now toji knew he was dating a freak, i mean you were down to try almost anything in the book.
but he didn’t know you were this freaked out.
you were both sprawled on the couch watching a movie. a classic typical date night right? wrong. you had something up your sleeve you wanted to pull for a very long time but you never knew how to bring it up to toji.
so what did you do?
you just did it on your own!
you stood up from the couch and bent down in front of him, nuzzling your cheek against the side of his meaty thighs, “hey— what’re you doing?”
“shh.. just let me.” you whispered before slightly pulling down his boxers until his soft dick jumped out. wasting no time, you quickly grabbed the base of his dick and put it in your mouth, fondling his balls with your other hand.
“fuckin’ slut— if you wanted this dick, should’ve just— fuckk— said somthin.” he growled, tilting his head back on the couch. you watched his facial expressions as you felt his dick harden inside of your mouth. with each bob of your head, it grew harder and longer.
you could tell he was secretly enjoying this. it all felt so dirty. his girl on her knees sucking his soft cock until it grew. “mm yeah bitch—“ he groaned, “take that fat fuckin’ cock like you’re meant to.”
he suddenly bucked his hips up, matching your speed while fucking his cock roughly into your mouth. he watches with teary eyes as you slobber your drool and spit all over his shaft.
“fuuck baby you’re gonna kill me” he whines, eyes crossed and legs twitching, he was obviously close. “aww— you gonna come ji’? be a good boy and cum down my throat.”
and with that, he roughly grips the back of your head and pushes you down, shooting white ropes straight down your throat, causing you to choke a little. “fuckfuckfuck i love you.”
you pulled back breathless, “you almost killed me from suffocation.”
he let out a slight grin before lifting you from the floor onto his lap, “yeah? well, we’re not done yet baby. finish what you started.”
it's become a running joke in the daily planet that clark kent has a girlfriend.
i mean, are we even talking about the same guy? clark kent, the one who habitually slouches in his chair, making himself look shorter than the six feet three inches brute he is.
clark kent who drops objects, trips over his own feet or stumbles into furniture. the clark kent who has poorly-fitting clothes which don't do any justice to the figure underneath and with thick-rimmed glasses that mask his facial expressions and eye colour that looks a little too similar to superman's if anyone ever thought twice about it.
he bought it up when lois was talking about her current boyfriend and she asked if anyone else had any partners. "yeah, me and my girlfriend have been dating for a few years now." he said with undiluted pride.
clark will always recall the way the whole room went quiet. jimmy had blinked like he had something in his eye as he squinted. even lois, who wasn't even looking at clark swung her entire head towards him. perry, who had secretly been eaves-dropping the entire time, nearly dropped the coffee he was making.
"girlfriend." jimmy repeated, fucking gawking.
clark turned a shade scarlet. "yes, my girlfriend."
"what's her name?" lois asked.
"y/n."
"pretty name," jimmy said after some silence.
"yeah, she's an extraordinarily pretty girl."
there was some silence again before perry moved over and slapped clark so sharply against his back that the poor man almost flinched. "crude sense of humour, boy, but i appreciate the effort."
clark hadn't even managed to scrounge up a wrinkled eyebrow and a question forming around his lips before the room dispersed. mainly, he presumed, to talk about the confident "joke" he had just made.
that night, when he comes home to you, the shy, farmer boy facade wiped off completely, he slides next to you in the bedsheets as you nestle against his bicep.
"how was work today?" you ask.
"good." after some silence where you just run your hand over his face, he adds, "they don't believe me."
"about?"
"us. that i have you."
you laugh, resting your cheek against his skin as you look up at him. "really?" he nods, brushing his fingers against your cheek. but you don't think much about it.
clark, on the other hand? well, he tries not to, but it's pretty hard when jimmy slides by him the next day and prods him a little too hard in the ribs and makes a joke about saying you have a woman just because you want them.
nor does lois, who talks to jimmy again about it and talks a little bit too loud about her partner.
"i'm not lying," clark says a little aggressively, the next week, at lunch, through gritted teeth as another jab is once again made. "i have a girlfriend."
"sure." perry says without missing a beat, stirring his coffee. "and you're superman."
well.
after about a few months of this banter, clark asks you to walk him to the daily planet that morning with his said reasons, and you're more than happy to obey.
when lois spots clark standing next to you, she thinks for a second that he's helping a very pretty lost woman even despite their proximity.
until he bends down and kisses you.
lois's jaw drops open as she swivels her head to perry, who seems to be seeing the same thing.
"am i? am i?" perry blinks, coffee long abandoned.
clark tries to act nonchalant about it while he introduces you to them, hand around your waist. and when jimmy appears, seeing you extend your hand to your lois while clark's nose is close to your temple which he can't even pass as friendship, well he almost faints.
oh, just wait until they found about who clark really was.
Pairing: popular!ni-ki x popular!fem!reader
Genre: oneshot, smut MDNI, fuck buddies, college!au
Synospsis: You two like to party in Calabasas and fuck like there’s no tomorrow, but on campus you both are strangers. Young wild and free, why overthinking when you can just have fun, right? No string attached…right?
Warnings: unprotected!sex, swearing, drugs, alcohol, spanking (I know he’s into that), oral (m!rec), handjob, backshots, cowgirl (ride till you die), facial, chocking
WC: 5k
Note: Our boy Ni-ki visibly won for this poll 🥳 pls look forward to the others I have in stock!!! (Some might be longer than others)
The walk-in closet is a sanctuary of excessively expensive clothes, illuminated by soft recessed lighting that makes the marble floors gleam. Your friends are scattered across the space. Giselle perched on the velvet ottoman, scrolling through her phone with one perfectly manicured hand, Karina and Ningning debating the merits of two different designer bags while sipping what looks like ridiculously expensive tequila straight from the bottle.
"So," Giselle begins, not looking up from her phone, "are we still pretending that whatever's happening with Ni-ki is just casual?"
You pause mid-application of your mascara, meeting your own eyes in the three-panel mirror. "There is no whatever happening with Ni-ki. We're acquaintances who occasionally breathe the same air at the same parties."
Ningning snorts from behind you. "Girl, please. Last Saturday, you both disappeared for forty-five minutes, and when you came back, you were walking funny and his belt was unbuckled."
"That's called having a good time," you reply coolly, finishing your mascara with a precise flick. "It doesn't mean we're picking out china patterns."
"But do you want it to?" Karina asks softly, her voice cutting through the playful banter. "Pick out china patterns, I mean."
You turn to face them fully, your expression carefully neutral despite the way your pulse has quickened. "Ni-ki is a walking red flag wrapped in a six-foot-two package of daddy issues and impulse control problems. I'm not looking to get attached to someone who probably has a different girl's scent on his sheets every night of the week. And nonchalant men are not my type…"
The lie tastes bitter, even to you. The truth is that you've started replaying your encounters in your mind at odd moments: during boring lectures, while shopping on Rodeo Drive, even during sessions with your therapist. The way his hands feel on your skin, how he smells like expensive cologne and something uniquely him, the sound of his breath catching in your ear.
"Ready or not, we need to go," Giselle declares, standing up and smoothing her top. "This party is supposedly next level."
Twenty minutes later, you're sliding into the driver's seat of your Porsche Taycan, the engine coming to life with a futuristic hum that vibrates through your body. The neon lights of Beverly Hills blur past as you accelerate onto the freeway, your friends' excited chatter mixing with the bass-heavy playlist streaming through the premium sound system.
The drive to Calabasas passes in a haze of gossip and speculation about tonight's party, supposedly hosted by some tech billionaire's son who's trying to make a name for himself as a party promoter. When you finally turn onto the private road that winds up into the hills, the villa appears like something out of a music video, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling glass that spills warm light onto the meticulously landscaped grounds.
The bass hits you before you even step out of the car, a deep, rhythmic pulse that seems to match the thrumming of your own heart. The circular driveway is already packed with an impressive collection of luxury vehicles, valet attendants scurrying to make room for your Porsche.
As you approach the entrance, the massive glass doors slide open to reveal a scene of controlled chaos under coloured lights. Bodies move in sync with the music, drinks flow from multiple bars scattered throughout the open-concept space, and the air hangs thick with expensive perfume and something vaguely herbal that definitely isn't tobacco.
You're immediately swept into a tide of greetings, air kisses, casual hugs, people grabbing your hands to pull you deeper into the party. But your eyes are already scanning the crowd, searching without admitting even to yourself that you're searching.
And then you find him.
He's standing near the infinity pool that seems to spill into the valley below, surrounded by his usual entourage but somehow still separate from everyone else. Ni-ki wears a white tank top just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbones and the silver chain that rests against his chest. His dark hair falls artfully across his forehead, and when he laughs at something someone says, his entire face transforms in a way that makes your stomach clench.
Welcome to the party - PARTYNEXTDOOR playing now
As if sensing your gaze, he turns. Your eyes lock across the crowded room, and suddenly the noise fades to a dull roar. The air between you crackles with electricity, thick with memories of tangled sheets and muffled cries and the way he tastes like whiskey and sin. You watch as his eyes darken, as his jaw tightens slightly while he drinks you in, the backless dress that reveals the delicate line of your spine, the way your hips sway when you move, the confidence in your stance that masks the trembling of your hands.
Your friends have noticed the exchange, exchanging knowing glances that you pointedly ignore. Instead, you accept a bottle of vodka your friend offers you, taking a deliberate sip as you maintain eye contact. The warm liquid does nothing to quench the fire building low in your belly.
Ni-ki says something to his friends, then pushes off the railing. He moves through the crowd with an easy grace that draws every eye, but his path is unwavering. Straight toward you.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as he approaches, each step narrowing the distance between you. You can smell his cologne before he reaches you, that expensive, woody scent that always clings to your sheets after he leaves, that you can't quite wash out no matter how many times you change them.
He stops just before you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that no one could possibly doubt the intimacy that hangs between you. His eyes sweep over you again, slower this time, more deliberate. When they meet yours again, they're dark with hunger.
"Welcome to the party," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. The words are innocent enough, but his tone is anything but. It's a promise, a warning, a prelude to what will come later when the crowds thin and inhibitions dissolve completely.
Before you can respond, he's turning away with that knowing smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously. He rejoins his friends, but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder, a look that says "we both know how this night will end."
You take another sip from the bottle. Your friends are watching you with questions in their eyes, but you ignore them, your gaze fixed on the man across the room who already owns your body, if not your heart.
The night is young, but you both know how it will end.
The villa pulses with life, a living organism fueled by bass, alcohol, and unspoken desires. The air hangs thick with the sweet scent of marijuana mixing with the rich aroma of expensive cognac, creating an intoxicating cocktail that dulls inhibitions and sharpens senses in equal measure. Bodies move in sync with the music, a sea of designer clothes and perfect smiles hiding the raw humanity beneath.
You find yourself in a secluded corner of the massive living room, a small velvet pouch in your hand. Your friends huddle around you as you carefully pour its contents onto the glass table, tiny crystalline rocks that glitter under the ambient lighting. With practiced precision, you crush them, then arrange the powder into neat lines.
"You're not holding back tonight," Karina observes, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and excitement.
"Never do," you reply with a wink, pulling a rolled bill from your clutch. "Life's too short for half measures."
As you lean forward, a familiar warmth spreads through your veins. The first line hits you almost immediately, a rush that makes your heart race and your senses sharpen. Colors seem brighter, the music more vivid, every touch more electric. You lean back against the velvet sofa, a contented sigh escaping your lips as the drug courses through your system.
Across the room, Ni-ki moves with a predatory grace that draws every eye. He's dancing now, his body swaying to the rhythm in a way that's both hypnotic and utterly sinful. A glass of amber liquid, cognac, you note, rests in his hand, but he barely touches it. His attention is elsewhere, his eyes scanning the crowd until they find yours.
The connection is immediate, electric. Even from across the room, you feel it, that undeniable pull that's been your undoing time and time again. His gaze is heavy, possessive, promising all the wicked things he plans to do to you later tonight. You hold his stare, refusing to be the first to look away, a silent challenge passing between you.
"Drinking game!" someone shouts, breaking the spell. "Never have I ever!"
Your group and Ni-ki's merge around the coffee table, the space suddenly feeling too small with him so close. The rules are simple: take a drink for every "never have I ever" that you've actually done. As the game progresses, the questions become increasingly risqué, the laughter louder, the inhibitions lower.
Then it's your turn. You stand up slowly, deliberately, every eye in the circle on you. "Never have I ever…" you begin, your voice huskier than usual, "…fucked with someone here."
Silence falls over the group as they process your words. Ni-ki's eyes narrow, but a smirk follows just after. You meet his gaze directly as you pick up the bottle of Rémy Martin XO, pouring a generous amount into your glass. Without breaking eye contact, you walk around the table to stand before him.
"Open up," you command.
For a moment, you think he might refuse. But then his lips part slightly. You take a sip from your glass and lean in, pressing your mouth to his. The cognac flows from your mouth to his, a warm sensation pooling into your body. His tongue meets yours, briefly, tangentially, sending a jolt of electricity through your entire body. When you pull back, a single drop of liquid escapes, tracing a path down his chin.
You watch his throat work as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. His eyes have darkened to almost black, pupils dilated with desire. When he shifts in his seat, you notice the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of his jeans. The knowledge that you've affected him so profoundly, so quickly, sends a thrill of power through you.
"Your turn," you say with a smirk, returning to your seat as if nothing happened.
The game continues, but the dynamic has shifted. Every glance from Ni-ki now carries a new weight, a promise of retribution. Throughout the night, he tries to get you alone, catching your arm as you pass by, whispering invitations in your ear as you refill your drink, but each time, you slip away with a playful laugh, enjoying the game too much to let it end.
"Such a tease," Giselle observes with a knowing smile as you reject yet another of Ni-ki's attempts to lure you away from the group.
"Someone has to keep him on his toes," you reply, taking another sip of your drink.
Later, as you step out onto the terrace to get some air, you feel him behind you before you hear him. The night air is cool against your heated skin, the city lights twinkling in the distance like fallen stars.
"I've been trying to get you alone all night," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you.
"Have you now?" you reply, turning to face him. "I hadn't noticed."
His response is to crowd you against the railing, his body flush against yours. The metal is cool against your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him. His hands grip the railing on either side of you, caging you in.
"Don't play innocent," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. "You knew exactly what you were doing in there."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, even as your body responds to his proximity.
His lips crash against yours, hungry, demanding, punishing. There's nothing gentle about this kiss, it's all teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that you're both determined to win. His hands move from the railing to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel his hardness pressing against you, undeniable and insistent.
You try to push him away, but your hands betray you, fisting in his shirt instead of pushing. When he deepens the kiss, a soft moan escapes your lips, giving him the advantage he needs.
"You can't tease me all night and expect to walk away," he says against your mouth, his breath hot and urgent. "You started this, and now you're going to finish it."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you repeat, though the words lack conviction.
His response is to kiss you again, one hand moving from your waist to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place as his other hand traces the curve of your hip. When his thumb brushes against the sensitive skin just below your ribs, you shudder, your body arching into his touch.
"See?" he murmurs with a triumphant smirk. "Your body knows exactly what I'm talking about, even if you won't admit it."
Before you can respond, he's leading you away from the party, through a sliding glass door and down a dimly lit hallway. Your mind is screaming at you to stop, to turn back, but your body follows willingly, eagerly. The game is over, and you both know who won.
"You can't run from this," he says as he pushes open a door to what appears to be a guest bedroom. "Not tonight."
As the door closes behind you, blocking out the music and laughter, you realize with a thrill of anticipation that he's right. You can't run from this, not anymore.
The guest bedroom is luxurious, neutral tones, plush carpeting, and a king-sized bed that looks big enough to get lost in. The only light comes from the city filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in a silvery glow that makes the scene feel almost dreamlike.
Ni-ki closes the door with a soft click, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. He turns to face you, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"You took quite a bit tonight," he observes, his voice low. "Trying to take the edge off?"
"Something like that," you reply, your own voice sounding breathier than you'd intended.
He takes a step closer, invading your personal space. "If you needed to take the edge off, you could've just sucked my dick. Much healthier alternative."
You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips despite the rapid beating of your heart. "I don't suck dick first. That's not how this works."
His response is immediate, a hand tangling in your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you gasp. "Tonight, you do."
There's no room for argument in his tone, no room for negotiation. He guides you to your knees, the plush carpet cushioning them as you look up at him. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with a hunger that mirrors your own.
