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norrisdriver · 12 days ago

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BUSTED

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 8.7K

SUMMARY: Just as life begins to settle into a new "normal" after the Blip, Bucky barely has time to say goodbye before he’s swept into a last-minute, top-secret mission. Then, in the middle of the night, your phone rings, and what you hear is the last thing you ever expected.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, protective Bucky & protective reader, surprise cameos, John Walker, mention of HYDRA and slight PTSD nightmares, Dr. Raynor, angsty moments, fluff, based on the TFATWS timeline, Sam/Bucky banter

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! This it purely self-indulgent! Hope y'all enjoy this one! <3

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Six months. That’s how long it had been since you and Bucky began adapting to a new kind of normal after the Blip. After the funerals. After the chaos. After the world had started spinning again, only slower, clumsier. Both of you had lost people, timelines, versions of yourselves. The grief was still there, not as sharp maybe, but persistent, like a dull ache you carried in your chest.

With no real home to return to, nothing left in Brooklyn but ghosts, Bucky moved into your small Manhattan apartment. It was a stark difference from the quiet streets he once knew. The first few nights were the hardest. The city never slept, and neither did he. Sirens, car horns, the distant hum of people living louder than he was used to. He hated the sound at first.

But then there was your laugh in the kitchen, your footsteps padding down the hall, the way your hand found his under the blanket when the noise got too loud, especially the way you always held him when the nightmares were especially rough, and suddenly, the chaos felt manageable. Within days, the two of you found a rhythm. A shared routine. You worked with children, counseling them through trauma, loss, fear.

Whether it was over video calls from your tiny home office or on-site at schools, hospitals, or shelters, you poured your strength into them. And when you weren’t working, you made time to visit Pepper and Morgan upstate, bringing with you that same healing presence. Meanwhile, Bucky busied himself with small tasks, fixing things around the apartment that didn’t really need fixing and reluctantly attending his court mandated therapy sessions.

But mostly, he stayed near you. You were each other’s anchor, your grief tangled together. You never talked about moving on, you talked about moving through it. Side by side. Together. Then came one of those quiet nights. A movie night. Chinese takeout you’d found by accident one night and now it was your spot. The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering screen where a movie played, forgotten in the background.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, Bucky beside you, hand on your thigh, unusually quiet. Not brooding. Just… tense. You noticed it immediately. The way he kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends like it was bothering him. You’d seen him struggle with it before, getting it caught in the divots of his prosthetic hand, knots forming no matter how gently you brushed it out for him.

You remembered the way he stood silently in the shower once, while you rinsed the conditioner through his hair, his eyes closed like he was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. So when he asked, quietly, almost awkwardly, if you’d cut it for him, you didn’t hesitate. Your heart clenched at the vulnerability behind the request. It wasn’t just hair. It was everything that came with it. Years spent under HYDRA’s thumb, the soldier they molded him into.

His hair had become a symbol of that time. Of who he was forced to be. And now, now he was finally ready to let some of it go. You smiled, kissed his temple, and told him yes. A dozen kisses followed, on his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his lips, anywhere you could reach, until his nerves melted into a soft laugh. You pulled a chair into the middle of your living room, grabbed your scissors, and gently ran your fingers through his long hair one last time.

Each snip echoed in the silence between you. Strand by strand, you cut away the weight he’d carried for years. Not just physically, but emotionally. You saw his shoulders relax, the tension in his jaw disappear. You didn’t cry, but your throat burned. When it was done, he looked up at you, eyes glimmering with something like relief. In that moment, something shifted. He looked a little lighter. A little more like the photos you'd seen at the Smithsonian than the Winter Soldier.

And you just held him. Right there on the couch, the movie still playing, your takeout long forgotten. Because he had finally taken a step out of the past. And most importantly, he had done it with you. The haircut helped, but it didn’t fix everything. There were still sleepless nights. The bad ones. It always started the same. You’d fall asleep together, your head on his chest, his arm curled protectively around your waist, his vibranium hand resting gingerly on your hip like he was still afraid he could crush you.

For a few hours, there was peace. Warmth. Safety. And then he’d flinch. Sometimes it was a quiet jolt, his breath catching in his throat as his body stiffened beneath you. Other times, he screamed. Guttural, broken cries that ripped through the room like a siren in the dark. The first time it happened, you woke up in a panic, heart racing as you scrambled upright to find him trembling on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I thought I was back there.” He whispered hoarsely, not meeting your eyes.

He never told you the full extent of what he saw. But he didn’t have to and you never pushed. After that, it became routine. Not the nightmares, you never got used to those, but the way you’d hold him afterward. The way you'd run your fingers through his freshly cut hair and whisper that he was safe, over and over, until he started to believe it again. But the world didn’t make healing easy. Therapy, court-ordered and clinical, was a battlefield of its own. Doctor Raynor was assigned to his case by the state.

Her intentions were probably good, maybe even grounded in expertise, but she wielded her sessions like interrogations, not conversations. Her tone, clipped and sterile. Her office, painfully impersonal. And every appointment left Bucky more guarded than the last, his jaw locked tight, fingers twitching like he was restraining the urge to bolt. Bucky absolutely loathed her. “She talks to me like I’m a science experiment,” He told you once, pacing the length of your kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Like I’m a problem to be fixed, not a person trying to live.”

You knew she was doing her job, and in her own strict, clinical way, probably wanted to help. But you also knew Bucky. You knew how he shut down when he felt cornered. How he recoiled from cold professionalism like it was another kind of cage. “She doesn’t listen,” He scoffed, clenching his jaw so hard it ached. “Not the way you do.” And that’s what made it worse. Because he wanted you to be his therapist. He trusted you.

You were the only person he had ever fully, freely opened up to in this new life. But your hands were tied by both ethics and state regulations. If it were up to him, you would’ve been the one sitting across from him in those sterile rooms. You, who knew the exact cadence of his silences. Who understood the difference between his avoidance and his pain. Who could read the tremble in his hand before he even noticed it. But that option had been ripped from the table the moment the state found out you were together.

Conflict of interest. Legal boundaries. Cold bureaucratic logic. It tore at him. He needed you, and yet, here he was, forced to bare his trauma to a stranger who couldn’t even see past his file. It killed you to see the resignation in his eyes after every session. The way he came home quieter, more withdrawn. Some nights, he’d pace for hours. Others, he’d lie on the floor beside the couch while you worked late into the night logging case notes from your sessions.

You'd reach down, fingers brushing through his hair, gently untangling more than just strands. You were exhausted, too. Your days were long, hours spent immersed in the heartbreak of children who'd lost parents in the Snap, or who’d come back to find their homes gone, families broken, friends aged five years beyond recognition. And every other weekend, you’d leave upstate, arms filled with books for Morgan, heart full of bittersweet warmth as you spent the day with Pepper, the three of you quietly holding space for the man you all still missed.

Bucky didn’t always come with you, but when he did, he was gentle in ways that could break your heart. He’d let Morgan clamber into his lap without hesitation, her tiny hands gripping glitter markers and gel pens, her eyes lighting up as she announced she’d be “designing his new suit.” He never flinched as she scribbled stars and flowers and crooked smiley faces all over his flesh arm. Sometimes, she’d pull out stickers too, ones that sparkled, and he’d wear them on his vibranium arm like medals for the rest of the day.

