in the room,” he added, “and you didn’t even stay.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening.

“I want you there,” he said again. “This time… with me.”

You searched his face, tried to look past the polish, past the restraint, but found only honesty there. A touch of something tentative. Like maybe this was the bravest thing he’d said in days.

You looked back at the dress. Your voice was soft. “You think this will fit?”

He smiled faintly. “If it doesn’t, we’ll find another. You deserve something that does.”

You turned toward him again.

“Bruce…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. But he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Because in that moment—in the quiet glow of your office, surrounded by screens and spreadsheets and three years of not being seen—you felt like he was trying.

In his way.

You clutched the dress tighter, your voice trembling a little.

“I guess I’ll need shoes, too.”

“I’ll have a few pairs sent up tomorrow.”

“Bruce.”

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re going with me. Not as staff. Not as an assistant.”

Your breath caught.

“But as…?” you prompted.

His eyes held yours.

“As you.”

Your apartment smelled faintly of perfume and warmed curling iron, the radio playing something festive and jazzy in the background while you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

Silk. Champagne-colored. It shimmered even in the dim bedroom light, clinging in all the right places and floating like a second skin in all the rest. The delicate cap sleeves framed your shoulders; the neckline, smooth, barely skimmed the tops of your collarbones. There was a whisper of shimmer when you moved—just enough to feel like stardust.

You look… ethereal.

You also feel like you’re about to faint.

Rita was already downstairs in the car.

You’d expected to walk down the steps and see her grinning at you through the rearview mirror, maybe give a cheer when you stepped outside all dolled up.

You hadn’t expected him.

Bruce Wayne, in the flesh, waiting on the sidewalk.

Not just waiting, either.

He was standing near the rear of the car, half in shadow, his posture long and elegant, one hand in his coat pocket and the other straightening the cuff of his suit.

And what a suit it was.

Tailored black with a subtle sheen under the streetlamps, cut perfectly to his frame, the fabric smooth and crisp. A simple black tie. Clean lines. Understated power.

You froze halfway down the steps. You weren’t sure if it was the cold air or the way your heart gave a traitorous thud, but you stood there for a second, breath misting in the air, your fingers twitching against the silk at your waist.

Bruce turned at the sound of your heels. And his eyes—those sharp, unreadable, endlessly quiet eyes—met yours and didn’t move.

You stood up a little straighter. Tugged the skirt gently to settle it, and descended the last few steps like it was a scene from a movie.

His gaze didn’t drift once. He stepped closer just as you reached the last stair. “You look…”

He trailed off.

You tilted your head. “I look…?”

He gave the smallest breath of a smile. “Worthy of making people forget what they came for.”

You flushed from the collar down.

Rita grinned from the front seat, watching discreetly in the mirror.

Bruce opened the door for you himself. The way he helps you into the car, the way he closes the door after you, the way he settles in beside you and breathes in like he’s grounding himself — all of it makes your heart flutter somewhere behind your ribs.

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. Then you glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You smile. “Nervous?”

He tilts his head. “I thought I was supposed to be asking you that.”

“I organized most of it,” you say lightly. “I know what to expect.”

“Do you?”

You shrug. “Overdressed socialites, bored billionaires, empty praise, passive-aggressive conversations, a charity auction no one actually cares about, and enough champagne to drown a horse.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Warm. Real.

And your heart stumbles.

The gala was held at the Gotham Grand Conservatory—glass ceilings, marble floors, the kind of floral arrangements that looked like they'd cost a year’s rent. You know the wallpaper, the guest list, the table designs.

The whole city’s elite was there. Quite the few photographers as well, and their flashes eat you alive.

Bruce had kept a hand on the small of your back as you entered, steady and grounding. His fingers never gripped too tightly, but the warmth of him lingered long after they dropped away.

People stared. They always stared at Bruce. That was nothing new. But tonight, their gazes followed you too. And when they realized you weren’t just staff… that Bruce Wayne had entered with you on his arm…

The whispers started.

You did your best to focus on your breathing. On the strings playing in the background. On not tripping over the heels.

“Stay with me,” Bruce murmured as you paused beside a decorative fountain, feigning interest in the sculptures.

You looked up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I mean it,” he said, a bit lower. “You don’t have to deal with them alone.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing in that quiet, aching way again.

The room sparkled with chandeliers, dresses, and diamond-cut masks of thin politeness. And you were right in the center of it. Beside him.

For the first hour, it felt manageable. A glass of champagne helped. A few polite greetings came your way. Some people even smiled warmly. You talked logistics with someone from public relations and made a joke about charity tables with one of the Wayne Foundation board members.

And then—it happened.

You turned a corner in the lounge and met a trio of women dressed in varying shades of couture and condescension.

“Oh,” one of them said, eyes flicking from your shoes to your earrings. “You’re the assistant.”

The tone made the word secretary sound like a slur.

You straightened. “Executive assistant.”

“Of course,” another murmured, swirling her drink. “And now the executive escort, it seems.”

Your chest tightened.

“I mean, really,” the third added, lips barely curved, “I suppose Bruce always had a taste for… the provincial. The occasional poor girl with alluring eyes.”

Your jaw twitched. “Excuse me?”

The first one smiled, teeth sharp. “It’s just—how quaint. A girl from Smallville, was it?”

You were halfway through gathering a response when you felt him behind you. Not touching—but close enough that his shadow swallowed the smugness off their faces.

Bruce’s voice was low, slow, and deathly polite. “Do you speak to all women this way, or just the ones who intimidate you?”