"You know what to do," he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
You reach for his belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle. When you finally free him, he's already hard, straining against the fabric of his boxers. You pull them down, and his cock springs free, thick and erect, the tip glistening with precum.
Without further preamble, you take him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around his cock as your tongue works its magic. You've done this before, many times, but tonight feels different, more charged with unspoken emotions.
"Fuck, that's it," he groans, his hips bucking slightly. "Take it all, just like that. You look so fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth."
His dirty talk has always been part of the game, but tonight it feels more personal, more pointed. Each word is designed to provoke, to arouse, to claim.
"Such a greedy little mouth," he continues, his hand still tangled in your hair, guiding your movements. "You love this, don't you? Love being on your knees for me, love the way I taste."
You respond by taking him deeper, by hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder, by using every trick you've learned to drive him wild. His breathing becomes ragged, his grip on your hair tightening as he approaches his release.
"Gonna cum all over that pretty face," he warns, his voice strained. "Just the way you like."
True to his word, when he comes, he pulls out just in time, his hot release splashing across your cheeks, your lips, your chin. Before you can react, he's gently slapping his dick against your face, smearing his cum into your skin, taunting and teasing you in the most filthy way possible.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "All messy with my cum. Fucking beautiful."
Instead of wiping it away, you scoop some of his release onto your fingers, bringing them to your mouth and sucking them clean. The action is deliberate, provocative, and it has the exact effect you intended, Ni-ki's eyes darken with renewed desire.
"Get on the bed," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Ride me."
You comply, stripping off your dress with practiced efficiency before climbing onto the bed. He follows, rolling on a condom with practiced ease before lying back, his cock standing at attention.
"Take what you want," he says, his eyes challenging you.
You straddle him, positioning yourself above his erection before sinking down slowly, savoring the stretch as he fills you completely. A soft moan escapes your lips as you begin to move, finding a rhythm that's both punishing and pleasurable.
"Look at you," you taunt, leaning forward slightly to change the angle. "So desperate for me, so hard for me already. Does it feel good, Ni-ki? Being inside me like this?"
"Shut up and ride," he retorts, though his eyes betray his arousal.
The room falls silent then, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the wet sounds of your bodies moving together. His hands roam your body, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, before moving upward to cup your breasts. His thumbs brush against your nipples, and you arch into his touch, a gasp escaping your lips.
His hand continues its upward journey, wrapping around your throat in a grip that's firm but not painful. The slight pressure sends a jolt of electricity through you, intensifying every sensation. Your eyes meet his, and the intensity you see there takes your breath away, lust, frustration, desire, something deeper that you're not ready to name.
"You like that, don't you?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like when I take control, like being this little slut just for me."
Instead of responding, you slide his fingers from your throat into your mouth, sucking them with the same enthusiasm you'd shown his cock earlier. The action earns you a smirk, a small acknowledgment of the game you're both playing.
The tension builds, coiling low in your belly, tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, intense and overwhelming, your body shaking with the force of it. You cry out his name, your movements becoming erratic as pleasure courses through you.
But Ni-ki isn't done. As you come down from your high, he flips you over, entering you from behind in one smooth thrust. His hand comes down on your ass with a sharp smack that makes you gasp.
"Put in that work," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "You can do better than that, show me."
You comply, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal force. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he drives into you again and again, deeper and harder with each thrust.
"Fuck," he pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. "So fucking perfect, taking me so well. Gonna fill this condom, thinking about how it should be you instead."
The thought sends another wave of pleasure through you, and you push back harder, desperate for more. His movements become more frantic, more desperate, until with a final thrust, he comes, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a moment, you both remain still, bodies tangled together, breathing heavily in the aftermath. Then, slowly, he pulls out, disposing of the condom before collapsing onto the bed beside you.
You turn to look at him, and for the first time, you see something other than lust in his eyes, something softer, more vulnerable, that terrifies you as much as it intrigues you.
Without a word, you reach for your dress, needing to create distance before this encounter changes everything.
Just as your fingers close around the silk of your dress, a hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist with surprising strength. Ni-ki. Before you can process what's happening, he's pulling, dragging you back onto the bed with a soft thud. Your dress slips from your grasp, forgotten on the floor.
"Where do you think you're going?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your very bones. His eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, roam over your naked body with a possessiveness that makes your breath catch.
"The night's over, Ni-ki," you say, though your voice lacks conviction. Your body, traitorous thing, already responds to his proximity, to the heat radiating from his skin.
"Not yet," he counters, his free hand moving to rest on your stomach. "Spit on my hand."
The request catches you off guard, so unexpected and crude that you can't help but laugh. "What?"
"You heard me," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "Spit. On. My. Hand."
Confused but undeniably curious, you comply. You gather saliva in your mouth and let it drip onto his waiting palm. The act is strangely intimate, more so than anything you've done together before. He brings his hand to his already half-hard cock, using your saliva as lubrication as he begins to stroke himself, slowly, deliberately.
"God, that's better," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. "So much fucking better."
You watch, mesmerized, as his hand moves up and down his length, his grip tightening with each stroke. The sight is obscene, beautiful, and it sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"I want to go raw," he whispers, his voice ragged with desire. "No condom this time. Just me, just you, nothing between us."
The request hangs in the air between you, dangerous and tempting. You know you should say no, that this crosses a line you've carefully maintained between you. But the thought of feeling him completely, skin to skin, is too intoxicating to resist.
"Beg for it," you challenge, a smirk playing on your lips.
His eyes snap open, locking with yours. For a moment, you think he might refuse, that his pride will get the better of him. But then he speaks, his voice raw with need.
"Please," he begins, his hand still moving on his cock. "It's been too long since we went raw. I need to feel you, all of you. Need to be inside you with nothing between us. I want to creampie you, fill you up until you're dripping with me. Please, Y/N. Let me."
The desperation in his voice, the raw vulnerability he's showing, is your undoing. You laugh, a soft, breathy sound that's equal parts amusement and arousal, but you comply. You spread your legs, your hand moving between them to prepare yourself for him, your fingers sliding easily through your wetness.
"Good girl," he murmurs, positioning himself above you. "So fucking good for me."
He enters you slowly, savoring the stretch as he fills you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, hot, intense, utterly perfect. You've had sex countless times, but this feels different, more intimate, more real.
"Fuck," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel so good. So fucking tight and wet for me."
As he begins to move, you notice something different, something that sets this night apart from all the others. For the first time, he's vocal. Not just grunts and heavy breathing, but actual moans, sounds of pleasure that escape his lips with each thrust.
"Oh god, yes," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic. "Right there. Don't stop. You’re clenching around me so good."
You're loving this, loving the sounds he's making, the way he's losing control with you. It's empowering, intoxicating, and it makes you feel more desired than ever before.
"Someone's feeling vocal tonight," you tease, your hands gripping his shoulders. "You sure you didn't take too many drugs? You're not yourself at all."
His response is immediate and overwhelming. He captures your lips in a kiss that's less about romance and more about possession, a messy, obscene meeting of tongues and teeth that leaves you breathless and wanting more. It's the kind of kiss that says "you're mine" without needing words.
The kiss deepens, becomes more desperate as your bodies move together in a rhythm as old as time. The tension builds, coiling low in your belly, tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, intense and overwhelming, your body shaking with the force of it. You cry out his name, your nails digging into his back as pleasure courses through you.
He follows moments later, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You feel him pulse inside you, a warm flood that fills you completely, marking you in the most satisfying way possible.
For a long moment, you both remain still, bodies tangled together, breathing heavily in the aftermath. Then, slowly, he collapses onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms. Normally, this would be your cue to leave, to reestablish the boundaries between you. But tonight, you stay, letting his warmth surround you as exhaustion claims you both.
The next morning, you wake first. The sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the room in a golden glow. Ni-ki lies beside you, still asleep, his features relaxed in a way you rarely see when he's awake. As you carefully extract yourself from his arms, he stirs, his eyes fluttering open.
"Morning," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and hangover. He reaches for you, pulling you back against him. "Stay. Cuddle more."
You laugh, squirming in his embrace. "Some of us have classes to attend, unlike certain trust fund babies who can sleep all day."
"Sass me one more time and I'll make you late," he threatens, though there's no real heat in his words. He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I'll walk you to class."
The offer catches you off guard, so casual yet so significant. You turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And why would you do that?"
He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but you can see the vulnerability in his eyes. "Just thought it would be nice."
You look at him, truly look at him, and you see what he's trying so hard to hide, fear, hope, desire for something more than what you currently have. Something inside you softens, something you've kept carefully guarded until now.
"If you want to be less casual, you just have to man up and say it," you tell him, your voice softer than you intended.
He meets your gaze, his expression serious for once. "I want to fuck exclusively," he says, the words blunt but clear. "Just you, just me. No one else."
It's his way of asking for exclusivity without actually saying the words "let's date," without making himself too vulnerable. It's so typically Ni-ki, prideful and indirect yet somehow endearingly honest.
You consider his proposal, weighing the pros and cons in your mind. On one hand, exclusivity with Ni-ki is a terrifying prospect, a complication you've carefully avoided until now. On the other hand, the thought of him with someone else makes your stomach clench with an emotion you're not ready to name.
"Okay," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "Exclusively it is."
A slow smile spreads across his face, genuine and unguarded. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirm, leaning in to kiss him. "But don't think this means you're getting cuddles every morning."
His laugh is warm and genuine, and for the first time, you allow yourself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this arrangement between you might become something more.
Flying the Nest - Cooperative Parenting (Epilogue)
[Re9 Dad!Leon x fem!Reader]
Warnings: fluff with a little bit of smut, slice of life, mentions of pregnancy, tw!calorie counting, dad!Leon, married!Leon
Summary: Set fourteen years after the events of Cooperative Parenting, but can be read as a stand-alone pre RE9 Dad!Leon oneshot. Just pure domestic fluff, a little bit of smut. Slice of life with the chaotic Kennedys. Leon and Reader are both early 40s in this. 🌹
Masterlist
word count: 3.1k
Muscles were rippling under taut skin, droplets of sweat trickling down, being lapped up by the crevices emerging with every flowing movement.
How Lottie didn’t get caught up in the athletic and technical demands of ballet and forget about her facial expressions was beyond you. Somehow she managed to make it look easy, relaxing, like she was a fairy dancing in a field of flowers.
Your eldest was like a perfectly trained government agent: highly focused, executing every movement with the utmost skill, using her body as a weapon. Out of all your children, she was the one most like Leon.
The music stopped and you wiped away the tears that had formed in the corner of your eyes, clapping your hands in applause.
Lottie, out of breath, let herself sink down from the tips of her pointe shoes and walked up to you. “Thank you, mom.”
You pulled her into a hug. “I’m so proud of you. I don’t know if I tell you that enough.”
She chuckled. “You do. All the time.”
You squeezed her tighter. “Good. Because that’s my job.”
Lottie shook her head. “You’re so much more than that,” she whispered. “And you need to let me go, I‘m sweaty as hell.“
'Letting go' had been your trigger word recently. You inhaled Lottie‘s scent. Your little girl. All grown up. If you thought about it for too long, you would burst into tears again like every other night ever since she had signed the contract with the American Contemporary Ballet.
“I’m just not ready,” you had sobbed into Leon’s chest. “When I look at her, all I see is my baby.”
Lottie slipped out of your embrace, sinking down into the splits on the floor, stretching out her legs.
“Mom, can you pass me my bag?”
You did as requested and she rummaged for a gatorade and a granola bar. She also took out a notebook and a pen, checking the labels on her food and scribbling numbers onto the paper.
“You know, I would really like it if you stopped doing that,” you said, sitting down beside her.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m counting calories to make sure I eat enough to maintain my weight, mom. I’m not trying to lose any.”
You sighed. "Are you sure?"
She looked at you like you had lost your mind, demonstratively stretching her upper body down to cup the soles of her foot.
“I worked really hard for the perfect ratio between weight and muscle so I can throw my leg up as quickly and as elegantly as possible. I’m not giving that up. Especially not with performance season approaching.”
You grimaced. Lottie was being too hard on herself. Also exactly like Leon. Sometimes when you looked at your daughter, you saw him, twenty-one and determined to be the best cop the world had ever seen. You certainly hoped the American Contemporary Ballet in Los Angeles wasn’t anything like Raccoon City.
“Are you nervous?”
She crinkled her nose. “A little. New city and all that. I also hear the ACB runs a tight ship. We’ll see.”
“Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back,” you offered, not entirely selflessly maybe.
“Mom, you have to let me go,” Lottie said, smiling at you. “I’m the same age you were when you had me.”
You blew out a breath. That was insane. To think you were Lottie's age when you had your first baby. You had felt young then, but seeing your daughter at that age made you realise how young you really were.
“But I did a good job,” you murmured. “I did, right?”
Lottie smiled. “Yeah, you did. And you still are. Even though Ollie is a handful.”
“He’s fourteen. Being a teenage boy is hard,” you defended him.
Lottie scribbled in her notebook. “I know, he’s making it everybody else’s problem too.”
Back home, Leon was filling up a plastic tub of cold water and dumped a whole bunch of ice cubes in there.
You were fixing yourself a snack, while Lottie was sitting at the kitchen table, patiently waiting for her father to ice her feet. Anytime you told Leon he was spoiling his daughters, he would just shrug it off, smiling.
“You know, if I didn’t know you have an IUD, I would get really worried right now,” he murmured, pointing his chin at your peanut butter, pickle and bacon sandwich.
You shot him a dirty look. “Don’t yuck my yum.” You searched the counter top. “Where’s the mayo? Did you get new mayo?”
“I did get mayo.” He chuckled, carrying the plastic tub over to Lottie. “It’s in the fridge.”
She hissed when her feet hit the ice water.
“Is that good, or do you need more ice?” Leon asked, looking up at her.
She shook her head, holding on to his shoulders. “No, that's just the right amount of painful, thank you.”
You closed the fridge. “Leon, you did not get mayo.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “I 100% did.”
“Alright, then why is there no mayo in the fridge?” you asked.
Lottie faked a gag. “Oh god, please don’t let it be Ollie. I don’t want to know what use a teenage boy could have for mayo.”
As if on call, your son walked into the kitchen.
“Ollie, did you take the mayo?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Why would I take the mayo?” he asked, voice breaking.
“I don’t know, probably for some gross stuff,” Lottie murmured.
“Lottie,” Leon warned. “Leave your brother alone.”
“Why am I the gross one? Your messed up feet are just out here in the open,” Ollie exclaimed, voice breaking even harder. "Blisters and everything."
“They’re dancer’s feet,” Lottie shouted. “And they’re more skilled than any part of you ever will be.”
“Guys,” Leon said, stepping between the two. “It’s Lottie’s last weekend with us before she leaves for California. Can we not do that? Can we remember that we all like each other?”
“I guess,” Ollie said, brushing his fringe out of his face. “If she stops being such a pain in the ass.”
You clicked your tongue scoldingly. “Tell your sister you love her. In this house we don’t fight before people leave for a long time.”
Ollie grumbled, sitting down at the table as well. “Love you, I guess.”
“Love you too, sometimes,” Lottie replied, accepting an ice pack from Leon to put on her knees.
Your husband sighed, looking at you for advice. You shrugged. Close enough, you guessed.
“Mom, are you pregnant again?” Ollie asked, looking at your sandwich.
Leon snorted.
You narrowed your eyes on him. “You know, I feel like you of all people should be really quiet when it comes to pregnancy jokes, Leon.”
“You were there too, right? At least that’s what I remember,” he murmured, pulling you into a hug from behind and kissing you on the cheek.
“Ew, this whole family is so gross,” Ollie whined, burying his face in his hands. Lottie kicked him under the table.
“I’m Oliver and I have the hardest life of all hard lives because my parents love each other,” Lottie said, imitating the timbre of her brother’s voice, it cracking and everything.
He kicked her back.
“Stop,” you hissed. “I’m being serious.”
Your youngest daughter, Alva, the only one of your children you had actually planned for, came walking into the kitchen, mayo jar in hand.
“Alva, what were you doing with the mayo?” Leon asked over your shoulder.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Nothing?”
She opened the fridge to put it back, but you snatched it from her grasp unscrewing the top, checking the inside.
“That ‘nothing’ sounds suspicious,” you said, raising an eyebrow at her.