While you and Pepper sat in the kitchen, warm mugs of coffee nestled between your palms, catching up in soft voices and comfortable pauses, Morgan and Bucky became their own little universe in the living room. You’d hear her giggles float in as he pretended to be a robot in need of repairs, or hear the clack of action figures clashing in an imaginary battle across the floor. It was safe to say that when Bucky did come, Morgan only had eyes for him. She barely spared you a second glance.

And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit. Watching them together always made your heart swell in your chest. There was something so healing in it, watching two of the people you loved most in the world get along so effortlessly. But even with your calendar packed to the brim, your phone buzzing with relentless notifications, and your inbox teetering on the edge of chaos, you made time for Bucky. You chose him, again and again, day after day. Not out of duty or habit, but because you saw him. Really saw him.

Not just the soldier or the ghost of who he used to be, but the man beneath it all, the one who carried his guilt like a second skin, who wore silence like armor, who never asked to be rescued but still offered you the best parts of himself when it mattered most. And in the quiet hours, when the rest of the world seemed impossibly far away, that choice mattered most. Some nights you’d wake to find the bed empty beside you, the imprint of his body still faintly warm on the sheets. You didn’t need to guess where he’d gone.

You’d follow the soft glow spilling from the kitchen down the hall, already knowing what you’d find. There he’d be, shirtless, slouched at the kitchen island, shoulders drawn up like the weight of memories still threatened to collapse them. A chipped mug of tea cradled between his hands, long forgotten. Steam rising slowly, untouched. He wouldn’t look up at first, but the moment he felt you, your quiet footsteps, your steady breath, his features would soften, even if only in the corners.

You didn’t speak. You never needed to. You’d simply step behind him and slide your arms around his waist, pressing the length of your body into his warmth. You’d rest your cheek between his shoulder blades, the ridges of his spine familiar against your skin. Your lips would find the scarred skin of his back, soft, unhurried kisses trailing over the places he once flinched to have touched. And little by little, he’d melt into you. Sometimes he’d sigh, quiet, hoarse, like he’d been holding his breath all night.

Other times, he’d cover your hand with his, metal fingers cool and gentle against your skin, grounding himself in your presence. You never asked what woke him. You didn’t need to. The nightmares were old companions, but so was the comfort you offered. And somehow, in that small kitchen at 3 a.m., the two of you carved out something real. Not perfect, but steady. A kind of domestic bliss that came not from the absence of pain, but from choosing to face it together.

Aside from the time he spent with you, Bucky had carved out a few pieces of his own world, small, quiet pieces that helped keep him afloat. One of them was Yori. He didn’t talk much about how they met. You’d only figured it out after spotting them together once at a small ramen shop in Brooklyn. Yori was sharp, quick with sarcasm, and unafraid to nudge Bucky in the ribs when he thought he was being too broody. Bucky never called him his friend, but you knew better.

He always made time for lunch with Yori. Sometimes they played chess in the park, sitting for hours without speaking. Other times they watched old war movies, black-and-white films that reminded Bucky of a world that was now buried beneath layers of ash and time. But you knew the truth behind that friendship. One night, in Wakanda, he showed you the small red book. It was weathered, the cover soft and bent at the corners from being thumbed open too many times.

You didn’t ask him to, he just handed it to you, unspoken trust heavy in the air between you. Your fingers traced the names. So many. Some crossed out. Some not. You saw the pain flash behind his eyes as you paused on one. Yori’s son. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. The weight of it was carved into his expression, his shoulders, the way he stood like the guilt was fused into his bones. You only nodded, kissed his knuckles, and gave the book back like it was something sacred.

Doctor Raynor advised him to keep going. To keep making amends. So he tried. Even when it ripped open old wounds. You watched him leave little offerings behind, letters, money, notes slipped into mailboxes under false names. Sometimes it was a conversation, and those were the hardest. When he came home from one of those, he didn’t speak for hours. He just laid on the couch with his head in your lap, staring at the ceiling while you rubbed slow circles into his chest until the storm passed.

Then there were Peter and Kate. They came around more than Bucky would have liked, or so he claimed. Peter usually popped by your apartment in the late afternoons. He'd burst through the door mid-sentence, rambling about the newest LEGO he and Ned built. Sometimes it was about a failed science experiment that nearly set his teacher’s desk on fire, and other times it was the latest dilemma in the never-ending saga of his awkward, adorable crush on MJ.

He was like the little brother you never had but always wanted, a whirlwind of nervous energy, good intentions, and infinite curiosity. And while he clearly adored you, he was absolutely terrified of Bucky. No matter how relaxed Peter tried to seem, slouched posture, high-pitched “Hey, Mr. Barnes, sir”, he couldn’t quite hide the way his voice jumped an octave when Bucky walked into the room. And Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, loved it. He’d lean in just a little too close and stare just a little too long.

It was all in good fun, at least, in Bucky’s mind. You’d scold him every time, elbowing him in the ribs with a firm, “Stop terrorizing the kid.” but it only made his smug grin wider. Kate, on the other hand, was pure chaos. You met her while guest lecturing at NYU, and within ten minutes, you were bonding over shared trauma, and a love for caffeine. She was bold, sarcastic, and completely incapable of knocking like a normal person. And Bucky? Bucky insisted he couldn’t stand either of them.

“Peter talks too much.”

“Kate’s too loud.”

“Why are they always here?”

“Why can’t I enjoy a movie night alone with my girl?”

He grumbled every time they showed up. Crossed his arms. Rolled his eyes. Made a dramatic show of sighing deeply when Peter excitedly explained how a web-shooter might be upgraded using Wakandan tech, or when Kate dared him to a dart contest, promising to “go easy on his retirement-age reflexes.” But you saw it, the twitch of his lips when Peter got animated about physics and called vibranium “the coolest element on the planet,”. Only for Bucky to correct him before launching into a surprisingly detailed explanation.

You caught the way he fought back a laugh when Kate pretended to lose spectacularly in darts just to get a rise out of him, only for Bucky to mutter “you’re insufferable,” through a half-smile that tugged at his mouth. You never called him out on it. Never teased, never said a word. You let him have that tiny shred of denial, the same way you let him pretend he didn’t know exactly when Peter’s birthday was, or coincidentally ordered Hawaiian pizza the nights Kate was coming over.

But one night, after Peter left behind a worn, dog-eared Star Wars comic, scrawled with a sticky note that said “For Bucky. Not you. He’d like this one.” You came out of the bedroom to find your grumpy super-soldier stretched across the couch, reading it under the lamplight. His face was blank, like it always was when he tried to hide what he felt. But his eyes lingered on the panels, his thumb slowly smoothing over a crease in the page. You didn’t say much. You just walked past him, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.

“Admit it, you love them.” You murmured, amusement soft in your voice. “Do not.” He grumbled instantly, like it was a reflex, but he didn’t put the comic down. Didn’t even look up. You just smiled, because he didn’t need to say it out loud. You already knew. The days blurred together for a while. Your work remained as demanding as ever. You kept coming home exhausted more often than not. But you always looked forward to him. To the comfort of his arms wrapped around you.