They froze.

He took one small step forward.

“I’ve heard better manners from men begging for mercy.”

Silence.

“Miss Kent,” he said, looking at you gently, “would you like to walk with me?”

You nodded, throat tight. He offered his arm, and you took it.

And the way he looked back at the women as you walked away? It was the closest thing Gotham’s elite had ever seen to a warning.

You exhale, still frozen. Bruce doesn’t move.

Then, quietly, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. “You know how they are.”

He shrugs. “They know how I am.”

You let out a small laugh. “That might’ve been the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in this dress. Or ever, actually.”

His gaze slides down to you again.

“I was right,” he says softly. “It fits you perfectly.”

You go quiet, but your chest burns, your cheeks grow flushed. Then, because the moment is growing too hot, too big, you say, “Do you want to step out for some air?”

You found a balcony tucked away behind a side hallway, past ivy-wrapped columns and the hum of the ballroom. The city spills out in front of you in gold and slate and whispers. The moon is tucked behind clouds. The lights below look like a galaxy trapped in glass.

You lean your palms on the carved stone railing, letting the chill wake up your skin, your thoughts. The silence is pleasant. Comfortable. The party inside buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, but out here, it's just the two of you and the way your heartbeat won't settle.

Bruce stands beside you, a tall shadow, broad-shouldered in his tailored black suit, the cut sharp, the lines soft in the moonlight. His tie is a little loose now. His collar slightly undone. But his posture remains precise, shoulders pulled back like he was carved from tension.

You glance over at him. His profile is striking in the dim light—classic, solemn, but there’s a gentleness in his expression, a softness that doesn’t match the reputation the tabloids gave him.

He’s watching the skyline. You’re watching him.

You speak first. “Are you always this good at rescuing damsels from elitist wolves in designer gowns?”

His mouth lifts into a subtle smirk. “Only when they’re wearing champagne silk and stealing the room.”

You huff a laugh and glance down, smoothing your hand across your skirt. “That woman’s going to wake up bitter for the rest of the month.”

“She already was,” he says dryly. “You just gave her something new to be bitter about.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

He turns his head toward you, slow, deliberate.

“That I’m here with you.”

Your breath catches. You look at him. Really look.

There’s no teasing in his voice. No public mask. He’s not Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden boy billionaire. He’s not Batman, either.

He’s just Bruce. Quiet. Clear-eyed. Looking at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in a long, long time.

You swallow softly. “You didn’t have to say anything. Back there, I mean.”

“I did.”

You glance away. “I’m used to people making assumptions. Talking. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You go quiet.

His voice drops a little. “You shouldn’t have to feel small just because they don’t know how to handle someone who shines.”

You laugh, but it’s breathy, nervous. “You’ve been practicing these lines?”

“No.”

You turn your face toward him again, cheeks warming in the cold. “Then where are they coming from?”

His jaw shifts. His eyes are darker now. Intent.

“They’ve been sitting in my throat,” he says. “For a while.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to say them before. Or if I should.”

You whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t look away. “Because you deserve to know.”

Your heart drums against your ribs like a bird trying to break out of a cage.

Your voice wobbles a little. “Know what?”

“That I see you,” he says. His voice is low. “That I’ve been seeing you.”

You search his face for something you can hold onto—doubt, confusion, uncertainty—but there’s nothing. Only sincerity. Only the quiet ache of a man who doesn’t know how to wear his heart out loud but is doing it anyway.

You look down, lips parting. “Bruce…”

“I asked you to come tonight because I couldn’t stand the idea of looking around that room and not seeing you.”

Your breath leaves you.

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, his gaze pinned to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him from vanishing.

“You’re the only person in that building who doesn’t treat me like a shadow or a myth,” he says. “You talk to me like I’m a person. You make me laugh when I forget how. You…” His voice catches. “You see me.”

He exhales, almost like he regrets speaking—but he doesn’t look away.

“You’ve been with me through every impossible hour. Every late night. Every moment where I didn’t even know how to ask for help, and there you were. With coffee. With your kindness. With your voice.”

His voice falters, but he steps closer. Just enough for the distance between you to feel like it’s melting.

“And when I was bleeding on your couch, when I was barely upright, you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t scream or run or freeze. You took care of me.”

Your eyes meet his. And the world tilts.

You feel his hand brush your arm, then lower, steady and warm as it curls around your waist. Gentle. Questioning. Not demanding anything.

You don’t pull away.

Your hands come to rest lightly on the lapels of his coat, heart in your throat, body humming with anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “More than okay.”

He hesitates for only a second longer, eyes flicking between yours, and then he leans in.

The kiss is nothing like what you imagined.

It’s better.

It’s not fast, not urgent. It’s soft. Patient. Reverent. Like he’s been waiting a long time to learn the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid of breaking the moment if he breathes too hard.

His lips brush against yours with quiet certainty, and everything inside you tilts forward—your hands tightening in his jacket, your body leaning into his like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, your noses touch. His breath fans your cheek.

Neither of you speaks.

Then—

“I’ve wanted to do that for a few months,” he confesses, voice barely a rasp.

Your eyes flutter open, lashes brushing your cheeks. “You could’ve.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You blink. “But you still tried.”

He smiles. The smallest thing. But real.

“I’ll keep trying,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

You lean your forehead against his, eyes closing. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bruce Wayne breathes like a man who doesn’t have to pretend.

#bruce wayne x reader #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batmom reader #kent!batmom!reader #batboys x reader #bruce wayne x you