She gnawed on her lower lip. “It’s the only material that mimics the behaviour of plasma” she whispered. “I was doing research on the Rayleigh-Taylor instability.”
You blew out a long breath, exchanging a look with Leon.
“Alva, what did I tell you about nuclear fusion research?” he said, face stern.
She crinkled her nose, looking an awful lot like her older sister. “I know. But my curiosity is a gift, remember?”
“All of our children are insane and I blame you,” Leon whispered into your ear, before taking the mayo from your hands.
It was early enough in the morning that nobody in the house was awake yet. Especially not on a Saturday.
Nobody except you and Leon. But that was calculated. Because after three children, if you wanted to have sex with your husband, there were very limited time slots available to you.
Saturday morning was by far your favourite one, because what better way to start your weekend than by having your face pressed into the mattress and your ass up, several inches of smoking hot husband pounding into you from behind.
“Leon,” you moaned.
“I know, baby,” he whispered, voice breaking into a helpless groan, picking up his pace.
You heard a crashing sound from downstairs. Followed by a “Mom!” from Ollie.
Leon brought your hips down, his chest flush against your back. Less skin slapping noises in this position. Being stealthy was a skill you had mastered by child number two.
“Ignore it,” he whispered, breath fanning the shell of your ear. “They’re old enough.”
He moaned and kept rutting into you, making you see stars.
“Oh fuck, Leon,” you whimpered, his hand coming up to clasp yours, both your wedding bands clinking against each other with every one of his thrusts. On your other hand, your engagement ring glinted in the dim light. The diamond on it was so big, you had been worried to wear it out at first. An entire check of hazard pay had been blown on that.
“You feel so good, baby,” Leon breathed, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and hitting every spot deep inside of you.
You arched your back, tilting your pelvis so he could fuck you even more deliciously and his pace faltered, breath hitching in his throat.
“Don’t stop, I’m so close,” you whined, a high pitched moan falling from your lips. Leon shushed you, muffling his own low groan by pressing his face into your neck.
Your walls fluttered around him, gripping him even tighter and he whimpered, pushing into you harder. You cried out and he pulled a pillow down for you to muffle your sounds in.
“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum,” he grunted and you turned your head to the side, meeting his gaze.
“Me too, you fuck me so good, I can’t—” the rest of your sentence turned into a loud moan, as you came apart. Leon pushed the pillow into your face, biting down on your neck to keep himself from announcing what you were doing to the entire house.
A loud, obnoxious knock on the door cut through the thick atmosphere of the room.
“Mom! Dad!” Lottie yelled. “Get out of bed and take care of the kids you decided to have. Just because I’m your oldest, doesn’t mean I’m a free babysitter.”
You and Leon were both fighting for your lives, as he spilled into you, twitching and helplessly pushing himself in deeper, as you rippled around him, losing any sense of where you were for a moment.
Another knock. “I’m being serious, your middle child is a lunatic. Get down to the kitchen.”
Her steps sounded on the stairs, as she ran down and you plied the pillow from your face.
“Holy fuck,” you panted. “That was close.”
Leon let go of your neck, also desperately trying to catch his breath. “No, that was amazing. You’re so hot.”
You bit your lip. After twenty years of being together, give or take, you expected you both to be less horny for each other. Nobody told you it would only get worse the longer you were married. Raising three children together also only made you fall more in love with Leon every day. It was insane. There was supposed to be a limit somewhere, right?
“You know, I think with Lottie moving away, we should send the other two somewhere, too. For like a weekend,” Leon said, nose softly brushing yours. "So you and I have some free time."
“To do what?” you asked, biting back a grin. You knew exactly why he wanted the kids out of the house. You just wanted to hear him say it.
“So I can bend you over every surface in this house, Mrs. Kennedy,” he murmured, trailing kisses along your jawline.
You chuckled, shimmying onto your back in his arms so you could face him properly and pulled him into an unrushed kiss. “I love when you call me that,” you whispered.
He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut. “I fucking love you, do you know that?”
You smiled. “I do.”
Leon’s hands cupped your breasts, running his thumbs over your pierced nipples. “I also love that you got these redone after Alva. Best decision you ever made.” He drew in a sharp breath and bent down to slip one of your nipples into his mouth.
You whimpered. Your boobs had been really sensitive lately. You were probably getting your period soon.
“Not the best decision I ever made,” you whispered, brushing a strand of blonde-grey hair out of his forehead.
“Oh yeah?” Leon said, voice muffled by your nipple. “Which one was the best then? Was it me?”
Another crashing sound from downstairs made you both flinch.
“I don’t know, maybe I should have reproduced with someone else. Our kids are clearly a danger to the public,” you sighed, waiting for the inevitable high pitched ‘Mom!’ to follow.
When it did, Leon buried his face in your chest. “I’ll go. You deserve a shower without anyone wanting something from you.”
“You know, I thought it would get easier once they were all out of elementary school,” you mused, massaging his scalp.
Leon shook his head, sinking deeper into your body, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. “It really doesn’t.”
“What's worse? Nightly feedings or teenagers?” you asked and Leon groaned.
“The terrible twos,” he concluded and pushed himself off of you.
You smiled knowingly. Deep down, you and Leon had loved every bit of it, temper tantrums, sleep or no sleep, all of it.
You rolled over to your side, shamelessly ogling your husband as he put on pyjama pants and a T-shirt. He had only been getting more attractive with age. His hair beginning to grey really did something to you.
You sighed, softly squeezing your breasts. After breastfeeding three children those were not the same, either. But Leon still couldn't get enough of them.
Anytime they would get tender before your period you wondered how much time you had left. It was funny, really. When you were young you hated getting your period, but now, likely hitting menopause in the next few years, it was almost something to be celebrated.
You bit your lip. “Would you ever do it all again?”
Leon looked at you, coming up to cup your cheek. "I'd love to but I doubt we have time for round two right now."
You shook your head. "That's not what I meant."
You thought about when all your kids were small: three year old Ollie barely reaching up to the kitchen table, while you were nursing baby Alva. And Lottie, standing on a chair, helping her father flip pancakes for Sunday breakfast.
"I meant..." You paused. "A baby."
Leon did a double take. "A baby? What do you mean 'a baby'? Another one?"
You shrugged. "Maybe? I don’t know. It’s just … it might be our last chance to have one. If we did want another."
Leon sighed. “Are you sure this isn’t about Lottie flying the nest?”
You gnawed on your lower lip. You had been really emotional about that lately.
Leon pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "Can you imagine getting up every two hours to take care of a newborn? Because I can't."
“Maybe you're right,” you whispered. "I don't know where this is coming from all of a sudden. I think with Lottie leaving I'm just feeling extra maternal."
"We had a good run." He nudged your nose with his. "And we have three perfect children."
Another scream from the kitchen. Alva this time. Lottie joined in, trying to mediate between her younger siblings.
"I am going to put you both in a headlock. Try me," she threatened.
Leon grimaced. "I take that back."
He let go and rushed downstairs.
You rolled back onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You really didn’t know where that had come from. Cognitively, you knew having another baby was probably a bad idea. You already had three and except Alva, they were pretty much out of the woods.
With Leon’s job especially, it would be a little unfair to bring another baby into this. You never knew if your domestic bliss would be abruptly cut short. Leon was happy he had been there for most of his kids’ milestones so far, a new baby might not get to enjoy all these things with their father.
Not to mention that conceiving at forty-two was probably not an easy feat either. What if you settled on it and then it just didn't happen? Or something went wrong during the pregnancy? Leon was right. It was good the way it was.
But emotionally, you kind of wanted to do it all again. Experience it one last time with Leon by your side.
This was only because your (not so) little girl was moving across the country. To the big city no less. Your worry probably got warped into something new along the way.
You felt a little queasy this morning, too. Maybe you were coming down with something and it all came to a head now.
You took a shower, enjoying the silence while Leon defused the crisis downstairs. You couldn’t have wished for a better husband. Whatever happened, Leon and you had always been one kick-ass team.
When you walked downstairs your whole family was sitting at the table already, Leon having somehow managed to bring peace into the chaos. Three perfect children. A perfect husband. The smell of coffee and toast in the morning. What more could you want? Your heart was already full.
If it weren't for that horrible sour smell that hit you as soon you sat down at the table.
“Coffee?” Leon asked and you nodded. A perfect life.
You took a sip from your cup and grimaced. “Did you not get milk yesterday?”
“I did get milk yesterday,” Leon said. “One grocery run with the mayo.”
Your forehead wrinkled and you pulled Alva’s half-eaten bowl of cereal out of reach. “Don’t eat that.” You pushed your cup over to Leon. “Smell that. Does that smell funny to you?”
Leon paused mid-chew and held your coffee to his nose, shrugging. He took a sip. “It’s fine, babe. It’s fresh milk.”
“It’s not, it’s sour,” you insisted and swallowed, drawing in a sharp breath as you felt your mouth salivate.
"Are you okay?" Leon asked and you shook your head, trying to figure out if you were about to throw up or not. Something wasn't right. This wasn't normal.
Leon took another sip from your coffee to make sure it was alright, just to choke on it.
Your hand flew to your mouth and you stared at him, eyes wide when you put two and two together.
“That’s impossible,” Leon rasped, battling asphyxiation. “You have an IUD.”
“Unless it dislodged,” you whispered.
Leon shook his head, desperately. “But you would feel that, right? I—I would feel that during sex?”
Ollie stopped chewing. “That is so gross.” He got up from the table, taking his bowl of cereal with him.
"Ollie, sit back down," Lottie said, pulling on his sleeve, but he yanked his arm away from her.
"I do not want to hear about mom and dad doing it. That's sick," he grumbled.
"What day is it today?" you asked Lottie, calculating.
"Saturday, the 17th," she replied.
Your head whipped around to Leon. "Oh my god."
"No." Leon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Leon, I..." you started.
"Wait, what's happening?" Alva looked between you and Leon, looking for someone to explain this to her.
Lottie burst into laughter.
"Why are you laughing?" Alva asked, annoyed that everybody was ignoring her.
"I think I'm late, hold on." You reached for your phone, checking your calendar. Did you log your last period?
"Ew," Ollie whined, pressing his palms to his ears. "You're over forty, why are you still doing it?"
Did you have your last period? Technically that should have been around the time Lottie had signed her contract with the American Contemporary Ballet. Emotions had been at an all time high, Ollie had been throwing a fit because you were discussing buying your daughter an apartment in LA. He was set on also getting one, even though that was ridiculous and he didn't need his own apartment at fourteen. Sibling rivalry at its best.
On top of that, Alva had been preparing for a science competition at school, turning your entire house into a lab whenever you turned your back to her. It had been absolute chaos.
And most importantly that had been about six weeks ago.
"No, you're not late." Leon rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're just not."
"I am," you concluded, breathlessly. You were more than late. Plus, getting all emotional and teary eyed whenever someone mentioned your oldest leaving? Sore breasts, wanting another baby all of a sudden—the nausea?
"It could be something else, right? Very early menopause maybe?" Leon tried and you knew he was listing off the exact same things in his head.
"Leon, I don't think it is," you whispered.
Lottie had a hard time breathing through her laughing fit. "Three times? Are you guys for real?"
synopsis: you are damian wayne's best friend, and your parents want you to get married. can you two best friends be more than just best friends?
tags: damian wayne x fem!reader ft. batfamily
A/N: i got very inspired by a kate and anthony dialogue from bridgerton. based on a request.
Damian Wayne does not do friendships.
The heir to the League and the Wayne family does not need a companion, platonic or otherwise. That is the consensus—the winning opinion that even his entire family agrees with.
At least, that was what Dick, Jason, Duke, and Tim thought for the longest time. At least, that was what Cassandra and Stephanie theorized, sharing those thoughts with Barbara whenever she was over at Wayne Manor. At least, that was what Bruce and Alfred were worried about.
But then came you.
You, who is quiet, kind, but not lacking in self-respect and ambition. You, who Gotham Academy sees as peculiar, uptight, but quietly smart. You, who are called a paradox by her parents for your fierceness wrapped in a softness they do not understand at all.
You, who Damian Wayne befriended.
And, Damian’s world transformed. It exploded with colour, soft-spoken conversations, late-night strolls, cherishing secrets, and shared happiness in goals, big or small.
The first indication that Damian valued you was when he willingly sought you out in class. He had never done that before, and the instructors, who are paid hefty salaries by the academy, noted it and brought it up with Bruce. Bruce, who arched an eyebrow at this development, brought it up over dinner.
It was casual. A simple question.
“You seem to have made a friend, Damian,” Bruce shared, gauging his son’s facial expressions at the same time.
Damian did not freeze. There was no show of any weakness, as he was trained to forego. But that slight tremor in his hand that was curled around the silver spoon he used did not go unnoticed. Not by Bruce. Not by Alfred. Not by anyone else.
Jason huffed like he didn’t care, but he did keep an eye on you, both on the Gotham Academy grounds and on nights when he patrolled. It was his way of saying that he saw what you meant to Damian. He cherished your safety from afar, because his little brother had someone—a friend, a companion, a support where he could simply be—and that was important. A truly unforgettable detail.
Dick grinned at Damian, softly teasing him about finally having a friend. He did give absolutely unwanted lessons on maintaining friendships 101, as if he had meaningful connections himself.
Tim made it a point not to react badly, but he did run an extensive background check on you. He knew your great grandma’s name, your second cousin’s credit score, and your parents’ estate attorney before Damian did, even before you did.
Bruce and Alftred tried to stay out of this so as not to cause Damian any discomfort. Bruce meddled enough, so he tried to stay still about this. And Alfred… he tried not to badger Damian about inviting you to the manor or taking homemade baked and cooked goods to school for you.
They all patiently waited. They noticed, took notes, and stood on the sidelines. And then one evening, you came over—the infamous friend, the mysterious companion, the person who signified something to Damian. You, with your backpack, uniform, and perfect hair, came over to study. It was a simple study session that ended up becoming a family dinner, with nosy—absolutely nosy siblings—and laughter.
Just like that, it became an unsaid truth that you are family, too.
Now, years later, you stand on the threshold of the manor, looking at the boy who became your best friend. You look at him with comfort, trust, and also pain.
Damian knows just by the look on your face that something is wrong. His first instinct is to question you and pry an answer from you as rapidly as he can, because he wants to fix whatever perturbs you.
But any patience that he exhibits is for you. He knows how easily you get overwhelmed, but never shows it. He also knows you trust him enough to show him how you are when you don’t pretend. It’s a privilege that he has, and the realization of it never fails to fill him with honour and a longing he refuses to give a truthful name to.
“How are you doing, Miss?” Alfred asks as you follow him into the dining room, with Damian right beside you.
You halfheartedly smile, making Alfred concerned as well. But you answer calmly, with the perfection you are taught and cling to as the perfect daughter of your parents. “I am fine, Alfred. Thank you. How are you?”
“I am delighted to have everyone under the same roof tonight,” Alfred says. “It is a rarity to have that these days.”
“Indeed.”
Damian says, “If you want Jason to grace his presence here often, you should tell him, Alfred. Why do I have to bear the brunt of your taunts?”
You laugh softly. “That was not a taunt.”
“It was,” Damian says, and you shake your head fondly. As always, when you both walk side by side, your arms are linked. The way Damian’s arm links with yours grounds him. It makes him remember he is Damian, just as much as he is an Al-Ghul and Wayne.
He feels a different type of duty when he stands next to you, an audacious and heartwarming one. It was debilitating to ponder it too much because this duty was so very unique in its creation. It was not cold, painful, or lonely. It didn’t have ties to or expectations from a legacy.
His duty to you simply came from that day he met you, trying to decipher what exactly you penned in your sleek blue notebook with such haste. Later on, he realized it was your planner, and you kept yourself busy to the brim all week. And something in him whispered—urged—to be there for you.
Caring for you is one of Damian’s purposes.
It makes him a better Robin selfishly. If he can selflessly devote his life to being a vigilante, because in that duty, Talia’s and Bruce’s love for him lives, then he can also selfishly devote himself to making Gotham safer for you. A safe Gotham keeps you safe. And Damian needs that with everything in him.
Sometimes, he finds himself agreeing with Jason over Gotham. Bloodshed was wrong in the life and values that Damian adopted. But retributive justice and fighting crime with blood did not sound horrid. It sounds like a consequence that would shake Gotham into discipline, but Damian also recognizes that the consequence would be short-lived. It would not protect you permanently, and with you, Damian always tries to find permanency. Always.