But something had shifted in Bucky. It started with the news. You’d been curled up together on the couch, a throw blanket tangled around your legs, your laptop perched on the coffee table while you mindlessly ate leftover takeout. The TV buzzed in the background, just another press conference. Just another attempt by the government to steer the public into believing they still had a grip on post-Blip order. Then the words hit you. "We need a symbol again. Someone to inspire us. America needs a new hero."

And then the image. A man in red, white, and blue. Holding Steve’s shield. Wearing Steve’s star. Grinning like he’d earned it. You froze mid-bite. Bucky went still beside you, like a statue, like someone had carved him from stone and left him unfinished. His jaw clenched so hard you heard the faint grind of his teeth. Then came the name: John Walker. “This can’t be real.” You whispered, your voice nearly drowned out by the crowd cheering on-screen. “They gave him the shield?” Bucky’s voice was hollow. But beneath it, a storm brewed.

You tried to soothe him, reached for his hand, held it in both of yours. But he was already pulling away, standing, pacing. The light from the TV cast jagged shadows across his face, highlighting the devastation in his eyes. He didn’t say a word for several minutes. Just paced. When the interview played later, when Walker claimed that Steve Rogers had inspired him, had felt like a “brother,” Bucky snapped. “He didn’t even know Steve!” He barked. “That shield wasn’t a prop, it was his legacy. It belonged to Sam. It was supposed to—Goddamn it.”

You stepped toward him cautiously. “Buck…” But he wouldn’t look at you. “Sam just gave it away, like it meant nothing. Like he didn’t even want the responsibility.” He just ran both hands through his shorter hair, eyes blazing, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. “He probably thought—” Only you didn’t get to finish your sentence. “No, Y/N. Don’t defend him,” Bucky growled, more sharply than you’d heard from him in months. "He should’ve known better. Steve trusted him.”

“He handed him the shield with his own hands and Sam turned around and, this is what we get?” You didn’t argue. You knew he wasn’t mad at you. He was heartbroken. And he didn’t stop thinking about it after that. You started noticing how he’d ignore his phone when it buzzed with Sam’s name. Every missed call made him angrier. Every voicemail left unanswered. Sometimes you’d glance at the call log and see Sam’s name again and again, like a drumbeat that refused to be silenced. Deep down, Bucky was nothing if not loyal to Steve’s memory.

To what the shield represented, and whether he admitted it or not, to Sam too. And the betrayal, felt personal. Then, one morning, you woke to an eerie silence. The bed was cold beside you. You blinked away sleep, rubbed your eyes, and stepped out into the living room expecting to see Bucky fixing the sink again or reading one of the dog-eared novels you’d left lying around. Instead, you found a single piece of paper sitting on the coffee table. Next to it was his cell phone, blank screen, most likely turned off. Your heart dropped.

The note was written in his careful, blocky handwriting, the kind he rarely used unless he was nervous or trying too hard:

I'm sorry, I can't just let this go. I love you. — Bucky

That was it. No explanation. No destination. No goodbye. Just gone. Your knees gave out and you sank onto the couch, the note trembling in your hands. Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out every thought. Of course he left the phone. He knew you’d track it. He knew you’d try. He’d planned this. Slipped away while you were asleep, quiet as a ghost. And maybe that’s what he felt like again, a ghost trying to walk through walls, desperate to fix something only he could see.

For hours, you sat on the couch, fingers curled around the edge of the note, eyes burning. You weren’t angry. You were scared. Scared of what he might do. Of what he might face. Of the weight he was dragging with him like a chain around his soul. But more than anything, you were scared that he didn’t believe he could lean on you this time. Because he'd carried so much for so long… and now, he was doing it alone. The apartment was too quiet without him. Your heart… empty. And all you could do was wait.

Patience was not your strong suit. Never had been. One of those trademark Stark qualities, an inheritance coded into your DNA, like sharp wit and chronic insomnia. So when Bucky left, silence stretching into days, and then into a week, every part of you itched like it was coming undone. You tried. God, you tried to respect his space. To believe he’d come back, to remind yourself that he wasn’t running from you, but from the past, from something bigger and heavier than he could name.

But that didn’t make it easier. It didn’t help when you curled into bed alone, still wearing his scent on the shirt he left in the laundry hamper, or when you made two mugs of coffee out of sheer habit only to leave one growing cold on the counter. Eventually, you snapped. You pulled out every tech resource you had. Your own customized AI, built from pieces of Tony’s early FRIDAY code and stitched together with your own algorithms, was running surveillance protocols 24/7.

You called in Peter, who fumbled into your apartment still half-asleep asking for his help hacking into Redwing. Between the two of you, you almost cracked it. Almost. But Sam, in typical aggravatingly-responsible fashion, had locked Redwing behind no less than a hundred custom protocols, biometrics, vocal ID, retina confirmation, and what you suspected was a DNA sequence hidden inside a thumbprint. Each time you thought you'd made progress, the system rerouted or shut down entirely.

“He must’ve known I’d try this.” You grumbled. Peter glanced sideways at you. “He… definitely knew you’d try this.” Still, you watched the news religiously. Every damn channel. CNN, local news updates, obscure underground blogs. You scanned every segment for anything suspicious. And when footage began to emerge of the Flag Smashers, a violent anti-nationalist group rallying around the idea of a world without borders, your gut twisted sharply. Their tactics were brutal.

Their message was messy. And somehow, deep in your bones, you knew Bucky and Sam were involved. He was chasing ghosts again. You started losing sleep. Your temper flared with anyone who dared to tell you to "give it time." Pepper tried to gently suggest you unplug, even just for one evening, and you nearly bit her head off. So when your AI beeped, harsh, sharp, insistent, flashing red in the dark at 2:47 AM, your heart nearly launched out from your chest. The screen blinked with a single line:

JAMES BARNES – DETAINED. Location: Baltimore Police Department.

You bolted upright. Breath catching. Mind whirring. What the hell was he doing in Baltimore? You didn’t wait for logic to catch up. You sprang from the bed, yanking open your dresser, grabbing the first thing your fingers touched, his oversized navy-blue Henley, sleeves too long, the collar stretched from his broad shoulders. You yanked on your jeans, barely registering the tremble in your fingers.

The AI was still speaking in your ear, listing the arrest details, violation of court-ordered therapy, likely triggered by Raynor herself. You called Happy mid-sprint. “Get the jet. I don’t care how short notice. Maryland. Now.” Fifty-two minutes later, your boots hit the tarmac in Baltimore. You didn’t wait for the steps to finish lowering. You jumped down mid-descent and immediately called an Uber with shaking fingers, pacing the edge of the runway like your heart might explode.

The car arrived in five minutes flat, but it still felt like a lifetime. You didn’t speak during the drive. Couldn’t. Your knee bounced like a jackhammer the entire ride, and your thumb rubbed raw circles into your palm as you stared out the window, buildings blurring past in the dark. By the time you reached the Baltimore Police Department, you didn’t wait for the Uber to stop before yanking the door open and running inside.

You forced yourself to pause just past the entryway, inhaling sharply, trying to push down the panic, the ache, the rawness sitting just behind your ribs. You smoothed Bucky’s shirt down your torso, God, you could still smell him on it, and stepped toward the front desk, plastering on your best smile. “Hi there,” You coaxed sweetly, despite the vice grip on your lungs. “I’m here for Sergeant James Barnes.” The desk officer didn’t look up. She handed you a clipboard, tapping her nails against the counter without a glance.