He looks back at you, as you sit beside him, playing with the silver fork in your hand, moving the rice around but not eating. His eyes narrow in displeasure at your quiet distress. It is noticeable not only to him but also to the entire family seated. Barbara, who is also visiting to spend some time with Dick and Cassandra, is exchanging a concerned look with Dick, perhaps wanting to do some detective work to get to the bottom of your silence.
Damian almost rolled his eyes. This family and its friends never quite communicate properly. It’s always tactics like these, and Damian understands it, because he himself is not good with words. Language is something sacred and unrelentingly difficult for him. He wants to use the same tactics with you right now, but he also does not want to resort to that. He wants you to speak to him like you always do, and Damian would wait if that is what you need.
Jason cleared his throat to speak, but Bruce beat him to it. Damian’s father looks at you, as your eyes are fixed on the plate perched before you. “Is everything alright?”
You look up at Bruce, dazed. You blink, processing his words. Then, you nod, smiling. “Everything’s alright, Bruce. Why do you ask?”
“You have not mentioned the book that Jason pestered you to read. You have not talked to Tim about work that you usually have many complaints about, and you certainly have not said anything about tonight’s menu to Alfred,” Damian speaks before Bruce can.
You look at Damian now, and you wince.
“Is something bothering you?” Jason questions, leaning forward, ready to tackle whatever your answer may be.
You shake your head. Bruce clears his throat, trying to be calm and supportive. “You can talk to us—all of us or one of us. We are… here.”
You lean back in your chair, your face a combination of a grimace and a polite smile. That alone is an indication that something is perturbing you, and the thing is that no matter how dysfunctional your best friend’s family has been, it has been that safe space for you. So, you speak. “Father has been setting up dates for me.”
The room goes completely still. Even Alfred, for once, is dismayed.
You sigh. “He says it is of utmost importance that I find a proper match soon.”
Jason glares at you, not at you, but at your parents. “That’s not necessary.”
Dick nods. He looks kind as he asks, “Are you unhappy with that?”
Damian feels his head pound at that question, indicating his coming out of that stillness that incinerated him moments ago. He stares at you, not knowing what to say. It is a travesty because Damian always knows what to say. But tonight, listening to what your parents’ intentions are, he does not.
Bruce says, far gentler than he is with his sons, a tone he reserves for Cassandra and Stephanie and now you. “Is there a reason for this insistence?”
“I asked, and he says it is the way of society,” You answer, and Damian scoffs.
Bruce purses his lips. It is the way of Gotham’s high society. Matches of the highest calibre are forged between families to ensure wealth and reputation stay intact or even further them. Bruce, himself, would have been persuaded into these matchmaking attempts if he had taken his social circle more seriously or if his parents were alive.
“That is a preposterous way of explaining why he wants his daughter to get married,” Damian bursts.
Dick and Jason stare at Damian, a knowing look crossing their faces. Stephanie asks, “So did you say no?”
Damian grows more distressed when you shake your head. Cassandra’s facial expression falters. You laugh nervously and then explain. “He is not wrong. I am busy with work and friends. It is perhaps time to take the next step in… life.”
Your voice is so unnatural that Damian fumes. You do not sound happy. Even enthused in the slightest. You sound resigned. That is what your parents do to you. They presented a checklist for you when you were of age to understand expectations and responsibilities, and ever since, you have abided by them. You don’t know a world outside it, and Damian doesn't know how to show that there is one. It is a bit hypocritical, but Damian does not care. Perhaps he can and is tied down by legacies, but you cannot. You are supposed to be free and do whatever you want.
“But is that what you want?” Jason asks because he regards freedom as the most important aspect of life. Jason knows death, and he knows how it is to be caged. He does not wish that on anyone, let alone you.
You stay silent. In that silence is the answer. Everyone in the room sees your struggle, and you realize that. Your cheeks pinken because you do not want to embarrass yourself by looking weak, as if you cannot even bear what your parents want for you. You put on a brave smile and nod. “Yes. I think this is good for me.”
Dick and Jason exchange looks. Tim looks down at his plate and then at you. “I will conduct checks. Whoever it is, I expect their name.”
Stephanie looks at Damian, then at you. “Be careful.”
Cassandra gauges you, but then she softly says, her eyes averting towards Stephanie. “If you can let that person see you, you have made your choice.”
See you.
Damian glares at Cassandra. For whatever reason, he hates her statement—the underlying advice. But that glare is wiped off his face as you turn your head to look at him. You look at him like his words matter the most in a roomful of people that clearly adore you. You look at him like you need him, so Damian holds back every ounce of anger he feels, and says, his hand reaching out to hold yours. “I am here.”
And you entwine your fingers with his. You sigh and whisper. “Thank you.”
For the rest of the night, after dinner, he takes you to the library and reads to you, watching you relax, as an ache fills his chest.
“Thank you, Dami,” You whisper as you slot your head into the crook of his neck, and you imagine him running his fingers through your hair, the movement cajoling you into sleep.
Your first date is with a banker. He is a few years older than you, but that is not troubling. He is a good man, or at least that is what your parents say. His parents are a part of Gotham’s most elite, just like yours. It’s a good match if decided on. That is the consensus.
You stare at your reflection. The black dress, the matching heels, and the small clutch you are carrying suit you. Your mother walks into your room, as always disregarding your privacy. You can hear her laughter and another person’s footsteps.
Your mother says, “She is excited.”
Are you?
Are you excited? You think again, and you feel exhausted because you have no answer. You stiffen as you hear Damian’s voice instead of your father’s. You did not anticipate his presence, so you turn around to exit the vanity room, which connects to your bedroom and bathroom.
“Dami,” You breathe in relief, his name a lifeline you cling to.
The boy you met is now a tall young man with the same intense eyes and gentleness that fills your heart. He stares at you right now, with those same eyes and approaches you. He curls his fingers around your upper arm with the same gentleness.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Your mother gushes. Her words make you wince, and Damian moves to shield you from her line of vision. He says, his voice clear. “She still has to finish getting ready.”
Your mother laughs. “Oh, yes. And prepare her, Damian. She does not know the ins and outs of courtships. Give her a few tips, son.”
And she departs, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Damian pulls you closer. He frowns at the Bobby pins keeping your curly hair up. He knows how much you hate bobby pins, just how much they pain. You always complain about them before a gala, but you let your mother pin them tonight.
Damian says, “You abhor bobby pins.”
“I do.”
“You put them on."
“I did.”
“Your head hurts when you put them on."
“They do.”
Damian tilts his head like he wants to yank each one off your head. He would love to make that decision for you on your behalf, but he does not allow himself to. That restraint is something you are used to, but it sometimes still surprises you, because you were always told Damian Wayne did not believe in restraint.
So he asks, “Do you want me to remove them?”
Your throat works. You do not know what to say. There is the answer, the true one: yes. But something stops you. Something always does, holding you and your voice in its tight grip.
So you sigh. You shake your head, and Damian, instead of removing those pins, gently pats your head and then rubs your nape. That action makes you come closer to him. It makes you hug him, and you sigh into his chest, covered by his button-down.
“I am nervous,” You admit to your best friend.
Damian says, rubbing your nape with one hand while the other wraps around your middle. “I know.”
“I don’t know anything about dating, courtships, love,” You say.
Damian stiffens. His hand that was on your nape comes around to cup your chin. He pulls you back with that action, his voice steady and yet again everything that matters. “You are allowed to pace yourself. Do not let anyone deny you that liberty.”
“Pace myself?” You repeat a part of his words. Pacing yourself in this seems like a loss, too. How do you pace yourself in a race that demands your heart?
His hand descends to your shoulders. Both of your shoulders were grabbed gently, while he says, “I beg of you.”
You stare at him, frowning slightly at the wrecked tone he uses. Damian Wayne does not beg. He does not use those words. He commands. He rules. He gets his way, and he wins. That is his legacy, his right even. But right now, he is proffered a young man requesting—begging—you to listen to him. “One must not indulge in any decision that is unwelcome. I am asking you to heed that.”
“I will,” You say, because you always listen to Damian.
Damian nods as if he is satisfied. He steps back, and you hate the loss of his touch on your skin. You hate that he is not crowding you, holding you, and towering over you. And that hatred of losing his touch, his nearness, floors you, redness pooling on your cheeks and neck. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be like this.
“Rooh Qalbi.” You hear Damian’s voice, looking up. You furrow your brows, not completely registering what he said. He sighs. “Your suitor is here.”
“Suitor?” You giggle, and Damian smiles just a bit.
“Yes,” He nods. His jaw tenses, looking out the bedroom door, downwards at the entryway of the large home you reside in. “In an inadequate choice of a vehicle, an ill-fitting suit, and an utterly detestable arrangement of flowers.”
“Hey,” You say, taking his arm as he leads you out of your room.
“I am being transparent, as is my intention, always with you.” Your cheeks warm again, listening to his words. Damian discreetly juts his chin towards the flower bouquet the banker holds as he talks to your mother. You cringe a little. You are not a fan of red roses, as romantic and symbolic as they are.
Damian shakes his head. “A man who does not adequately account for his potential bride’s predilection.”
You smile a little at the way Damian looks disappointed. You tilt your head and place a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dami.”
You descend the spiral staircase, Damian right behind you, as he mutters under his breath about the safety in the heels you are wearing.
The banker looks at you and kisses your cheek, hugging you from the side. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” You say. When the banker gives the flowers to you, you expect to be touched, regardless of what floral arrangement you picked out. You look up at him, wanting to feel a spark of something. But you don’t. It’s too early. You tell yourself that.
Damian and the banker shake hands. Damian nods along to whatever he says, as your mother laughs. “These two have been best friends for years, son. Don’t be fooled by how calm Damian is right now. If you want to be in my daughter’s life, you have to win his heart too.”
The banker laughs. Then, he extends his hand to take yours.
You look at Damian.
He blinks at you, and you breathe. You can get through this.
Your date was horrible—too many numbers, money, and social events conversations. You did not gel with the banker at all. You were not what he wanted, and he was not what you wanted.
So your parents set up another date. This time, the prospect is a vice president of a conglomerate. You do not have any hopes that this date will fare better than what happened with the banker. It will be boring, tedious, and lacklustre. You know it, but you agree.
You pick out the heels that go well with the floral, flowy, red dress you chose tonight. They are block heels, and you sigh as you sit on your bed, taking them into your hands. You do not realize that you are not in the room alone until Damian pries your hand away from the heel.
“Hey,” You say, looking up at him.
“No bobby pins tonight?” He asks, his lips formed into a wry smile.
You shake your head. “I wanted to keep my hair down.”
His eyes flicker towards your hair, intensely gazing at the way your curls sit loose against your shoulders. “You look beautiful.”
“Yeah?” You bend your head, blushing.
Damian nods. “Resplendent. Divine. Beguiling. Would you like me to beseech you with more verbiage, or do you believe me?”
“Dami,” You mutter, shaking your head. Then, you gasp as he bends on one knee. Damian’s gestures often shock you, because they are far different from the reputation he holds, the way he behaves with people, family or strangers, and the weight his name holds.
As his fingers curl around your ankle, making you stifle another gasp, you watch. He makes you wear both block heels, saying. “Do not stroll at a painfully fast pace; you will fall.”
“And you won’t be there to help me up,” You laugh, thinking about the first time you wore a pair of block heels. It was at an event organized by Gotham Academy. And you almost took a tumble, if not for the way Damian caught your arm and stayed by your side firmly, present the entire time.
Damian tilts his head. He assesses you with his gaze. You almost frown at the way he looks at you. You take pride in the way “I will always be there.”
You still. You do not expect those words, and now that you have them, you don’t want to let them go. They settle in you like a well-hidden pearl in the shell of a mollusk.
He tugs at a hair strand fondly, a reverent action reserved just for you. “It is a vow I abide by. It will always be that way.”
“Why?”
“Because you—“ Damian’s eyes roam over you. “You are important. Every vow to you made is of unwavering dedication and paramount respect.”
“Dami.”
“Rooh Qalbi.”
Your eyes widen.
You are pulled out of the unexpected despair and confusion you feel when you feel Damian’s fingers trace your cheek and the line of your jaw. The action causes his other hand to tighten around your ankle. Your breath hitches, but you hide it well enough.
“Forgive me for repeating this, but you are not obligated to partake in anything that holds no appeal to you.” He says, his eyes flickering to the family portrait that was framed and placed on your nightstand.
“Your decisions should always be a matter of your discretion. No one else’s,” Damian continues.
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
Damian smiles slightly. His fingers cup your chin, while his other hand gently places your heel-clad foot on the ground. “You will. I will be there to witness it.”
His unwavering belief in you makes you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him. His arms go around you, pulling you closer, and you smile against his shoulder. For a second, you wonder what it would be like to march up to your parents and tell them that you don’t want this. You imagine Damian looking at you as you decide to put your wishes first instead of the expectations.
But you are reminded of the words uttered to you for years. Gotham society. Education. Marriage. Children. The importance of maintaining status. The importance of abiding by duties, especially a duty that is tied to the family name.
You break the hug, feeling like an imposter. You feel unworthy of Damian’s trust. You don’t look at him as you wear a beautiful sling-back purse that Damian actually bought for you a while back. When you hear your mother’s voice saying your date is here, you move.
But you feel Damian’s hand curl around your wrist, halting you.
You look back at him. Damian moves forward.
He questions, his voice slightly gruff, much like his father’s is. “You will permit me the honour of knowing when you are apprised that your heart has been taken to someone’s advances?”
You stare at Damian. He wants to know when someone has your heart. He calls gaining that knowledge an honour.
Your throat works, but you manage to nod. You whisper, “Yes, I will.”
You turn around and, yet again, descend the spiral staircase. This time, your date does not bring red roses. He brings tulips that you like. You do not know, but somehow Damian made the man aware, by word of mouth, that you are more taken with tulips than with roses.
But what you know is the thundering in your ears and the way your heart beats. You know the gnawing realization growing in your chest, making you even more dispirited.
The realization that your heart may be someone else’s already.
You just cannot bear to think of who.
The vice president of a respected, established conglomerate also turns out to be an ill-fitting match. This time, it is not your fault. It is because of your parents that you muffled any expression of dissatisfaction after your date with him. Your parents invited the man to dinner, and they found him gauche and irritating. His table manners made your father sigh. That sigh said everything.
This time, you got ready at Wayne Manor. Your first date is to a Wayne Gala. A peculiar choice, but with how busy you and the angel investor from the West Coast are, it made sense to use the gala as a location for the date.
Stephanie and Cassandra hover over you, helping you get ready, as Barbara stares knowingly at you from her wheelchair, ready and excited. You look at her through the mirror.
“What?” You ask, a little miffed tonight. Your mother decided on a gown for you tonight that you did not approve of. It is beautiful. The olive green is not your favourite shade of green, but it is acceptable. The real issue is the material. Scratchy, irritating, and unpleasant.
“Nothing,” Barbara says, shaking her head, as Cassandra does the finishing touches to your makeup.
You could not object to your mother when she called, and now you are paying the price for your silence. You look beautiful, though, you try to tell yourself, as if the extreme discomfort is worth the beauty.
Cassandra clasps a diamond necklace around your neck, something Stephanie selected for you. That is what you think until Stephanie bends down and says, looking at you through the mirror. “Damian knows you.”
“What?” You ask, frowning.
Stephanie laughs, while Cassandra whispers, “Damian sent this jewellery piece for you two hours ago. He said you would like it.”
“He also told us only to let you wear it if you approve,” Barbara says. She moves forward, situating herself next to you, and leans back. Assessing you, she asks, “Even though Stephanie asked already, do you approve?”
It is on your tongue to viciously say: Does it matter?
But you tilt your head, not wanting to make the girls targets of your ire, directed at your mother, looking at yourself. Your hair is styled in a not-actually-messy braid. And the diamond necklace sits around your neck with an elegance that makes your breath hitch.
You do approve, and something in you twists at the thought of being asked that. That never happens, not often. Yes, within the walls of Wayne Manor. Yes, with Damian. Yes, with his family, who always welcomed you.
But not at home.
You furrow your brows, trying to remember the last time your mother or father asked you if you approved of something. If you wanted something. If you were okay with something.
You stand up. “Yes, I look gorgeous.”
“That is true,” Stephanie says. Cassandra pats your head like you are a child. You and Damian are the babies of the family, much to the displeasure of both of you. Barbara squeezes your hand, and you smile at her. She tips her head in a knowing gesture that frazzles you, but you don’t show it.
They soon depart the room while you take one last look at yourself. You can do this. You will be okay. You think reassuringly and turn around.
Of course, Damian is standing in the entryway of the room you are in. Of course, he knocks on the ajar door, knowing you are inside. Of course, you ask him to come in.
And of course, he looks at your gown and immediately says, “You are uncomfortable.”
You stay silent.
“Are you not?” He asks, looking angry, not at you, but at himself. He looks at you like he wonders if he can no longer read you.
And you don’t want him ever to think he doesn't know you. So you nod. “Yes, I am uncomfortable.”
His jaw clenches, but he does not say anything.
You tilt your head. “Are you not going to ask me to wear something else, Dami?”
Damian moves forward and stands right in front of you. He wraps an arm around your middle and tugs you closer. “Every decision has to be yours.”
You stiffen, filled with gratitude and anger due to those words.
You hate that he reminds you that you have choices—that you can make them. You detest that he gives you the space to do so instead of simply commanding you to.
You want him to tell you what to do and how to be. But Damian never does that. He is, well, your Dami. He was the boy who listened to you and is now the man who wants you to know that your decisions should be your own.
You look away from him, and he asks, "Would you like to change?”
You already know that if you want to change into a separate gown, there will be countless comfortable options awaiting you.
But your ears reverberate with your mother’s shrill commands over the phone call that took place about the gown. You shake your head, and you feel your best friend’s fingers flex on your back.
Damian steps back. “Alright..”
You look at him.
“Thank you,” you say. You are thanking him for everything, but you point to the necklace as an excuse.
Damian tilts his head. “You look beautiful.”
You blush and bend your head.
“You look handsome, too, Dami,” You say, and he smiles, offering you his arm for you to link with.
The serenity of this moment is something you cling to, and you hope it will get you through the night.
Damian hates your date. The angel investor is a little shit. He is utterly unworthy of you. Yet, he holds your hand and leads you to the esteemed guests of this evening.
Damian’s hand tightens around the glass tumbler he holds. His eyes have been tracking you the entire night. He sees the exhaustion that clings to you in the way you walk, in the way your hand shakes around the champagne flute you hold, and in the way your laugh sounds hollow.
That gown is causing you so much trouble with its material and seams chafing against your skin. If you were not on a date, Damian would have convinced you to ditch this social event and take you back to the manor where Alfred would be. With folded pajamas and warm tea.
But since you are on a date, Damian is relegated to being a witness to your agony, unable to do anything until you say that you would like his impudent intervention.
Damian does not want to be one of those people in your life who talks over you, disregards your voice, and muffles your wants. He promised himself to not only keep you safe and secure from harm’s way but also to keep you happy.
Happiness is not always smiles and laughter. It is also the security of making a choice. Happiness also resides in the freedom that comes from deciding on purely your own accord.
And he won’t take that away from you.
“You know, you’re staring,” Jason says.
Damian glares at Jason, “Why are you present here, Todd?”
He shrugs. “Bruce told me to show up.”
“My father’s inability to make a sound decision does keep astounding me despite its commonness,” Damian grumbles, and Dick claps a hand on his shoulder.
The action is sympathetic, which grinds Damian’s gears. He does not need sympathy!
Damian averts his gaze from Jason to look back at you. You seem to be in a deep conversation with a Gothamite who is also in angel investing.
Damian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. That action is reserved for crass individuals. But he is so close to doing it, because he cannot believe your parents would choose this man out of all of the choices that could be made.
Angel investing as a career is risky. He is from the West Coast, not used to Gotham. Damian could think of so many other reasons why such an alliance between you and him is a bad idea. For you—for your safety, well-being, and happiness.
He is not right for you. But Damian is not the one who has the final say on this. It has to be you.
So he watches.
And watches.
And watches.
Soon, you are exhausted from the talking, smiling, and indulging that the Gothamite elite demand of you. You excuse yourself swiftly and head towards the grand balcony that is connected to the gala’s main hall.
Damian instantly follows, and his face softens as he watches you perched against the railing, looking at the view of Gotham.
Then, he frowns. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he removes his blazer and places it on your shoulders. There are times when he cannot be bothered to wait for your choices, and this is one of them. He is not going to let you get a cold. It’s just not happening.
“Dami,” You gasp. You tug the blazer closer to your chest, putting your arms through the sleeves.
Then, you frown. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No, I am not,” Damian answers, and he means it.
You nod. Damian asks, “Are you alright?”
“I am,” You say. Damian does not believe you, but he does not call you out on it. You shift closer to him and rest your head against his bicep.
You both look at the view of Gotham.
“It’s beautiful,” You murmur, and Damian looks at you.
“I agree.”
You don’t notice that he is not talking about Gotham’s view, and he does not tell you.
“How is he?” Damian questions.
You shrug, and that is how Damian tells you that you are utterly exhausted. You don’t shrug, not often.
“I do not think he is the one.”
Good. But Damian does not say that aloud.
“I want to put an end to this,” You say. You sound a bit frustrated. “I just want them off my back.”
You mean your parents.
Damian shares, “Perhaps, acquiescing to their demands is not as suitable as you deem it is. Perhaps, a course of defiance is.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Defiance?”
“If you must.”
“Defiance,” You repeat, looking at him.
“Defiance.” Damian repeats.
You let out a sigh and rest your head back on him. You close your eyes, and Damian just cannot help himself. He bends and grazes his lips on the top of your head, on your hairline, and then on your forehead.
It’s too much. Damian can tell from the way you tilt your head and stare up at him. You tell him, "I wanted to wear your shade of green. It’s my favourite, not this olive green.”
Damian stares at you. He is too proper to have his jaw hang in surprise, but he is close to it. That is not a statement he expected, and now that he has heard it, he cannot stop himself from imagining it. You in green. In his green, as you said. The green that makes up one of the colours of his suit.
Damian lets out a haggard sigh and leans forward, almost resting his head against yours.
Your noses almost brush, and you let out a small laugh, teasing. “I have the Wayne heir tongue-tied.”
“That is the effect you have on me, Rooh Qalbi,” Damian utters the words as if they were sacred truth.
His words do affect you, too, because you blink rapidly. You go on your toes, slightly unbalanced due to your heels, and rest your head against his. Noses brush. Eyelashes meet a little.
It is remarkable how, in a fraction of a minute, everything changes. One second, you were resting your head against his arm as you always did. Like a best friend. Like the girl who consumes his thoughts, meaning behind actions, and priorities every minute, but then now, you are pressed against him, your hands cupping his face, while his arms go around you.
Damian wants to have you in his arms like this for as long as he lives. He will continue living with care and caution if it means having you in his arms. You are pressed up against him, cocooned in his embrace, and he feels like he has had a taste of heaven. Does it exist? He wonders. It does. He believes now.
You make him a believer. You make him an even more worthy man. You make him question the line between right and wrong. You make him wonder what the difference is between a wound and a healer, because to him right now, he holds both in his arms.
“Dami,” You whisper.
“Noor Eini,” he whispers.
The line between being friends, as close as you both are, and something else blurs. The line erases. It is eradicated before the way Damian—your Dami—holds you and the way you—his qalbi—melts into his hold.
Damian leans forward, too, minimizing the remaining little space between both of you. It is an action that spurs from want and desperation he refuses to name, still, that he refuses to admit to.
And then a loud crash jolts you both apart.
A sound from afar. An aggrieved cry of irritation from nearby staff. The sound is plates clattering to the ground. You both realize that.
Damian reaches for you, tearing his gaze off the area where the sound loudly reverberated. You take a step back. Pain shoots up Damian’s spine. No. He panics internally. He feels you slip away. He watches you slip away.
You shake your head. “I am sorry.”
“No. Do not apologize.”
“I have to!”
“You do not have to!”
And then you run.
It has been four days since you agreed to marry the man you spent time with at the Wayne gala. Your parents were shocked. After all, you had only been on one date with him. You barely knew him.
But you said yes, and he also agreed to the alliance. It would be beneficial. Two families, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast, are now one family thanks to this marriage. It is huge news for the country's elite.
Your parents are delighted. Your future in-laws expect an heir within the first two years of marriage. Your soon-to-be fiancé expects you to be a proper conduit in making useful Gothamite connections that would propel his influence on the East Coast, too.
Everything is perfect.
Except for the way you carry yourself.
You are sullen, uninterested, and resigned to a fate you prepared for since your childhood.
You stare at Damian’s blazer, which you had dry-cleaned and folded. It is on your bed. Every day, you wear it for a few minutes. Every night, you get it washed, dry cleaned, and folded again.
It has been four days since you talked to him—since that gala evening. You wonder how he is, never having spent that many days apart from him, not even during your college years.
You shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. You glare at the ceiling after tilting your head back. How could you do this? How could you—
But you wanted to. That is the truth that resides low in your belly. You wanted to kiss Damian that night. You wanted to sink into his embrace and never let go. You wanted to be held by him for as long as you lived.
But then your parents’ voices rang in your ears, on a loop, in a mashup overlapping both. It was hideous. It was scary. It frightened you, because you imagined Damian standing beside you, as not just your best friend but something more.
You would be a burden. Your parents would eat him alive with their expectations. Your family name will be another weight he will carry. Your everything will be an ankle weight that plunges him to oceanic depths that are unbearable.
Damian does not deserve that. He deserves someone who can make choices without their parents’ voices ringing in their ears. He deserves in-laws who support him, not pressure him. He deserves kids—a family—born of choice and love, not pressure and expectation.
“Are you marrying him?” You jolt out of your thoughts at the sound of Damian’s voice.
Your head snaps in the direction of your bedroom door. Your mother appears behind Damian. “Damian is here, sweetheart.”
You try to smile. “I see that.”
“I was just telling our dearest son-in-law that he has to impress Damian now since you have complied,” She says and laughs.
You flinch, and Damian stays silent, standing sturdy like a wall.
Your mother, who does not notice the tension, says, “I will send refreshments.”
Her idea of a refreshment now is a weight loss snack and drink until you have the fairytale wedding, in a gown that fits you like a glove—utterly unbreathable.
“You are marrying him.” This time, the words do not end in a question mark. They are a statement.
You nod. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“It is my duty.”
“You do not love him.”
“No, I do not.”
“You love someone else.”
You flinch. You shake your head.
“Are you lying?” He asks
Damian’s question makes you teary-eyed.
Yes. “No.”
Damian flinches, but that does not stop him from approaching you. You grab the blazer from your bed and shove it into Damian’s hands. You regret the action immediately because the garment has become a source of comfort for you over the past few days. Now, you are losing it.
If Damian notices that his blazer smells like you do today or how it looks slightly wrinkled, he does not mention it. Instead, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in your hair. “Do you desire this?”
No. “Yes.”
His fingers descend to curl around your nape, making you look at him properly. You gasp as you see his eyes filled with tears. You loathe yourself. You are hurting the one person who truly matters.
I am so sorry, Dami.
Damian kisses your forehead. “Be happy, Rooh Qalbi.”
You close your eyes, and your hands curl in his shirt.
He kisses your forehead again.
Then, he is gone.
Every decision has to be yours.
These words play in your mind as you sit at the long dining table. Your fiancé sits beside you. His parents are seated opposite you, and they look pleased. They are in deep conversation with your parents, who are just as pleased.
Your entire home is filled with congratulatory bouquets, gifts, and cards. Gotham’s high society is aware of this partnership. What is left is a front-page announcement in the newspaper, which will run next week. That will make things official. And that will commence a powerhouse of a familial alliance.
You stare at the ring that is in the jewelry box, placed between you and your fiancé. It is a pink diamond. Totally swoonworthy and beautiful. Your mother gushed over it, while your to-be mother-in-law said you are lucky that you have a partner who is not stingy. Your father and to-be father-in-law discussed how large yet classy-looking rings heighten a man's status in society.
It is a beautiful ring. You agree.
It is just not a ring you envision for yourself.
The man sitting beside you is not even the man you envision for yourself.
You are in a yellow sundress. Your hair is tied up in a soft white bow, and your fiancé laughed, saying how your hair needs Keratin treatment to look presentable in magazine photos whenever the wedding happens. It was a misguided attempt at humour.
You close your eyes for a brief second. What you envision is clear. A diamond ring. It is large, of course, but the design is classy and a bit more sleek in appearance. You imagine your best friend beside you, murmuring Rooh Qalbi in your ear. That wry smile that makes him even more handsome graces his face. You imagine the Waynes surrounding you. Their vigilante charm peeks through the classic Wayne charm, making the dinner even more enjoyable.
You open your eyes.
Every decision has to be yours.
This is your decision. But you are unhappy. You look at your parents, who do not even realize you are unhappy. You look at your fiancé, who will make you wear that pink diamond ring soon. You see the same life that played out with your parents and with you in this man.
You both will get married. You both will have a child. That child will be just like you. Unable to say no. Unable to make a decision that does not hurt. Unable to look at their parents and not wonder why they don’t give a damn.
You flinch. You do not even dare to be improper in your thoughts, and here you are, berating your parents like this…
But it feels refreshing. It feels honest. It feels good.
You lick your lips, an iota of freedom touching your soul and making you feel unbelievably delighted.
Every decision has to be yours.
Damian Wayne.
He is your decision. He is your choice.
You will explain to him. If he still wants you, you will sink into his embrace and never let him go. The simplicity of this want takes you aback.
Damian is your choice. Not just because he is the boy you met years ago, not just because he is your best friend, but because you love him.
You stand up, hands and arms shaking.
Every decision has to be yours.
You are making your decision now.
“Sweetheart,” Your mother frowns. Her eyes show disapproval in the way you abruptly stood up. It is improper. She wants to say that, but you cannot care right now. “Do you need something?”
“I cannot proceed with this engagement,” You say.
You look at the man who was minutes away from becoming a fiancé. “I apologize.”
And you bolt.
You run in your painful sandals, a yellow sundress that flails around when you move fast, and your diamond earrings that juggle around, bright and shiny. You are drenched from the rain that ensues the moment you exit your large residence. You are exhausted. Your parents are screaming.
Everything is a mess, but you are, for once, just happy.
When you reach Wayne Manor, you expect to be shunned. You expect Alfred to berate you from the entrance for breaking Damian’s heart. You expect his brothers to loathe you. You expect Bruce to be disgusted by the sight of you.
But you forget they are your family, too. You forget they consider you their family.
Alfred smiles at you warmly. “Miss, can I offer you a towel?”
“Yes, but not now.” You say. “I need to see Damian.”
Alfred looks like he wants to argue, but Jason and Tim stop him.
Bruce nods, staring at you. “He is on the balcony of one of the guest rooms.”
Again balconies? You shake your head fondly and run. When you find the room he is inside, you heave a sigh of relief.
For a second, you dread talking to him. How could you possibly fix this? But you have to do this, because you love him. So you move forward as stealthily as possible.
Damian is, as Bruce said, on the balcony, looking out at the view the manor offers. He holds an umbrella over his head, and he looks like he is seeking serenity from Gotham, which is a peculiar choice but one you understand perfectly.
You take a deep breath. “Dami.”
Damian turns around. He looks shocked. Then, his eyes roam all over you. He glares at you, and you take a small step back, wondering if he hates you. He would not be in the wrong if he did.
But then you realize that he is glaring at you for the way you are drenched. He stalks forward, covering you with the umbrella. He takes off the blazer that he definitely wore to Wayne Enterprises and puts it around your shoulders.
You want to cry from happiness. You missed being drowned in the fabric of his blazers.
“What are you doing?” Damian questions harshly. “How dare you put yourself in harm’s way like this? You will catch a cold!”
“How—“
“I defied my parents today.” You share, and Damian instantly quiets.
He processes your words and opens his mouth, but you interrupt him. “But I still don’t know how to say no. Not to them, not to many others. I just know how to say yes. Except with you, of course, but that is different.”
Damian frowns. “Diffe—“
“I was always trained that I have to study, get married to a man, and have kids,” You explain. “Study what upholds the family name. Get married to a man who furthers the family name's legacy. Have children like a proper woman would. You know all this, but I have to tell you, so you understand.”
Damian nods. “Rooh Qalbi, of course, I do under—“
“I don’t want you to be engulfed by my parents’ wants.”
“I assure you, I am not engulfed by anything other than the desire to see you happy.”