“Fill out this form, and we’ll get to you when we can.” Your patience snapped like brittle glass. “I really hate to do this,” You muttered, reaching into your wallet. “But do you know who I am?” You pulled out your ID, one of the original biometric prototypes, still synced to SHIELD and Avengers records. Stark hologram seal, glowing faintly. A brief flare of blue light illuminated your face. The woman finally looked up. Her eyes widened. Her jaw literally dropped. You almost felt guilty.

“I—uh—yes, of course. Miss Stark, I didn’t realize—” She fumbled for a second, standing abruptly. “He’ll be right out.” The moment she disappeared into the hallway, you finally let yourself breathe again. Shallow, choked. You saw him before you heard him. The worn thump of combat boots echoed from somewhere deep in the back corridors of the station, slow and heavy, like each step dragged the weight of the last few weeks behind it.

And then, then, the steel door groaned open with a screech like something ancient, something tired. And there he was. Your heart nearly gave out. He looked… rough. Tired didn’t begin to cover it. His hair was slightly matted, the short strands curling just a bit at the nape of his neck from too many nights of sweat-soaked sleep. His shoulders were drawn tight with exhaustion, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His flesh wrist bore faint, angry marks from the cuffs.

You didn’t move. Not at first, but then he looked up. “Doll…” He breathed, voice hoarse and small, like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Like if he blinked, you might disappear. In two long strides, he was in front of you, and then around you, his arms winding around your waist, pulling you against him. You felt the tremble in his hands. Felt the deep, shaky breath he took when his face buried into your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume like it was the only oxygen left in the world.

“How—?” You felt the question before he even said it, his voice cracking with confusion and awe. “Long story,” You whispered into his collar, your arms tightening around his waist. You could feel every line of tension in his back, every silent apology pressed into the way he held you. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” His lips brushed your temple as he exhaled your name, like a confession. “Y/N, I—” But you pulled back just enough to shoot him a look. The look.

The one he rarely saw. The one that made him feel like he was a teenager getting scolded by his high school sweetheart. “Save it, Barnes.” Last-name basis. That was never a good sign. Bucky froze, blinking. His grip didn’t loosen, but his expression tightened, remorseful and sheepish in a way only you could summon from him. You jabbed your finger into his chest lightly, right over where his dog tags usually rested when they weren’t around your neck. “I know why you did it,” You scowled, voice low, clipped, every syllable laced with held-back anger.

“But it was the shittiest way to do it.” He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could even try. “Now shut up and let me hold you,” You snapped, tugging him closer again. “Because even though I’m seething and want to yell at you so bad… I missed you like crazy.” For once, Bucky didn’t argue. He only let out a quiet, broken chuckle and kissed your temple with so much care it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you like crazy too, sweetheart,” He murmured. “I’m sorry.”

You were just about to ask him what the hell he was doing in Baltimore of all places when the sound of a too-smooth voice cut through the air like a blade: “That’s impossible,” The man scoffed. “Tony Stark’s daughter is like… six years old.” You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. You’d heard that voice enough over the past few days, plastered across every network, standing behind that shield like it meant something more than a prop.

“Does she look six years old?” The receptionist muttered under her breath, eyebrows arching as she pointed towards you. You felt Bucky stiffen beside you. And then, with the kind of self-satisfied smile that made your skin crawl, John Walker turned, taking you and Bucky in like you were contestants in a game he’d already won. “Miss Stark,” He drawled, stepping forward, arm outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you. John Walker. Captain America.” You stared at his hand like it was a joke.

Like the shield he carried wasn’t a goddamn theft of something sacred. It was petty, but you didn’t shake it. Instead, you tilted your head slightly and gave him the kind of smile your father used to wear at board meetings, calm, razor-edged, unimpressed. “I’d say it’s a pleasure,” You replied coolly. “But I’d be lying. Especially since I knew the real Captain America.” Beside you, Bucky bit down a laugh, shoulders twitching as he fought the smirk threatening to take over his face. Walker’s smile faltered, jaw ticking.

Before he could spit out some PR-rehearsed comeback, his partner, Hoskins, probably, you’d seen the name on the reports, stepped forward, murmuring something discreetly in his ear. Walker’s eyes flicked back to you, and for a second, his expression softened, just a flicker. Uncertainty. Inferiority. Maybe even guilt. But he buried it quick, offering one last polite, though stiff, nod. “Another time then, Miss Stark.” You hummed in response, already turning back to Bucky like Walker didn’t even exist anymore.

And as Walker and his shadow disappeared down the hallway, Bucky finally let himself laugh, a real one this time, deep and gravelly and warm against your hair. “God, I missed you.” You didn’t answer with words. You just pulled him closer, arms sliding around his waist, burying your face against his chest. He still smelled like old leather and faint traces of your fabric softener clinging to the Henley he’d left behind. You closed your eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to forget the aching in your chest and the fact that he'd disappeared without warning.

You were safe in this bubble again, breathing him in like it might bring your heart rate down. But the moment shattered with the sound of Sam’s voice, clear, distinct, and unmistakable, echoing across the lobby. You blinked, lifting your head from Bucky’s chest, just in time to see Sam shake hands with an unfamiliar woman. Your brows knit. The woman didn’t look like a cop. Her posture was too clinical, too calculating. The way her eyes scanned the room, the people, the exits, she was clocking everything.

She didn’t even glance at Sam as he stepped back. Her gaze had already landed on you and Bucky. You felt the subtle change in his body, the way his muscles went rigid beneath your fingers, like ice spreading beneath his skin. His breath hitched, just slightly, before he masked it with a shallow exhale. Before you could ask what was wrong, she approached. She walked like someone who owned the ground beneath her shoes, eyes sharp. Her hair was swept back in a tight bun, her lips drawn into a polite, unimpressed line.

“You’re James’ girlfriend, I assume?” Her tone wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t curious. It was dissecting. You straightened slowly, turning to face her head-on. “I’m going to assume you're Doctor Raynor.” You countered, eyebrow lifting. Her name was a curse you’d heard dozens of times, drawled, muttered, spat from Bucky’s mouth on those nights he came home from sessions with clenched fists and haunted eyes. She tilted her head slightly.

“Y/N Stark,” She confirmed, like she was checking off a box. “Head of Stark Industries and a psychologist, no less.” You caught the faint curl of her lip. It wasn’t admiration. It was scrutiny. Calculation. She didn’t need a clipboard, she’d memorized your file. “Child psychologist.” You corrected smoothly. A dry chuckle escaped her, void of humor, full of sharp edge. “Fitting,” She muttered, folding her arms. “Seeing as James here acts like one throughout most of our sessions.” The air snapped around you like a whip.

Your jaw locked so tightly it felt like your molars might splinter. A white-hot flash of anger surged in your chest, anger not just at her words, but at the casual cruelty of them. The dismissiveness. Like everything he carried, everything he struggled with, was an inconvenience rather than a trauma. A nuisance rather than a wound. Beside you, Bucky’s fingers threaded through yours. He squeezed once. Let it go. He should’ve known better. You inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then, your voice dropped, low, even, lethal in its precision. "Actually,” You began, tone honey-sweet but steel-lined, “I work with children who’ve watched their parents die in front of them. Who’ve lived through the Blip, through war zones, domestic violence, poverty, children who scream in their sleep and flinch when someone touches their shoulder.” Raynor blinked. The faintest hitch in her breath. You stepped forward, fingers still laced with Bucky’s, but your gaze locked on her like a target.