Your face scrunches in equal parts, in pain and happiness.
“I am happy with you, Dami. So happy.” You explain. “I just got scared, and I apologize for that.”
Damian shakes his head, but you continue, grabbing his hands. “I don’t know if chocolate is actually my favourite ice cream flavour. Mother always got that one for me.”
“I will bring you every ice cream flavour that exists. You will learn what you prefer, Noor Eini,” Damian promises.
You laugh softly. “I also do not know if I actually hate movies, or if it is because Father never let me watch any. He was always more keen on documentaries.”
“We will have a movie marathon, Beloved.”
Beloved. That is new, but you loved hearing it. You want more of it.
“I do not really like pink diamonds,” You blurt, and Damian smiles at you in the soft way he only reserves for you.
“Then, I shall only buy jewellery with diamonds.”
You laugh softly again, downcasting your eyes and tilting your head downwards.
Damian boldly tips your chin upwards as his fingers go under it. “Every demand you have will be fulfilled. Every desire you hold is of utmost importance. Everything you regard as a priority is a promise that I will satisfy.”
“Damian, I don’t know myself properly.” Your chin wobbles as you share. “All I know right now is that I am yours.”
Damian’s breath hitches, and you find it easier to speak. “I have to—I want to rewrite—everything I know about myself. Well, mostly, everything. I want to disregard that checklist I have known since I was a child. And I know all of this is tiresome. I know it sounds like you are holding a fraud, and that is tedious and loathso—“
Damian kisses you, effectively shutting you up.
Your hands curl into the fabric of his button-down, as his hands slot against your hips. The kiss is magnificent. It is everything, and everything you were unable to say pours into the kiss. You realize belatedly that Damian is also doing the same. The man who uses language with softness instead of a weapon for you decides to forego language for touch, and it is the single most divine action you have been at the receiving end of.
Damian moves back a little. You smile against his lips, letting out a sigh. Damian smiles back. His hand comes up to tuck a hair strand behind your ear. He whispers, “You are mine. I am yours. That is of paramount consideration.”
“You’re mine?” You question, a little dazed.
“Yes, Hayati.” He nods. “I will humble myself before you, as I am yours. If you must, you can break me if that is what you desire. Although I must admit, your engagement did almost threaten my composure. It called my sensibilities and sanity into question.”
“I want you to be happy. I want you with me,” You say. “I am sorry, Dami.”
Damian shakes his head. “I will humble myself before you. Not you. Never offer contrition to me or anyone, Hayati.”
You smile, kissing him again.
“Whatever choice you make, I shall remain by your side. Perpetually,” Damian murmurs.
“I love you. You have my heart, Dami.”
“I love you, too, Rooh Qalbi. You have everything that makes me.”
And those words hold a promise within them that Damian will forever honour.
I👏🏼NEED 👏🏼SECRET👏🏼RELATIONSHIP 👏🏼LANDO PLEASEEEE 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 I loved “winning hand” and I have reread it a few times already, hope you’ll do something like that again soon queen xo
Two can keep a secret | LN⁴
☆ summary ──── She was convinced they had found the secret recipe for happiness. A year later though, she finds out that the very things that brought them together are the same things that now threaten to tear them apart.
☆ pairing ──── Lando Norris x SecretGf!Reader
☆ rating ──── explicit
☆ warnings ──── 18+, secret relationship, angst, gaslighting undertones, SMAU (please be kind, it’s my first time trying to insert social media in my writing 🙏🏻😭), swearing, mentions of alcohol and drinking, graphic sexual content, descriptive language, smut, teasing, mutual masturbation (detailed handjob & fingering), bottom!Lando, praising, pet names, and dirty talk, unprotected sex, physical roughness, overstimulation, cockwarming, messy aftermath.
☆ word count ──── 9.4k
☆ date ──── Aug. 18, 2025
☆ a/n ──── Been a hot sec since I’ve been abusing my keyboards like this, but coming back to writing isn’t always easy. However, thank you so much for being patient with me while I try to find my rhythm again. If you haven’t already (because it flopped horrendously when I first posted it), maybe give Winning Hand a shot too. Anon liked it, hihi 😌🎀 ANYWAY. I missed you guys sm!! Enjoy your reading my lovelies ^^
A couple more things:
Everybody, including me, be calling X Twitter, and I didn’t make an exception for this one-shot.
I didn’t check any of the usernames mentioned. I pulled those out from the depths of my brain, but if some of them happen to exist, please do not contact the respective accounts lmao. And if I accidentally used yours and you want me to edit it out, please let me know 😁
IT HAD STARTED so beautifully stupid for them, nearly a year ago, on Max’s birthday.
It hadn’t been planned, and maybe that’s what made it so exciting at first. They’d always been part of the same chaotic circle of people, drawn to fast cars and faster living, late nights at each other’s apartments, beach weekends, and group chats full of memes and half-plans, because everybody was so busy.
She remembers the heat of that night, and the fact that she thought there were way too many people at the villa; not necessarily her type of party, but all of her friends were there.
She also remembers turning around with a drink in hand, catching Lando’s eyes across the pool. He was a bit drunk, and she knew that from the beginning, because he has a very unique facial expression when he drinks, with half-closed eyelids and a little grin in the corner of his mouth that’s nothing but trouble.
He came to rescue, and pulled her away from the noise. They ended up chatting more in a couple of hours than they did their entire friendship combined. Lando made her his signature drink, and she convinced him not to jump into the water fully clothed. Then she woke up in his room the next morning, her dress on the floor and his arm slung heavy across her waist.
She hadn’t meant for it to last this long. But it turned out they’re both good at keeping secrets.
The thrill of sneaking around, the quiet satisfaction of pulling him into a dark corner at parties, all the plans and fake excuses, the constant adrenaline beneath her skin every time they made eye contact in public and pretended they weren’t thinking the exact same thing. All of it was so intoxicating. Being his secret made her feel powerful. And why wouldn’t it, since she got the parts no one else did: the sleepy post-race calls, the lazy mornings with her hand tangled in his curls and his head between her thighs, the soft way he spoke when no one was listening but her. It was like living a double life, one where she had this bright and much tender version of Lando that didn’t belong to the world.
Maybe it should’ve ended after the first night together, but instead, they made rules:
No one should find out.
No social media.
No strings, just fun.
For months, they’d carved out an intimate space between the noise of their public lives, stolen glances at group dinners, quick texts under the table, and lots of hotel rooms booked under fake names when they ended up in the same cities.
But gradually, what started as a thrill, it’s just exhausting a year later.
It’s the constant vigilance. The quiet ache of standing across a room from him and acting like he’s just her friend. The mental strain of remembering who knows what, how close she can stand, whether her laugh gave too much away or how long she can look at him before someone notices the hearts in her eyes.
Ultimately, there is just too much pretending.
Too much pretending that she’s just a part of his friend group when she’s standing two feet away from him, her hands shoved so deep into her pockets only to stop herself from reaching out.
Too much pretending that she doesn’t care when someone asks him — again and again, for fuck’s sake — about who he’s dating, and his answer is always ‘no one seriously’ while displaying the biggest smile known to man.
And too much pretending she doesn’t want to walk with him in public, hand in hand.
It’s the secrecy that bothers her lately, not the privacy, though. Because she loves the quiet nights and the way he kisses her like he’s always missed her, even if it’s only been a day. She still loves his stupid impressions and the way he sings in the car, off-key and not caring he’s making her ears bleed.
That’s the thing. She loves it all and she loves him and that’s what makes everything worse.
═════════════════════════
📍Silverstone, United Kingdom
THE BATHROOM DOOR swings open with a soft hiss of steam, and she steps out, towel wrapped around her body, another twisted tightly around her wet hair. It’s an early, very quiet Friday morning, but she knows it won’t stay like that for long.
Lando stands near the mirror, a towel slung low on his hips, chest still damp from his own quick shower. He squints at his reflection, one hand stroking the scruff along his jaw as if he’s thinking pretty intensely about what to do in order to solve the world hunger.
She watches him for a moment, amused. “You’ve been staring at yourself since I got in. Are you okay?”
He flicks his eyes to her in the mirror, pretending to look wounded. “I’m in the middle of an existential grooming crisis, actually.”
“Must be exhausting,” she teases, walking past him toward the bed where her clothes are laid out. “All that beauty. All that... mild stubble.”
Lando turns to face her, rising one hand as if he’s holding something that he wants to show her. “To shave, or not to shave?”
The girl pauses mid-motion, a small smile creeping across her lips. “If you’re asking me,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder, “I like it better when you don’t.”
Lando tilts his head, curiously. “Because it makes me look more manly or?”
She walks back to him, closing the space between them until she can trace her fingers under his jaw, the coarse edge of his stubble brushing her skin. “No,” she shakes her head lightly. “Because of how it feels between my thighs,” she says, placing a tiny kiss on his cheek.
Through the mirror, Lando just stares at her for a few seconds. Then he lets out a short laugh, nearly choking on it. “Jesus, okay. Starting the day like that?”
The girl shrugs innocently, letting both of her towels pool at her feet once she goes back to the bed, grabbing the dress to pull it over her head. “You asked.”
Lando crosses the room to close the distance between them once again, looping his arms loosely around her waist from behind and letting his chin drop to her shoulder. “Yeah, I did,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss beneath her ear.
For a little while, everything is simple and nothing hurts. His warmth wraps around her like it’s shielding her from things she doesn’t even have names for. Things that live out there in interviews, in headlines, in the judgmental eyes of people who don’t know what they are, but question every single person that gets near Lando, one way or another. With him, right now, there is no hiding. There is only the sound of his breathing, and the way his thumbs circle softly over her stomach. The smell of his skin and the half-wet curls brushing against her temple.
She turns in his arms and rests her hands on his chest, fingers absently tracing the lines of muscle, then slides one up to gently push his hair back from his forehead. “Are you nervous?” she asks quietly. “About this weekend?”
Lando is silent, content to study her face for a moment. “Mm, dunno. Maybe a litte. Every year, it’s different but, I mean, it’s home.”
She nods, understanding very well the pressure he’s putting on himself to deliver in front of his home crowd. He’s told her stories of coming to the circuit as a kid, climbing fences just to get a better view of the garages. Of how his heart used to pound just from hearing the engines fire up. And now, he’s on the other side of the fence, while the crowd is chanting his name.
“I’m only asking because you get quiet around it,” she adds gently. “Not in a bad way,” the girl rushes to explain, “Just… stiller. So not like you.”
He frowns for a fraction. “How come?”
She shrugs. “Like you’re trying to hold something in. Apart from the obvious,” she tries to joke.
Suddenly, he’s quiet again, but this time there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I am.”
The girl steps closer, into the cradle of his body. Her hands settle at the nape of his neck at the same time her eyes fix on his. “You don’t have to around me, you know.”
“I know,” Lando assures her, and leans down to delicately press his lips on hers.
It’s not a hurried kiss. Just lazy, warm, and deeply familiar. The kind that speaks in layers to her: I hear you. I see you. Thank you for knowing the difference.
He kisses her again when they part, this time on her jaw, then her shoulder. “Thank you,” whispers Lando only for her to hear as if someone else can eavesdrop.
“For what?”
“For knowing when I’m pretending.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Of course she knows when he’s pretending. She’s got front-row seats at that show, and she watched him perform it for almost an entire year now.
“Anyway. I’ll be busy for chunks of the day. PT1 starts at 12:30, then straight into the engineering briefings after,” says Lando and, just like that, all the weight creeps back in. “I’ll try to come find you between things, but it might be tight,” he continues, making her stiffen slightly in his hold. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to notice. He watches her carefully, but doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry about me,” she tells him. “What time will the others get here?”
“Fuck if I know,” laughs Lando. “But I don’t want you stuck waiting around for me. Or any of them.”
She smiles faintly. “I won’t be. Besides, you know I’m happy just watching.”
“Still,” says Lando, resting a hand on her hip, squeezing it lightly, “I want you to have fun. Abuse that pass, alright?”
═════════════════════════
📍 Monte Carlo, Monaco | FIVE WEEKS LATER
THEY FUCKED A couple of hours ago. Her skin still carries the ghost of his hands and the way he moaned her name against her throat like it was the only word left in his vocabulary. And yet, they rolled up to the venue in different cars.
Lando didn’t even looked in her direction, although she’s sure that he noticed her. He didn’t come to casually greet her, either. Reserved, he spent most of his time around the birthday boy, taking over the DJ booth and downing shot after shot with his friends. That wouldn’t have been a problem for her because, after all, they are both here to celebrate Max. But what bothers her is that, over time, their relationship has gotten so well-defined in public that Lando has almost become two different people. He can change his behavior so quickly that it amazes her how effortlessly he seems to flip that switch.
This part doesn’t sit right with her, no matter how hard she tries to convince herself.
She knows why they do it, but tonight it feels cruel. It brings her back, whether she wants it to or not, to last year, when this whole thing began. Back when it was easy and fun, when she could sneak off with Lando without the weight of her heart in her chest, because there were no feelings involved then. They were just two friends, playing Monica and Chandler for a night.
Now, she walks into the party with a knot in her stomach.
The place is buzzing with the kind of manic vibe only Max can gather: mutual friends, a couple of drivers from his racing days, influencers, and enough bottles of champagne lined up to keep the night running until no one can walk straight the next morning. The lighting is flattering, a warm golden shade that cascades over the entire venue.
She smiles when she needs to, accepting a drink when it’s handed to her but for some reason, she feels like a fraud, even though she belongs here as much as everybody else.
Already tipsy and grinning ear to ear, Max snatches a mic, speaking into it louder than necessary. “Oi, alright! Before everyone gets absolutely trashed, we’re doing a photo, yeah? All of you on the terrace now. Come on.”
The group is noisy, half-drunk and impatient, everyone shuffling around on the terrace as they try to wedge themselves into frame, beneath a banner that screams Happy Birthday Max!
People laugh, tugging each other closer, arms looping over shoulders, champagne glasses raised at odd angles. The photographer looks exasperated already, waving at them to just stay still for five seconds.
Lando slips into the cluster of bodies as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulder brushing hers as he stakes his claim on the narrow space beside her. She feels the shift in her body before she even sees him, but that’s because she already knows his scent and the warmth radiating off him all too well. His arm folds loosely behind her, close enough that the tiny gap between gets heavy instantly. The line of his solid frame angles toward hers so familiar, his chest hovering just a breath behind her shoulder. And when she tilts her head the smallest fraction, it’s like they’re caught in orbit.
Lando might think he’s being slick, and she can tell. His expression is easy, careless even, like he hasn’t considered what the camera sees or what it could capture. But she can feel the weight of it: the way his proximity speaks louder than any touch, how her body leans almost imperceptibly into his without meaning to.
“Closer, closer!” the photographer calls out, making everyone laugh, stumbling into each other.
At that, Lando chuckles too, his palm landing firmly on her ass, fingers squeezing, as he uses it to pull her flush against him.
Her heart races so hard it’s a wonder she can keep a straight face. To conceal her expression, she tilts her champagne flute to her lips, lets the glass shield her, and stretches her mouth into a wide, glittering smile. To anyone watching, she’s just another friend enjoying the moment. Meanwhile, Lando looks like he’s forgotten entirely that they’re surrounded by people; his eyes are bright and his grin way too smug.
He leans down, lips brushing lightly against her ear, “Can you believe no one here knows I’ve had you twice today?”
Her knees nearly buckle, and that’s when the camera clicks. The flash freezes them in the act: her body tucked into his like it belongs there, Lando’s head bent toward her ear, his hand hidden but very much there. No one pays attention to them, too busy laughing and stumbling out of frame for the next drink after it’s done.
It’s right under their noses, she thinks.
A closeness that doesn’t belong in the background of a birthday picture. Or… under the table, a few hours later.
The music has grown louder now. Everyone is flushed yet still energized, lost in conversations and unfinished drinks. It’s the perfect cover for Lando to switch the flip again.
She sits with her phone in hand, eyes down, pretending to scroll as if she’s reading something really important that has her undivided attention. In reality, it’s the only shield she has against the warmth that’s growing inside her.
Under the table, Lando’s hand is on her thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against bare skin where her dress has ridden up. Every pass is so gentle, enough to make her nerves spark like live wires.
“Lando,” she protests, lips barely moving. “Can you stop that?”
She can’t look at him without blushing, but she feels the smirk curve his lips even before he answers. “Relax. Everyone’s too drunk to notice.”