“And you know what none of them need?” You continued. “A professional who talks about them like they’re a burden. Like they’re broken. Like their pain is something to tolerate rather than understand.” Her eyes narrowed, jaw twitching, but she didn’t speak. “I’m not his therapist,” You finished. “But if I were, he’d never come home feeling worse than when he walked in.” Raynor’s silence was louder than her condescension.

Sam’s eyebrows were halfway up his forehead as he glanced between the three of you, clearly trying to figure out if he should intervene, or grab popcorn. Bucky didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He was still holding your hand. But now, his thumb brushed softly over your skin, back and forth, a quiet rhythm of reassurance. Raynor didn’t flinch. She didn’t offer so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Just turned, her gaze sliding right past you, fixing solely on Bucky like you weren’t even there.

“James,” She instructed coolly, tone clipped and clinical. “Condition of your release, session now.” Her eyes slid to Sam. “You too, Sam.” And then, with that same irritating detachment, she turned toward you. “Miss Stark, you’re more than welcome to sit in. If you can keep your comments to yourself.” You just nodded, the movement jerky, your fingers tightening around Bucky’s hand in warning and in reassurance.

You walked beside him and Sam as Raynor led you through the station. Each step deeper into the building felt like descending into an emotional pressure chamber, the walls too white, too sterile. Eventually, she ushered you into a narrow interrogation room, cold metal table, scuffed linoleum, one flickering light overhead. Raynor already sat at the table, legs crossed, notebook opened to a blank page as if she couldn’t wait to analyze them both like an equation gone wrong.

You touched both of their arms before you stepped aside, trailing your hand down Bucky’s metal forearm, fingers curling briefly around his as you passed. His eyes flicked up to meet yours for a moment, guilt, embarrassment, and something else rawer lurking beneath the surface. You took your post by the back wall, arms crossed, posture unreadable. But your gaze never left her. “So,” She prompted without looking up, pen poised. “Who would like to start?” Neither moved. Neither blinked.

The tension settled in the room like fog. You knew this wouldn’t work. You knew it. Her whole approach was rigid, formulaic, nothing about it was built for someone like Bucky, whose trauma didn’t follow linear paths or easy language. Still, you bit your tongue so hard it throbbed. “Well,” Sam exhaled, leaning back slightly, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Alright, look, Dr. Raynor. I get it. You want to talk to Freaky Magoo over here—” You dropped your head into your hand. “—but I’m a hundred percent fine.”

Here we go.

Raynor’s brow arched slightly, eyes narrowing at Sam before returning to Bucky, her voice clipped and edged with mock patience. “It is my job to make sure you’re okay. So yes, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it’s the only way I can determine whether you’re getting over whatever’s eating at you.” Her attention zeroed in on Bucky, who hadn’t moved since he sat down. He slumped back in the chair, face unreadable, his vibranium fingers tapping softly against his thigh, restless, twitchy.

"This is ridiculous," Sam muttered under his breath. “Yeah,” Bucky agreed suddenly, his voice rough and flat. “I agree.” Raynor’s eyes lit like she’d struck gold. “See! Making progress already!” She clicked her pen excitedly. “So, who wants to go first?” Silence. A long, painful pause filled with nothing but the creak of the air vent and the low hum of overhead lights. “No volunteers? Wow, how surprising.” She sighed, snapping the notebook closed in dramatic frustration.

“Okay, we’re going to do an exercise. Something I use with couples when they’re trying to figure out what kind of life they want to build together.” You pressed your knuckles against your mouth to stifle the very audible laugh that almost escaped. Couples therapy? Honestly, at this point it tracked. They’d been bickering like they were married since you had met them in Germany. “Ever heard of the miracle question?” In perfect synchronicity, both men scoffed and shook their heads.

“Suppose,” Raynor began with exaggerated patience. You were shocked she hadn't given up yet. “While you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?” Of course, the silence didn't last after that. “In my miracle,” Bucky replied dryly. “He’d talk less.” Your lips twitched. “That's exactly what I was going to say,” Sam fired back. “Isn’t that just ironic.”

“Alright. You’re leaving me no choice. It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.” Raynor threw down her pen. “Oh, great, I like this one.” Bucky muttered sarcastically. “You’re gonna love this,” Sam groaned. “Turn around. Face each other.” They scooted around the metal table, knees bumping, awkward and stiff. When they were finally thigh-to-thigh, both of them were grimacing like they'd been sentenced to some kind of emotional gulag. “It’s a little close.” Bucky grimaced.

“It’s very close,” Sam shot back. “But hey, that’s what you wanted, right?” Raynor snapped, pushing her palms flat on the table. “Now look at each other. You need to look at each other in the eyes.” They locked eyes. And didn’t blink. You knew immediately. Those two were having a staring contest. “Oh, are you two serious right now?” Raynor clapped sharply. “Are you having a staring contest?!” Neither flinched. Until she clapped again and Bucky rolled his eyes in surrender.

"Alright, James, why does Sam aggravate you?” You watched as a cocky smirk made it's way onto Bucky's face before Raynor interrupted him just as his mouth opened. “And don’t say something childish.” Bucky’s silence stretched long enough that you almost stepped forward, but then, his face hardened. The emotion was quiet, but sharp enough to slice right through the space between them. “Why did you give up that shield.” The words hung heavy. Thicker than anger. Closer to heartbreak.

You watched Sam blink, the weight of it catching him off guard. “Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?” Sam’s tone was more tired than defensive. Bucky didn’t let up. “Steve believed in you. He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason. That shield, that’s everything he stood for. That’s his legacy. He gave it to you, and you threw it away like it was nothing.” Sam tried to speak, but Bucky kept going, faster now. Cracks forming in his voice like the weight was finally too much.

“So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” His voice broke on that last word. Just a fracture, but enough. You couldn’t stand back and watch anymore. Without a word, you crossed the room in three strides and gently placed your hands on his shoulders, grounding him, one palm over metal, the other on skin, thumbs brushing softly against the tense ridge of his neck. He didn’t move. But his eyes closed. Just for a second.

“You finished?” Sam’s voice was quiet now. Bucky gave a small, almost reluctant nod. Sam’s jaw flexed. His response was calm, but firm. “Maybe this is something you, or Steve, will never understand. But can you accept that I did what I thought was right?” Beneath your fingers, Bucky twitched. Barely. But you felt it. Sam’s eyes softened, just slightly. “You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this,” He exhaled, pushing back from the table. “We’ve got real shit going on out there. So how about this, I’ll squash it now."

"We go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both take long, separate vacations, and never see each other again.” That was possibly the worst idea you'd ever heard. “I like that,” Bucky gritted out, jaw locked. “Great.” Sam threw his hands up and turned toward Raynor. “Thanks, Doc. For making it weird. I feel so much better now.” He was already heading for the door. “I’ll see you outside.” The door slammed behind him with a loud echo. The air in the room felt heavier after Sam walked out.

Like everything unsaid had been stuffed into the space he left behind. The door clicked shut behind him with the dull finality of a slammed book. The pages of that “session” lay wide open, bleeding. You didn’t move right away. Neither did Bucky. He sat frozen, hunched slightly forward, hands clasped tightly in front of him, metal and flesh trembling ever so slightly where they met. His breathing was shallow, uneven. And in the harsh light of the interrogation room, his face looked more hollow than ever.

The kind of tired that didn’t come from physical exhaustion. The kind that lived in the bones, in the cracks between memory and guilt. Doctor Raynor didn’t say anything either. Not a single word. Not a thank you. Not a final note. Just the scratching of her pen against her notebook. Cold. Clinical. Like she was already halfway detached from what had just happened, as if it hadn’t nearly torn something wide open. You stayed by his side, your fingers still curled over his shoulder.

You let the silence breathe for a second longer before forcing your lips into a tight, polite smile. “That was really great.” You muttered with razor-edged sweetness, your voice laced in practiced civility honed over years of Stark board meetings and press conferences. Raynor didn’t flinch. Just gave a nod that barely counted as acknowledgment. Your patience was a hairline fracture from giving way. Bucky rose slowly. Not all at once, but like gravity still had its hooks in him.

His metal hand pushed off the table with a sharp screech of chair legs. You noticed the quiet stiffness in his movements, the slight limp in his step he always tried to hide when he was upset. The way he didn’t look up. Not at Raynor. Not at you. He just slipped his arm around your waist, the motion automatic, desperate. Like he needed to hold onto something real before the weight of what he’d just said crushed him. You didn’t hesitate. You leaned into him, your hand sliding beneath his jacket to rest against the small of his back.

You could feel the tension in his muscles. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief. You walked in silence, back through the cold, fluorescent-lit corridors of the station. His boots were heavier now, dragging slightly with each step. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He just needed you close, steady, present. The moment the outside air hit your face, it felt like surfacing from underwater. Bucky exhaled beside you, the breath shaky and shallow, like he’d been holding it since the moment he sat down in that chair.

You didn’t let go of him, not when you passed the waiting area, not when the front doors closed behind you, not when you spotted Sam leaning against the hood of a black SUV, arms crossed. The tension between them was still there. Sharp, unyielding. But now something had shifted. Sam’s eyes found yours first. No words, just a flicker, something caught in the space between apology and acknowledgment. Maybe it wasn’t regret in his gaze, but there was something gentler there than before.

"Well," He muttered finally, his voice slicing through the silence, "I feel great." You didn’t miss the sarcasm, or the way his arms remained stiff across his chest, tension still humming under his skin. "I feel awful." Bucky murmured beside you, head shaking slowly, tone low and weary. There was no sarcasm there. Just exhaustion. A confession worn into the gravel of his voice. Then came the sudden, piercing ding of a phone notification. Sam fished the phone from his pocket.

The screen lit his face in cool blue light, and whatever he saw made his expression harden, brows knitting, lips pressing into a taut, unreadable line. His grip on the device tightened just slightly before he lifted his gaze toward Bucky. Bucky didn’t even ask. He didn’t need to. He simply turned to you. There it was again, those eyes. Clear, icy blue, but stormy in their depth. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, guilt clinging to every breath. He looked torn in half.

“I—” You didn’t let him finish. Your fingers curled into the lapels of his leather jacket, tugging him downward in one smooth, unspoken motion. His breath caught for the briefest second, but he didn’t hesitate. His mouth met yours with a hunger that felt like both apology and promise. His vibranium arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you to him, while his flesh hand lifted to cradle the side of your neck, fingers spread wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before he had to let go again.

He kissed you like the world might end again. Like this might be the last moment of peace before the chaos came flooding back. Your lips moved against his in a slow, urgent rhythm, familiar, grounding, fierce in its gentleness. You tasted the remnants of coffee and something sweeter, hope. For a few suspended seconds, nothing else existed. Not the cold wind biting at your exposed skin. Not the police station behind you. Not even Sam's annoyed hovering nearby, though you knew he was pretending not to watch.

Eventually, necessity pulled you apart, breathless and flushed, but you didn’t go far. You stayed close, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your lips. Your hands still fisted in the lapels of his jacket, refusing to release him just yet. “Go,” You whispered, voice hoarse from the emotions clotted in your throat. Your eyes searched his face, memorizing every detail, the faint bruise near his temple, the tension in his brow, the tenderness only you ever got to see.

“Just be careful. And come back to me.” You reached into his jacket, slipping the phone back into the inner pocket. “Always.” His voice was low, steady. Absolute. He leaned in again, brushing a feather-light kiss to your lips, softer this time. A whisper of devotion. One final touch, like sealing a promise into your skin. He lingered a heartbeat longer, then turned and walked toward Sam, who was already making his way to the SUV. The doors creaked open, boots crunching against pavement. The sound felt too final.

But just before they were out of earshot, you cupped your hands around your mouth and called out. “You better make sure he makes it back to me in one piece, Sam! If not, I’m coming after you!” Sam turned his head slightly, shooting you a thumbs-up. “I’ll keep him pretty for you, Stark!” He called over his shoulder, grin spreading as he disappeared into the car. You stood still as the SUV pulled away, the exhaust curling into the Baltimore night air.

Your arms folded across your chest, not out of cold, but to keep your heart from spilling out of your ribcage as your anxiety resurfaced tenfold. The only thing grounding you in that moment was the warmth of Bucky’s kiss still tingled on your lips, his scent clinging to your jacket like a ghost. Whatever this was, it was far from over. But you would wait. Because you knew, no matter what storm he walked into, he would always fight to make it back to you.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

#not my usual rb but READ IT🫵🏽#this and ever since new york by harry styles 🙂‍↕️#gracereblogs

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norrisdriver · 5 months ago

Note

GIRL DONT HOLD BACK

WRITE THE LANDO NORRIS HELMET SMUT

Finders keepers | LN⁴

🟢 summary ──── A moment of boredom turns into a game of control and restraint, with Lando pushing boundaries neither he nor his girlfriend expected on such a busy day.

🟢 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🟢 rating ──── explicit

🟢 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, swearing, semi-public setting, soft!dom Lando, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, overstimulation, messy finish, Lando low-key losing it.

🟢 word count ──── 3.3k

🟢 date ──── Mar. 4, 2025

🟢 a/n ──── This one has been HIGHLY requested after one of you guys sent in this ask, so I shall deliver. I hope you enjoy it as much as you imagined & can’t wait to hear your thoughts 🤍

Also, yes. This is the second one-shot of the day, because I ACCIDENTALLY posted this Charles Leclerc piece earlier. It’s very short and I was supposed to post it after this one OOPSIES get greedy & go check it out. Thank you, love you all 💋

THERE IS HARDLY enough room for more than two people in the driver’s room. A physio table is pushed against the wall, a couple of chairs sit tucked under a desk covered in notes, post-its and water bottles, and a row of plastic shelves is holding some race suits, a change of clothes and toiletries, and a spare helmet. There is a faint scent of fresh rubber and overall newness of the place in the air that blends with the smell of rain, and something so distinctly Lando, a mix of his cologne and fabric softener.

She has been waiting for hours now. Day two of testing in Bahrain is dragging, and even though she loves watching her boyfriend hit the track, the long hours spent doing nothing are starting to wear on her. She finished reading three books in two days, rewatched her favorite TV show, and scrolled through her feed until the app informed her that there were no new posts.