Her thumb taps uselessly on her screen, trying her best to ignore a touch that has become so normalized behind the closed doors. She wouldn’t have believed that Lando was such a touchy guy, but can’t complain about his need to have his hands on her at all times either.
“This dress,” Lando pauses to drag his thumb slowly along the hem, brushing her skin in a way that makes her spine straighten. “You look like an angel. From every angle. I can’t stop staring.”
The girl swallows the lump in her throat, forcing her face to remain impassive, as though she’s still absorbed in whatever is on her phone.
And then he leans closer, adding, “Can’t wait to get you home and take it off you.”
Everything around fades, leaving just the weight of his hand on her thigh. She turns her head then, finally meeting his smug grin with curious eyes. “Since when are you the type to wait?”
The words land like a dare and, before Lando can reply, she pushes his hand away, the absence of his touch a cold shock, and stands. Her dress clings to her thighs as she adjusts it, then she gives him one last look, slipping away from the table with the faintest sway of her hips.
Lando frowns, caught off guard. For a moment, he stays put, watching her disappear into the crowd and down the hall. Then instinct takes over. He glances left, then right, ensuring no one is paying him too much attention, before sliding out of his seat and following her while keeping a careful distance that he’s been perfecting over months of hiding.
The various sounds muffle as they move through the hallway, shadows swallowing the chatter until it’s just them. Lando shuts the bathroom door with a soft click and then his hand is on her throat in a heartbeat. The motion is fast, almost desperate, and he kisses her hard, crushing their mouths together like it’s the only language he knows. The subtle burn of alcohol lingers on their tongues as though the champagne is still fizzing between their lips. None of them minds it though. If anything, they welcome each other in like they always do.
Her back hits the door, rattling against the frame, and she doesn’t hesitate before her fingers dive into his curls, tugging with enough force to make him wince.
Lando groans against her mouth, breaking the kiss only to breathe and question, “What’s wrong with you tonight?” he pants, tight with frustration, but there’s a trace of worry behind his voice too.
Her chest rises quickly in uneven breaths, his curiosity only making her emotional. She wants to cry. Scream. Confess. But instead, she steels herself, building walls brick by brick before she can collapse.
“We’ve had a good run,” she admits, “But I think we should stop after this.”
Her words take her by surprise too, causing them both to pause, their mouths still pressed together. Slowly, Lando pulls away from her, his lips lingering on hers before parting, as if they are not ready to say goodbye yet.
Standing still, his hand slackening against her throat, Lando’s eyes search for her, studying her face like he didn’t hear her right. The girl doesn’t give him the chance to ask any other questions. Her gaze drops to his chest then down at the floor, anywhere but his eyes, because if she looks at him now, everything will crumble under the weight of her mixed feelings.
“No… why?” tries Lando, his voice suddenly so small. “Did something happen? Did anyone—”
“Nothing happened,” she rushes to say. “We made very sure of that.”
The silence that follows is uncomfortable for the first time they’ve known each other. She can hear his heavy breathing and his snort, which suggests that he can’t quite figure out what brought her to this conclusion.
“Yeah, we did,” Lando points out. “So what’s the matter? I thought this was what we both wanted, right? We’re good.”
“It was,” she replies, failing to add at first. But not anymore.
Lando looks at her as if he sees a completely different person in front of him. “Then what?” his eyebrows arch high on his forehead.
She sighs. “Then nothing. Do you want to fuck me or not?”
“What?” he freezes, the insult of it knocking the breath out of him. It’s been a while since Lando had been left speechless, but now it’s like his entire brain shut down. He just takes a step back, clenching his jaw in frustration. “No,” he continues, taken aback by her sudden bluntness.
“No?” she repeats, unable to believe that his rejection is final.
“No. Not like that. Baby, what the fuck?”
Her throat tightens. “Alright, got it. Cheers, mate,” she reaches for the door, but Lando is faster. He kicks it shut with his foot, the sound echoing through the small space like a gunshot.
“The hell you’re walking out on me like that,” he says, breathless but firm.
“Like what, Lando?” her voice is shaking slightly but refusing to break. “We’ve already got what we wanted from this, so why does it matter what happens after?”
His nostrils flare. “Don’t go there.”
“Why not?” she bites back. “The second we walk out of here, I go back to nothing anyway.”
His voice is so close to breaking into desperation next time he speaks, “It’s not nothing, and you know it. Do you even get how fucking hard it is not to touch you when you’re right there?”
Her laugh is hollow. “But that’s pretty much about it, isn’t it?”
Lando can’t stop the humourless laugh that slips past his lips, “Oh, wow. You think that’s all I want from you? Really?”
Her eyes flicker up, even though her chest aches as she forces the response out. “If anyone saw us right now, that’s exactly what they’d think too.”
The remark ignites a storm inside him. His jaw tightens again, voice climbing in volume a little. “Are you serious?”
“Dead. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Jesus, if all I wanted was an easy fuck, I could’ve had someone new every night,” the jab lands, sharper than he meant it to. He sees it in the way her face hardens, in the way her shoulders straighten like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Then maybe you should. If it’s that easy for you, then go do it, and leave me the hell out of it,” she turns on her heel before he can say anything else, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the hinges.
The slam echoes, final and merciless, right into Lando’s face.
“Fuck,” he breathes, kicking at the bottom of the door before slamming his fist into it, the sharp sting radiating through his knuckles.
For a long moment, he struggles to understand how everything spiraled this fast. How something that felt so simple turned into such a mess in a blink of an eye.
═════════════════════════
“MATE, YOU’RE TRENDING on Twitter,” says Max once Lando gets back to their table.
He blinks, still affected by the bathroom confrontation, the words barely sinking in. “What?” he asks, snatching Max’s phone before he can think better of it.
His thumb swipes across the screen, and his chest goes cold: the group snap from earlier is already reposted everywhere, either cropped or zoomed in. Or cropped and zoomed in. The tweets and replies are endless, and they keep coming, forcing his eyes to go over dozens of them in the shortest time:
landosarchives
Group photo looks normal until you zoom in *insert Lando’s hyena laugh* is he aware he’s not subtle AT ALL?
⤷ grussell63 right?? Lando all up on that girl in the back LMAO.
⤷ nocontextf1 the hand placement is weird tho, who is she 👀
⤷ charlesless Are you guys okay? Like, in the head?
⤷ fullsend NO. look at his arm!!! ass grab + leaning in is insane behavior since he claims he’s single with every occasion he gets
5s4ocon
Debate of the evening: what’s actually happening in this photo?
1️⃣ Whispering something dumb
2️⃣ Kissing her cheek
3️⃣ Hard launch (by accident)
Poll ends in 24h
⤷ fromthepitsoff1hell combo between 2&3, guaranteed
⤷ papayacore I love you guys but some of you are delusionalllll
⤷ letsgoln4 No bc what’s that angle ://
⤷ teabreak.f1 can we talk about hand placement? im losing my shit the man is a GRABBER
⤷ goat_pastry Leaning angle = whisper. Hand placement = no comment 😗😗
⤷ russellesque_attitude also why is everyone pretending we can actually see his mouth? the girl is like 3 rows back. stop being obsessed lol
⤷ lnfourette ok but how close is he though…
⤷ dnf1 doing FBI-level analysis over a birthday pic. can we not 🤢
f1girliesassemble
idc what anyone says, lando’s hand is NOT where it should be in this photo 😭😭
⤷ de.lulu.44 girl that’s literally her waist 💀
⤷ f1girliesassemble r u blind 🍑.🍑
55operator
he either said ‘cheese’ or ‘bend over’ there’s no way in between
aston.m14
the girl in the black dress next to lando >>> who is sheee???
⤷ cutthechicane i checked the people in the post but no one’s tagged :(
⤷ pookietsunoda cutthechicane then she’s either a gf or someone lowkey 👀👀
⤷ papayarulezzz SHUT UP lando would not hard launch at max’s party of all places
⤷ sunshinepiastri papayarulezzz obviously, but judging by how everybody reacted so far, what makes you think this was planned lmao
tea_formulas
bro the way his entire palm is curved around her hip is killing me. which one of y’all are holdin your friends like that speak 🤨
gri77thegr1d
imagine being her. u get a kiss from ln in the middle of a photo while his hand is planted on u?? like that?? when’s the wedding LandoNorris
⤷ yukisdinner imagine being her when the internet finds out who you r tho... YIKES.
⤷ nando.lorris i think i found her insta oop 👀👀👀
⤷ landowecanbewc nando.lorris can you send it to me?
⤷ nando.lorris landowecanbewc dms :)
⤷ tripod_10 nando.lorris me too pls
⤷ landosformula nando.lorris ME THREE!
“Well, shit,” exhales Lando on the verge of panic, as he slowly hands the phone back to Max. When he lifts his eyes, his best friend is already staring at him, waiting; somehow, Max doesn’t expect an explanation. He already put the pieces together.
“What now?” asks Max.
Lando shakes his head, not knowing what to reply. Instead, “Where’d she go?”
Max shifts in his seat, his expression tightening with a mix of concern and reluctant understanding. “She came to me earlier. Said she had fun, but had to leave.”
“Do you think she knows anything about this?” asks Lando, pointing at Max’s phone.
“Not yet, I dont’t think so. But I reckon it won’t take long to find out if she opens her apps.”
He wants to add something more to that, maybe even come at Lando’s throat for acting like they’re not close enough to tell him what’s been happening in his personal life lately. But Max decides to leave all that for later, because he sees that his friend is currently in distress, his internal wheels working overtime in order to find the quickest way to fix this.
But before Lando can get up, Max catches his arm, searching his face. His eyes flick once to the phone screen still lit up with speculation, then back to his friend. Is it true?
Lando swallows, his jaw working. He doesn’t bother with excuses, and definitely doesn’t have the energy for lies. He just gives the smallest of nods, almost imperceptible. Yes.
═════════════════════════
IT DOESN’T TAKE him long to find her. Truthfully, it doesn’t take him any time at all, because even in her anger, even when she walks away from him with the kind of attitude that makes his stomach knot, Lando knows her well enough to guess there’s only one place she’d go to hide: home.
By the time she opens the door, he’s half out of breath, curls sticking to his forehead, shirt a little wrinkled like he hasn’t bothered to fix himself since leaving Max’s party.
She doesn’t even ask him what’s wrong. Instead, her voice comes out clipped. “Max’s picture is all over my feed.”
Initially, he says nothing, just stares at her, as though he hadn’t expected her to start there. Then he pushes past, uninvited but not unwelcome, slipping into the familiarity of her flat like it’s second nature.
“I know,” says Lando, dragging a hand through his hair. “But it doesn’t matter, right? No one knows who you are. They can speculate all they want, but I’ll make sure it never goes—”
The girl shuts the door behind him with more force than necessary in order to silent him, the sound echoing like a period at the end of a sentence. “Shut up, Lando.”
For once, he does.
“It’s whatever. I don’t mind,” she admits, her affirmation hanging between them, unexpected. And for the hundredth time tonight, he looks genuinely off balance.
“Of course you do,” Lando blinks, trying to square it with everything they’ve built: the months of secrecy, of slipping out the back doors and timed arrivals, of keeping their laughter and their touches tucked safely behind locked doors. “This was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to protect you from this.”
She crosses the living room, sinking into the couch with a grace that doesn’t feel natural, like she’s measuring his every movement, waiting for him to join her. The champagne has worn off, leaving only clarity behind. Her hands fold in her lap, gaze slipping away from him to somewhere far away. Perhaps to simpler times, when they didn’t have to stress about every step they took, either forward or backward.
“I know what we agreed,” she finally speaks in her soft voice, the sweet cadence he loves so much. “But I am exhausted. Aren’t you?”
Her confession curls into the silence like a claw around his lungs. Truthfully, he is, but Lando can’t go back to the way it was a year ago, before all this. Not when they went through so much together — a relationship that offered them more joy than sadness. Taken aback, he realizes that up until tonight, they never had a real argument. He used to get upset when she watched their show in advance, and she always scolded him when he left his clothes scattered around the apartment, whether it was at his place or hers. But nothing more serious than that. The realization settles with a kind of heaviness in his chest, one that Lando can’t quite disguise.
She finally looks back at him again. The anger from earlier is long gone. What’s left is something more complicated. A longing, a weariness. A love that hurts because it feels trapped between worlds that are so different.
“I don’t mind if they know,” she repeats. “Hiding what we have doesn’t make it any less real, does it? In time, it just made it harder.”
Her statement knocks something loose in him. Lando finally sits, not next to her but close enough, like he’s giving her space even though every part of him aches to close the distance. Then, he searches her face, desperately trying to understand the direction they’re now heading in, full throttle.
The fact that she is calm does not calm him down. That could mean that what she told him in the bathroom earlier still applies. And if that’s the case, he cannot come to terms with that scenario yet.
“Are we done?” her head lifts like she just heard a loud noise, caught off guard. Lando’s eyes are on her, a flicker of panic behind the question he hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. He swallows then tries again, “Like, for real? Is this it?”
The girl exhales slowly, leaning back into the couch cushions. Her hands twist together as she tries to choose her words. “I don’t know, Lando. I’m not quite in the mood to think about it right now.”
It’s like a knife twists in unison with her admission, but he understands. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “If that’s the case, I don’t want to lose you,” he confesses before managing to filter his thoughts. “I’m just… I’m trying to keep you safe. Keep us safe. That’s all I’ve ever been doing.”
She studies him, searching for more than he gives her at the moment, and when she finally speaks, it’s enough to make him flinch. “Safe doesn’t mean happy. Plus, you can find yours in someone new every night, apparently.”
Lando blushes instantly, the memory slamming into him like a slap. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologizes in a small voice, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “It was stupid. I was just pissed off at the situation you simply threw at me out of the blue.”
She smiles, but it’s not genuine. “You made it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he cuts in quickly, finally meeting her eyes again. There’s no flippancy now, no cocky grin to hide behind, just honesty. “But even if it was, why would I want to? I already have what I need. With you. You’re the only one who makes it feel like I can stop racing for a second.”
Her throat constricts, forcing her to look away before the sting in her eyes can betray her. Because as much as she wants to believe him, it’s hard to accept it’s true. And excuses don’t erase the heaviness that’s pressing between them.
She opens her mouth to add to Lando’s confession, but her phone lights up on the coffee table in front of them, vibrating once. The sound cuts through the quiet of her apartment, pulling both of them out of the mood that they’ve been sinking into.
She reaches for it out of habit, finding a message from Max on the screen:
MAX F.
You good? Did Lando find you?
Her heart skips a beat, feeling his eyes on her in an instant, a brow raised in question.
“It’s Max,” she explains.
Lando huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, but there’s tension in the way his shoulders stay coiled as he watches her typing something back quickly.
Yeah. He’s with me.
The next notification pulls her eyes down before she can stop herself.
MAX F.
Good. Tell lover boy I said hi. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.
Her lips twitch upwards, and for a little while, the knot in her chest loosens. A smile breaks free, real this time, making her giddy at the thought that these two always have each other’s backs the way they do.
“What’s so funny?” asks Lando.
She hesitates for a second, then turns the phone around so he can watch the realization dawn on her face. “Max knows,” she says simply.
A weight that she’s been carrying for months slips just a little, and for the first time since this began, it feels really good. Good that someone else knows. Good that their secret isn’t locked so tightly it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Good that they exist outside the four walls of hotel rooms and closed doors.
It makes them real, because now, they exist as an item in someone else’s perspective too.
Her smile fades a little as she sets the phone aside, fingers brushing against her knees. “I don’t want to keep secrets anymore, Lando,” she says. “But I’m also not ready to fully commit to this. I’m sure you can see why,” she adds reluctantly, referring to the media situation.
Lando doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds hers, big enough to cover hers completely, curling around her small fingers. His thumb brushes gently over the back of her hand. “I do,” he nods. “But if you give me the chance, I’ll make it my life’s purpose to make everything easier for you. Worth every bit of the chaos that comes with me.”
═════════════════════════
📍 Somewhere in the Mediterranean
Liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and others
lando off the market for quite a while now, ladies and gents. really happy btw, cheers for allowing me to keep this part of my life private. cya after the break ✌🏼
Comments...
maxfewtrell oops.
⤷ formula.gossip bro forces his bro to come clean about his rship and all he says is oops 💀😭
ln444 “allowing me to keep this part of my life private” after the absolute chaos that pic caused on Twitter is CRAZY work lando 😭😭
⤷ itsnearafish ikr i heard people already found her socials. he’s subtly begging us to leave him alone LOL
oscarpiastri Finally.