She sighs, running a hand over the edge of the desk before deciding to tidy up a little. Not that there’s much to clean, since McLaren keeps these rooms nearly spotless, but at least it gives her something to do. A few minutes later, the post-its are arranged on the wall by color, the documents are organized in chronological order, and the water bottles have found a new home, crammed under the table.

Out of curiosity, her fingers brush over one of Lando’s new helmets, freshly designed for the pre-season testing. It’s sleek, predominantly black with neon streaks and intricate models running along the sides. On impulse, she lifts it, feeling its surprising weight before slipping it over her head. The padding presses snugly against her ears, muffling the distant sounds of mechanics still at work in the garage.

She can’t help but feel a vague claustrophobia surrounding her, but the feeling isn’t necessarily bad. On the contrary, it gives her the impression of safety, even if it inhibits her other senses.

Grinning to herself, she pulls out her phone and angles the camera for a selfie. The reflection in the visor catches the glow of the overhead lights, giving her an futuristic look. She continues to snap a few more photos, adjusting the tilt of her head, until a blurred figure appears in the background of her screen.

“Having fun all by yourself?” Lando’s voice is amused yet he sounds tired, and before she can turn around, she feels his arms wrap around her waist from behind. He leans in, lips ghosting over her shoulder in a lazy kiss.

She huffs out a laugh, nudging at his arms, “I told you to stop sneaking up on me like that. You scared me.”

Lando chuckles, hands splaying over her stomach, thumbs brushing absentminded circles through the fabric of her shirt. “Sorry. Didn’t expect to catch you playing dress-up with my stuff.”

“Finders keepers,” she says in a singing voice, making Lando chuckle again.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“It looks cool,” she admits, “Therefore, it makes you look cool.”

Lando squeezes her a little tighter, “That mouth on you,” he teases.

The girl giggles, “Am I wrong? Also, you should’ve knocked, by the way,” she continues, reaching up to pull at the visor so she can actually see him.

“I should knock on a door that has my name on it?”

“Yeah, you do!” she sounds revolted, “Especially when you know there’s a lady waiting for you inside.”

Lando’s gaze darkens ever so slightly as he takes her in. She looks like a mirage under the dim light of the small room, her curls coming untamed from under his helmet and her eyes so bright and filled with love, looking back at him.

He nods with a boyish smile, “I’ll try to remember that next time.”

Maybe it’s just exhaustion making his eyes so heavy-lidded, the lingering adrenaline from a long day fading into something softer. But when she catches him staring, Lando has the same soft gaze he does whenever they sit on the couch and he’s about to doze off; he looks unintentionally hot like this, worn out but content.

“Alright, racer boy. Can we go now?” she asks, pressing back against him slightly.

Lando sighs, reluctant. “Not yet. I still have a couple of hours to go. Gotta go over the data with the engineers,” his fingers tighten briefly on her hips before he steps back. “You can head back to the hotel if you’re bored. I’ll get you a car.”

She pouts, “It’s not as fun without you.”

That wins her another chuckle, but this time, there’s something else in Lando’s expression. His gaze is shamelessly dragging over her with an intensity that makes her pulse stutter. It’s only now that he really registers that she’s wearing his helmet, his name and number stamped all over.

She’s worn his clothes before — his hoodies, his merch, his team’s attire — but this feels completely different. It makes his mouth dry and head spin, and he might be exhausted, but suddenly, swallowing the lump in his throat, Lando realizes he’s so turned on.

“Then stay,” he encourages her, “I have half an hour to decompress before going to debriefing. I’m sure we can find something fun to do.”

His suit suddenly feels tighter, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He swallows again, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he exhales slowly.

“Is that so?” she challanges him. “Something in mind already?”

He runs a hand through his curls before reaching for her again, “Maybe,” his voice is low, amused but laced with something indulgent. His fingers skim her waist, tracing the hem of her shirt as he tugs her closer. “You’re pretty inspiring.”

She tilts her head slightly, the visor still lifted so he can see the teasing glint in her eyes. “Well, that’s new,” she laughs. “But I was just messing around.”

Lando hums, unconvinced. “Sure you were.”

She moves to take the helmet off, but his hand catches hers mid-motion.

“No, leave it,” says Lando, thumb grazing over her knuckles. His breath is warm when he leans in, his next words spoken directly against its glossy material. “You have no idea how hot you look right now.”

A shiver rolls down her spine, and it quickly goes south, right between her legs. It makes Lando grin subtly, then he reaches for the visor, pulling it down with a definitive, loud click. At that, her world narrows in an instant, and the limited view somehow makes every touch and every breath between them more intense.

Lando walks her back until she’s perched on the edge of the physio table, her pulse hammering as she watches him, excited, but mostly curious about his plans. They have thirty minutes, so his movements aren’t rushed in any way. Quite the opposite. They’re almost lazy, but there’s something precise about the way he reaches for the zipper of his race suit.

He rolls his shoulders, loosening up, then adjusts the height of the table so that when he sinks to his knees in front of her, she’s exactly where he wants her to be. Patiently, his fingers trail up her legs, making slow work of the button on her jeans. There’s no hurry in the way he peels them down, taking her underwear with them in one go, but the moment he gets rid of them, there’s a shift in his demeanor.

Lando exhales sharply, his large hands splaying over her thighs as he looks at her, half-lust and half-serious. “You gotta keep quiet, baby,” he says, a hint of mischief curling around his words. “These walls aren’t real, and anyone passing by the door can hear us blink.”

There was a little giggle stuck in her throat, but now she barely has time to react before his fingers part her, his touch light at first, just exploring while he preps her with the dexterity of a man who did it countless of times before.

Her breath catches at the first slow stroke, her thighs tensing as he traces circles where she’s most sensitive. The first sound she makes is barely a whisper of a whimper, that Lando trained his ears to hear, since is muffled inside the helmet.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, “Is that my cue?”

Before she can answer, Lando leans in.

Initially, his mouth is warm and merciful. He licks into her with a sort of tamed hunger that’s out of his character, savoring every little shift of her hips, every shudder she tries to suppress. Even so, it sends her a clear message: even though his energy is low from the long day, his need to taste her is anything but.

The world outside their room hums with noise — faint conversations, the occasional shuffle of footsteps, the distant whir of power tools in the garage. But all she can focus on is the way he’s lapping at her clit, the slick sound of it embarrassingly loud in the small space, her own whimpers barely contained behind the visor.

Lando chuckles against her, the vibration making her head tilt back slightly; the weight of the helmet forces her to let her head fall against the wall, which positions her even better in front of him.

“Gonna have to be quieter than that,” he teases, slipping his fingers between her folds, pressing just enough to make her squirm.

She barely manages to shake her head, her breath ragged. The visor fogs up as a result, which forces her to close her eyes, since her sense of sight is officially useless.

Lando looks up proudly, fingers pushing deeper as he settles in, more than happy to test her limits. He knows how to curl them just right, the wet sounds obscene in the stillness of the room.

His free hand grips her thigh like he’s starved, holding her open for him, his name echoing softly inside the helmet — muted yet desperate. He feels the way she gets even more aroused with each passing second, coating his fingers with every slick stroke, her body responding to him exactly as it does every single time he takes over.

Startled with new sensations experienced in the dark, she brings a shaky hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the moans threatening to spill out, only to realize, all over again, that she can’t. A frustrated whimper escapes instead, the same hand scrambling for something to support herself. Finally, her fingers clutch at the edge of the table, but it’s useless; her hips are already rolling against Lando, chasing more.

“Mhm,” he hums, his voice shallow. “Getting so wet for me, should’ve done this ages ago. Why didn’t we?”

She gasps, trembling on the edge and so ready to agree with him, but then Lando stops, and the loss of his fingers is almost unbearable. Before she can think, a loud, frustrated moan slips past her lips, making him laugh at her impatience.

She’s too gone now, drunk on the feeling, and the weight of the helmet is definitely not helping. Not when she’s melting under his touch, making it hard to move, and pretty much do anything but stay there, waiting. Aching for more.

Lando watches her for a moment, dark-eyed and smirking, already hard just from seeing her like this, her body so pliant and responsive under his hands. He pulls himself out with one hand, stroking lightly, and with the other, he grips the edge of the helmet, forcing her to look at him.

“Alright, baby, I’m serious. No more of that, okay?” asks Lando. “If someone hears us, it’s gonna be bad. And we don’t want that, do we?” he continues, watching her gathering all her strength only to nod slightly. “That’s right. The second I hear you moan, I’ll have to stop.”

Even Lando knows it’s a lie, but he had to say it, just in case.

She swallows, nodding again as best as she can, her pulse a frantic rhythm against his fingers when he drags his hands down her sides, holding her still. Then, with a precise snap of his hips, he buries himself inside her, stealing the breath from her lungs.

The force of it sends a shudder through the physio table, the legs creaking against the floor. She barely has time to adjust before he thrusts again, deeper this time, pressing her body into the table like he’s trying to mold her into it. Her thighs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, desperate to keep him there, to keep him buried inside her where she needs him most, the weight of him, the pressure and the friction maddening.

Lando swallows a moan, but some of it manages to slip past gritted teeth, “Fuck, you look—” he cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath. He doesn’t even have words for it. The way she feels around him and the heat of her pulling him back in every time he dares to pull away, it’s enough to make his mind go blank.

The table shifts again, inching against the floor with every thrust. She grips at the suit still clinging to his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, but there’s no escape from the way he’s driving into her, every drag of his cock making her shake beneath him.

“Lando…”

He knows. He feels it too. The way they’re teetering on the edge of something dangerously intoxicating, and the way they’re doing that together.

His hands tighten on her, his next thrust shoving the table another inch to the side. “Shit,” he breathes, voice husky with restraint. “Hold on, love. A little more, yeah?” He grips the edges of the table and snaps his hips forward again, watching the way her body reacts to him. “Fucking hell,” he spits, eyes dark as he watches her fall apart under him, little by little. “Keep me in, baby. Like that.”

She clings to him without hesitation, like she was made for this, for him. He’s marking her and he knows it, his fingers moving back to her waist, digging into her soft flesh. Lando’s name is all over her, in ways that only he can see, in places only he gets to touch. And the way she lets him, makes his head spin.

In the haze of it all, a sudden, foreign thought crashes into him like a gut-punch: her name next to his. It’s ridiculous, completely out of place in a moment like this, but it paralyzes him for a second. Until his body reacts on its own, fire spreading through his veins. He leans forward, caging her in, his thrusts becoming sharper, more desperate. His forehead presses against the cool surface of the helmet for just a moment, grounding himself, before he pulls back and looks at her.

He can barely see her eyes, wide and glazed over, but it’s enough. His fingers tighten on her hips as he slams back into her, dragging her flush against him, letting her feel every inch of his length. The sharp noise that the table makes underneath them is lost in the delicious sounds of their bodies moving together, of their heavy breathing, of the desperate way she silently whimpers his name like she wants to keep it on her tongue forever.

He’s spiraling, drowning in the heat of her, in the thought that she lets him take her like this, lets him ruin her for anyone else.

Yet somehow, it’s still not enough.

Her hands fly up instinctively, grasping at the helmet, knuckles turning white as she tries to steady herself against the overwhelming feeling of him.

Outside the room, voices pass by again, too close, and Lando clenches his jaw, fighting his own demons as he’s forcing himself to stay quiet.

Luckily, she’s close. He can feel it in the way she tightens around him, the way her body shakes as she tries her hardest to stay silent. Inside the helmet though, her breathing is shallow, small cries coming out of her parted lips.

“Come on, pretty girl,” says Lando in a demanding yet soft tone. One of his hands clamps around her neck, guiding her into each thrust. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

Lando doesn’t slow down one bit, rolling his hips in a way that he knows it drives her wild. As a result, her body tenses, trembling as pleasure overtakes her. A choked gasp echoes inside the helmet, and Lando smirks, watching her unravel. He’s so utterly captivated by the way her walls tighten around him and the way her thighs quiver in his hands, as if she can crumble if he’s won’t be careful. It’s almost too much for him, but Lando manages to pull out just in time, watching as her release coats his throbbing length, as she shudders through the aftershocks.

“Yeah,” he breaths, running a hand up and down her thigh. “Such a good girl, baby. Let it all out.”

She slumps back against the table, panting inside the helmet, her body overly sensitive. Keeping his eyes on her, Lando gives himself a few slow strokes, exhaling hard through his nose; he’s so close it’s painful.

“You okay?” he asks her, his voice as hoarse as if he screamed for hours at a concert.

Slowly coming back to her senses, she exhales sharply, “I’m good,” she manages and, before she gets the chance to ask him the same question, Lando slaps her thigh in order to catch her attention.

“Down on your knees, then. Come on,” he rasps, guiding the girl to her knees, his patience wearing out quickly, as he tilts her chin up with two fingers.

The glow of the light catches on the sleek surface of the helmet, and something about it — about her like this, still catching her breath, still his — makes his stomach flip.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the edge of the visor as he grips the helmet gently. “Obedient little thing.”

She doesn’t speak — can’t, really — just watches him through the darkened shield, completely at his mercy.

Lando’s breathing stutters as he pumps himself faster, the tension coiling tight in his core. “Gonna make a mess of you, yeah?” he asks, mostly rhetorically. “Right there on my—”

He barely manages a breath before the orgasm crashes into him, blinding and all-consuming. His grip tightens, a sharp groan breaking free as heat pulses through him, spilling in thick streaks across the dark visor. Each of his breath is shaky, his mind fogged with pleasure and a sudden possessiveness.

She stays still, letting him ruin the helmet just like he ruined her, and the sight leaves him dizzy.

His fingers twitch as he pushes sweat-damp curls from his forehead, exhaling a laugh, wrecked and breathless. The sound of it fills the space, mixing with the muffled hum of voices just beyond the walls. But all Lando can hear is the quiet, pleased sigh that leaves her lips, her fingers scratching against her thighs, as if she wants to touch him, as if she wants to taste him.

His stomach clenches at the thought, the aftershocks leaving him lightheaded, wrecked in a way he’s never felt before. He exhales sharply, looking down at her, at his helmet, at what he’s done.

Then, Lando’s fingers are flexing against her head before he finally loosens his grip, running a slow thumb over the mess he’s made.

“Hell,” he pants, still catching his breath. Then, softer, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “Might have to fuck you like this more often.”

She exhales a quiet, amused breath, tilting her head slightly. “Guess that means I’m actually keeping it.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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