⤷ lando tf u mean finally??
⤷ oscarpiastri For someone who has their driver’s room next to yours at all times, I know enough. Against my will, may I add
⤷ lando sweet.
⤷ f1teabreak oscarpiastri don’t be shy, tell us more
⤷ oscarpiastri f1teabreak What do you wanna know?
⤷ lando oscarpiastri oscarpiastri oscarpiastri 🤡??
carlossainz55 A lot to talk about on our next golf trip no?
⤷ lando 😏😏😏
ln4.fans everybody say thank you for your service max
⤷ l4nd0p1 okay but like. this is still the cutest thing ever. let him be happy 🥹💙
⤷ offtrackdrama Cute?? He lied for over a year and now he comes online and demands privacy from people. Such a joke.
⤷ ln4.fans lmao imagine being this pressed over a public person who’s choosing to date out of the public eye 💀💀
pitlanelurker NAH. this is clearly damage control after Max’s bday post 😭 he panicked
⤷ all.about.that.f1grid I think he saw people started to drag his girl online and he had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately 😤💕
⤷ el_plan_14 he’s a good man savannah 🫶🏽
xoxof1gg I know it’s supposed to be sweet but why do I feel like he’s hiding her somehow 🫠
⤷ russellsgap because he IS. he doesn’t want us to know who she is
⤷ 81pastries good. they deserve privacy.
@landooscurls Imagine hiding her from us all year
⤷ @trashytracktales two can keep a secret if at least one of them is madly in love ;)
THE ECHO OF the waves hadn’t really left them once they got back inside. Their sound is ghosting faintly through the open balcony doors, salt and warmth still clinging to the air of the hotel suite. Lando sits half naked propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his comments, liking and replying to some of them, his thumb dragging across the screen without focus. His curls are still a bit wet from the shower, and his skin carries a subtle trace of deep pink that only comes from sitting in the sun an entire day.
She moves barefoot across the cool floor, tugging a loose shirt over her thighs. Her skin smells of sea spray, her cheeks flushed from the shower she just got out of. The exhaustion in her limbs makes her movements languid, like the tide itself is still pulling at her. When she finally slips into bed, Lando doesn’t think twice before setting his phone down on the nightstand, catching her wrist before she can roll to her side. A quick tug and suddenly she’s straddling him, her knees sinking into the mattress, his hands finding their way to her hips like they always do.
“What’s the verdict?” the girl asks with a little nervousness behind her voice, even though she tries to mask it as casual. Her fingers toy with the chain around his neck, twisting it lightly.
Lando exhales through his nose, slightly amused. “Mixed feelings,” he says, eyes catching hers. “Some think it’s sweet, some think I lied, some are just here for the memes.”
“I definitely am here for the memes,” she says, earning a small smile in return.
His lips quirk, though a subtle weariness lingers behind them. “I just hope it’ll die down eventually.”
She tilts her head. “That’s a bit optimistic.”
He nudges her side, making her laugh despite herself. “I said hope, not expect. Besides,” he goes on, squeezing her waist, “You should see the theories about who you are. They’re convinced you’re a hired model, just based on Max’s picture.”
“A model?” she asks. “How did they even get there?”
Lando shrugs. “Yeah,” he grins, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’re not wrong, though. You could be.”
“Not gonna happen,” she leans closer, shaking her head as her nose brush against his.
His voice drops slightly. “What if you model for me only?”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrays her. “Well, that can be arranged.”
As a response, Lando leans in, letting his lips ghost teasingly against hers before kissing her properly. A kiss that empties her lungs and fills her with weightless tenderness. A kiss they’ve shared so many times before, but it didn’t quite feel like this, old and new at the same time.
“Thank you,” he whispers when he pulls back, quiet enough to sound like a secret. “For walking into my life like that, and for staying.”
She just looks at him, not trusting her voice enough to speak without spilling a tear or two. Instead, she kisses him harder, pouring all her gratitude and want into the press of her mouth against his. It draws a delicious sound out of him, a whimper that tangles with her own as their hips shift closer. Her weight settles over him as a result, and the friction is enough to make them both gasp at the feeling.
Lando’s hands waste no time, slipping under the hem of her shirt, palms skimming the warm skin of her waist and stomach before traveling higher. His smile turns wicked when he discovers she’s all bare beneath it, his fingers curling and pulling her closer, like even if they merged, it still wouldn’t be close enough.
She whimpers, her breath shuddering as his thumbs trace tiny circles into the soft flesh. The rhythm is coaxing, but the tension between them builds as fast as it always did. Instinctively, her hips rock against him like muscle memory, and the solid heat she finds beneath the thin fabric of his shorts makes her pulse throb deep in her core. As a response to her action, Lando reacts by letting out another string of needy noises, as if she’s stripping away every last shred of composure he pretends to hold. His tongue brushes hungry against hers, and every drag of his mouth feels like a claim.
Ever since everything got out in the open, a new fire spreads through her chest whenever she thinks about it. One born not of fear that the people can find out who she is at any moment, but of knowing; everybody knows now. Lando is no longer hers in secret. He’s hers, period.
Impatient, he cups her thighs harder, his his cock pressing thick and insistent between her legs. Her kiss turns desperate at the feel of him, teeth grazing his lip, and when Lando hisses into her mouth, she smiles through the kiss, knowing he wants much more. So, she helps him shove his shorts down, freeing him underneath her. The sight alone makes her mouth water, but before he can even try to flip their positions, she presses a steady palm to his bare chest.
“Let me,” she says, and the determination alone has him sinking back against the headboard. For a fraction, Lando looks at her like he wants to argue, because he needs to be the one in control more than ever. But then her hand wraps around him without warning, and his protest dies in a choked breath.
Her other palm traces soothing lines down his thigh, assuring him that he’s going to be taken care of, before she leans forward to kiss along his chest. Upward, soft little brushes of her lips over the hollow of his throat, the angle of his jaw, until his body starts to loosen beneath her. And the moment her hand starts stroking along his length, his lips twitch, the barest flicker of a smile breaking through his parted lips.
That alone encourages her to stroke with more intention.
“Oh, fuck,” he whines, hips jerking up to meet her, helpless yet excited. His chest heaves in uneven rhythm, breath catching on every exhale as the sweet, involuntary sounds spill from his throat.
She can’t help but look down at the picture he makes with flushed skin, curls damp against his forehead, and his cock ready and flushed in her hand, a sense of pride blooming in her chest. He’s gorgeous like this, without even knowing how much it turns her on to have him laid bare for her.
The girl drags her fist over him too slowly for Lando’s liking, but she knows exactly what she’s doing. He can tell judging by the way she looks at him, and by the pressure of her thumb swirling over his slit until precum beads and drips down his shaft.
She lets a satisfied sound out of her mouth, making Lando’s head tip against her shoulder, letting a moan out as he forces himself to watch her movements.
“Say you’re mine,” he says mostly to himself, body arching into her. “So I don’t fucking forget it when I see the shit they post online.”
Her free hand wraps around the chain around his neck like a snake, pulling him towards her. “All yours, Lan,” she breathes in unison with him. “We should’ve let them find out sooner, hm? Let them know how easily you get me soaked.”
The thought makes his cock throb in her hand.
It’s the way she knows exactly what turns him on, because she knows him better than anyone. That unravels him, catching them both off guard. His hips stutter as his orgasm rips through him, spilling hot and slick over her fingers.
She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch as her strokes stay steady, pushing him further than he thinks he can take.
“That’s a good boy, aren’t you?” she whispers. The praise makes his cock twitch in her hand again, still hard, still throbbing even through the aftershocks.
“Yes,” he moans. “Fucking hell, what are you doing?” louder this time, too far gone to care. His hand shoots up, wrapping around hers, their fingers curling together as they keep stroking him simultaneously, precise and relentless. “Need you,” Lando groans, sounding more desperate than he’d like. His hips thrust into their joined grip, his forehead pressed into her shoulder. “Need to be inside you. Baby, please.”
She breathes wetly against his cheek. “Shit. They’d never believe me if I told them you’re whining for my pussy like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive, would they?”
The worst part is that she’s already a mess herself, wet and aching, every nerve lit up from watching him fall all over their hands. The need in his voice only feeds the fire already burning in her stomach, threatening to consume her sooner rather than later.
With a satisfied sound, Lando grabs her and shifts her onto his lap, his fingers curling tight around her waist. He can’t help but admire how well she fits against him, the sight making his chest full, her thighs bracketing his hips and sweet warmth pressing against the hard line of him. His palms span her skin easily, guiding her into place as if she weighs nothing. The second her core settles over his lap, right where he needs her, he has to bite his lower lip, fighting back the embarrassingly needy moan clawing up his throat.
He can feel her, all slick and hot, every shift of her hips sending a pulse of heat through his own body, his cock quivering against her, begging for more.
Impatient, he slides one hand down between them, his fingers brushing over her soaked folds. The wetness coats his fingertips instantly, and he lets out a low laugh, teasing her, “All this just from getting me off?”
Her eyes close, but Lando doesn’t give her long to hide, because he pushes inside in one gentle motion, meeting no resistance at all. He groans at the way her body clenches immediately, velvety walls pulling him in deeper with every curl of his fingers.
“Look at you,” his voice is rough with awe. “So perfect like this.”
With a gasp, her hands fly to his shoulders, clutching for balance as he works his fingers inside her, stretching her open.
“Dripping already,” Lando notices, brushing his thumb over her clit as he pumps into her. His eyes flick up to hers, only to find her buzzing already. “That eager for me to fuck your pretty hole, baby?”
Her only answer is to roll her hips, riding his fingers, using his hand for her own pleasure. He grins, his free hand tightening around her waist, anchoring her to him even as she writhes.
“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in a bit closer. “That’s what you want, hm? My cock instead of my fingers? Or...”
The desperate little sound she makes in response nearly throws him into a spiral. His thumb circles her clit faster, while his fingers scissor her entrance with every movement, dragging against that sensitive spot that makes her nails dig into his shoulders.
She moves against him, breathing heavily while chasing that sweet edge. Lando keeps holding her, his eyes locked on her every expression. Her body is quickly shuddering, trembling, and it only makes his cock throb harder. Unable to hold back, the hand on her waist moves down, curling around his length instead, already leaking and pulsing with the need for her. He groans at his own touch, jerking himself slowly while she squirms on his fingers. Then, with a sharp exhale, he guides the swollen head to her entrance, where his fingers are already buried, coaxing her body open.
“Fuck…” he swears, eyes closing shut for a moment. The contrast of his thick length pressing in alongside his fingers nearly wrecks them both at the same time.
She lets out a strangled moan as the head of him finally slips past her entrance, stretching her until her walls are clinging around both his cock and his fingers. She feels so full that her brain is soon short-circuiting under the sheer overload of sensation. “Lando, oh my god.”
He groans at the sound of her pleasure, overwhelmed by both the squeeze and the unbearable heat of her. “Shit, baby. You’re sucking me in. So tight like that,” his voice breaks as his hips flex up pushing deeper, careful but relentless, until he’s fully seated inside her.
Her nails scrape down his shoulders, back arching as the pressure tips over into more pleasure. He watches her face twist and crumble with every roll of his hips, and the sight alone can make him come. But then she starts to move, rocking, lifting, and sinking back down onto him with desperation. He meets her halfway, driving his hips upward in careful thrusts that push his cock and fingers into her over and over, filling her so thoroughly she can barely breathe.
The sounds their bodies make are slick, every thrust squelching as his cock slides into her soaked heat, his fingers still pumping. Soon, the room fills with shared echoes, that always come back to them: her delicious cries, his ragged curses, and the slap of their bodies meeting all over again.
Overpowered, she bows as the tension inside her finally snaps. The orgasm rips through her, violent and all-consuming, her thighs trembling as slick gushes down between them, soaking both of them. Her moans are shooting through him, muscles tightening until he can barely move. At that, Lando follows her lead, dragging his fingers out of her drenched body, coated to the knuckle. He barely has time to marvel at the sight before he grips her waist with both hands now and takes over, continuing to thrust up into her with urgency; it’s like he needs to etch himself into her until she’ll never forget the feel of him.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants, eyes fixed on her tear-streaked face, the way her mouth falls open with every sharp thrust. “They’d lose their fucking minds if they saw you this wrecked on my cock. My dirty little secret, yeah? Except you’re not a secret anymore. No... everyone’s picturing me inside you right now.”
She shakes with overstimulation, gasping and whining with every stroke of his cock. But even through the overwhelming rush of it, she clings tighter, nails raking down his back, silently begging him not to stop. Ever. And he doesn’t. He can’t, not when every squeeze of her body around him drags him closer to the edge, and definitely not when the sound of her makes his chest ache with more than lust.
“Such a pretty girl, letting me hear how good I fuck you.”
Just like that, Lando is losing the fight with his own lungs, every breath breaking ragged against her chest as his hips snap in uneven thrusts. She’s still wearing her shirt, damp with sweat now, but he couldn’t care less as he mouths at her through the thin fabric, tongue circling until her nipple peaks against the cotton. The sensation makes her jolt, a whimper breaking free as her body reacts to him without warning. The squeeze rips another helpless whine from Lando’s throat, so he buries his face deeper into her chest, muffling his sounds against her while her fingers fist into his hair, keeping him exactly where he is.
She rides him with determination, bouncing despite the exhaustion etched into her trembling limbs, her body so far past overstimulation that it feels like she’s coming with every drag of his cock inside her.
“Mine,” she gasps silently, his rhythm shattering as his body takes over.
Lando’s hips jerk wildly upward, instinct driving him deeper, until he finds the perfect thrust that finally pushes him over the edge. He tenses, every muscle straining before the release hits him in a wave so powerful it tears the air from his lungs. A high, whiny moan slips from him as his cock pulses violently inside her, spilling thick warmth that fills her to the brim. She breathes heavily at the sensation, her walls clenching greedily like she refuses to let him go. The pressure tips her over again, pleasure biting at her clit as she grinds down on him, shuddering through another messy release that leaves slick over his length.
Their sobs and gasps mix together as their bodies finally surrender, exhausted and wrung out. Her strength gives way, and she collapses onto him, her hair sticking to her flushed face and neck. His chest heaves against hers, sweat and salt and the humid press of their bodies melting them together in a bubble that’s just theirs.
She can feel the sticky warmth between them, but when Lando shifts slightly beneath her, trying to angle her more comfortably against his body, the movement makes his still-softening cock slip, and with it, their release spills hot all over them. He groans at the sensation, a sound equal parts overstimulated and cocky, his lips brushing her ear.
“See how much of me you can take?” he chuckles, brushing his nose across her cheek.
Her laugh bubbles out breathless but full of warmth, her body vibrating with the sound against his. She hides her face in his sweaty neck, giggling despite her exhaustion, while his arms lock tighter around her waist.
When her breathing finally evens out, her body melting boneless above his, she speaks shily, “That thing you did with your fingers,” Lando tilts his head, humming questioningly, but she continues, cheeks warming even though the room is dim. “I couldn’t breathe for a second.”
Lando’s hand, still splayed over her waist, freezes. His brows furrow, guilt flickering across his face even through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss. “Shit. I didn’t even think,” he says, regret lacing his tone. “Sorry if I pushed it.”
Her laugh is soft yet a little shaky, but there’s no mistaking the honesty in it. She tilts her face up, catching his eyes in the dark. “No, it felt so good. Weird at first, but so good.”
He smiles, relieved. “Yeah? So next time,” his grin deepens, mischief sparking despite his exhaustion, “We should do it with a toy?”
She sighs, swatting at his chest. “That’s pushing.”
“That’s innovative,” he corrects with mock seriousness, but his voice is already giving out, weighed down with yawns he can’t quite hold back.
Their banter drifts lazily into the quiet, and when that’s all she can hear, her fingers find his nipple in playful revenge, giving it a sharp pinch; Lando jolts, half whining, half laughing.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” she says. “I’m not waking up in this mess.”
He smirks, eyes closing shut anyway as he buries his face in her hair. “We’re official now. You’re gonna wake up in a mess either way.”
She knows that. She had time to think about it on her way home earlier. However, the thought didn’t scare her then, and it doesn’t scare her now. Because she realized that no mess can be that bad as long as they clean it up together.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
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