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papayainsectorone · 21 days ago

Text

Pregame Paddock Entertainment.

summary: what starts as playful jealousy simmers into something hotter, dirtier, and undeniably possessive. a little tension. a little show.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, friends-to-lovers, smut, public sex (semi), jealousy, possessiveness (playful), oral sex (f receiving), dom-ish lando

word count: 2.5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

The paddock hums with its usual chaos—cameras clicking in rapid bursts, pit crews weaving between garages, lanyards swinging with purpose. Nothing’s changed, not really. Same crowd. Same noise. Same familiar rhythm of race weekend life.

But you feel different.

You’re still playing your usual part—half a step behind Lando, fingers curled around a cold bottle of water, sunglasses perched high on your nose. You smile when people greet you, laugh at the right moments, pluck fruit from the McLaren snack table without guilt. To everyone else, you’re still just his best friend. The girl who’s always around. The one who knows the engineers by name and knows better than to post from the garage.

But underneath it all, there’s a quiet hum in your chest. A steady, simmering confidence. Because you know something no one else does.

And it’s not guilt. It’s not nerves. It’s not even about hiding it. It’s just... yours. You wear it like a secret laced into your skin: the kind of knowing that adds a little extra sway to your hips and a slight smirk when Lando’s hand brushes a little too close to your lower back on the walk in.

You’re still basking in that quiet heat when Charles finds you.

“There she is,” he says, strolling over like the air bends for him. He’s in Ferrari red, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy like he hasn’t stopped since morning. God, he’s unreal—sunlight catching on his jaw, that accent already waiting to ruin you.

You smirk. “Already looking for me? Race day flirting starting early?”

He laughs, low and amused, glancing you over. “You look different today. Glowy.” His tone is playful, but his eyes search your face like he’s trying to place the change. “Something good happen?”

You raise your brows, feigning innocence. “Maybe it’s just the lighting.”

Charles narrows his eyes, like he knows there’s more to it. Because of course he does. You’ve been trading barbs and glances for months now, both of you too charming for your own good, too smart to let it go anywhere—except for that one night, the post-race blur where champagne turned to tequila and tequila turned into you pressed against a bar stool with his lips on yours.

It hadn’t gone further. Not really. But he remembers. And so do you.

Now, he steps just a little closer, enough for his voice to drop. “You’re walking around like you’ve got secrets.”

You grin. “Maybe I do.”

A beat passes between you, heavy with heat and things left unsaid.

Then Lando calls your name from behind, laughing about something you didn’t hear. You turn your head toward him, and just for a second, Charles follows your gaze—and the way Lando’s eyes stay on you a moment too long.

Charles looks back at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

He leans in a little, that easy grin on his face. “If it’s the lighting, I want some of it.”

You laugh, the sound instinctive, effortless. You swat his arm like always—light, playful, maybe lingering a second too long. But even before you glance beside you, you feel the shift.

Lando hasn’t said a word.

No quick-witted jab. No teasing smirk. Just silence. Stillness.

You turn your head, and sure enough—he’s watching. Not glaring. Not even frowning. Just... quiet. His jaw’s set tighter than usual, brows faintly drawn, like he’s working out a calculation in his head he doesn’t particularly like the result of.

And that feels different, too.

Charles doesn’t notice. Or he does, and he plays through it anyway, cool as ever. He shifts his weight against the wall like he belongs in a photoshoot, casually hot in a way he’s never had to try for. His eyes flick back to you.

“There’s a party Sunday night,” he says, his voice velvet-wrapped in that maddening Monaco-French lilt. “I’d love it if you came.”

The corner of your mouth quirks before you can stop it. “You know I love a good party.”

You don’t even think twice as you glance over your shoulder. “Lando, you coming?”

“Yeah.” His reply is immediate, automatic. “Of course. I was actually gonna ask you about it.”

But his tone—flat, a hair too precise—gives him away. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to be sharp if you know how to listen. And you do.

Charles doesn’t seem to hear it. Or chooses not to. He flashes that signature grin, gives you a two-finger salute, and disappears into the paddock like nothing about the moment just shifted.

Lando’s eyes follow him until he rounds the corner. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

The walk across the paddock isn’t unusual. You and Lando side by side, slipping through clusters of people calling out greetings, dodging a few cameras, pausing to talk to someone from Red Bull you only sort of know. It’s familiar—routine, even—but something’s off.

Not in a dramatic way. Just... quieter.

Lando’s usually running commentary, sarcasm, muttered jokes, snide impressions of other drivers is conspicuously missing. Instead, he walks with his hands in his pockets, gaze distant, mouth drawn in thought. Not sulking, just... somewhere else.

You figure it’s paddock fatigue. Or maybe pre-race mode. You’ve seen it before. No big deal. That’s what you tell yourself.

But the energy sticks to you, follows you both into the McLaren motorhome. You make your way through the familiar halls until you’re finally inside his driver room. He opens the door for you, lets you step in first, then quietly shuts it behind him.

You spin around and lean against the tiny table, arms crossed loosely. “Alright, what’s with the broody silence? You’ve gone full tortured poet on me.”

Lando snorts. “Apparently Leclerc’s hotter than me. Tough break.”

You laugh. “Oh, my poor jealous baby.”

He scoffs, arms folded now, shoulder pressed to the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You and Charles were basically eye-fucking in the paddock.”

You blink. “We’ve always been flirty. That’s just Charles.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I remember your definition of ‘flirty’ from that post-race party last year.”

You smirk, amused. “Oh, you mean the one drunk kiss in the dark corner of a club while you were fucking that girl in the bathroom?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Still. I had plans to ask you to the party Saturday. But I figured lover boy with the accent beat me to it.”

You raise a brow. “My type now, is he?”

“Well, yeah,” Lando says, eyes flicking over you, then back to the floor. “He’s got the hair. The voice. That whole French Riviera romance novel vibe.”

You snort again. “You’re actually jealous.”

“I’m just saying,” he sighs, finally pushing off the door and walking toward you, “this friends-with-benefits thing? I like it. Like... a lot.”

You watch him quietly now, curiosity blooming under your grin.

He runs a hand through his curls, frustrated. “And yeah, the sex is insane, but also—God, I don’t want you swapping me out for some Ferrari upgrade.”

Your laugh is immediate and sharp. “Lando. You absolute twat.”

He stops in front of you, grinning despite himself, but there’s something in his eyes—something he’s not trying to hide anymore. Lust.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly how hot this makes you.”

You pretend to think. “Hmm. Jealous Norris is kinda sexy. Might be my type after all.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

You giggle, hand resting on his chest. “Yeah, but I’m your worst.”

“You flirting with Leclerc just to mess with me?”

“Maybe I will from now on” You grin. “But I’m not in the mood to let you watch me fuck someone else either.”

He inhales sharply—caught between a laugh and something deeper.

And before he can speak, you kiss him. Slow. Teasing. Sure.

When you pull back, your lips hover a breath from his. “At least not yet.”

Lando stares at you, stunned for a beat, then lets out a groan-laugh. “You’re evil.”

You beam. “You love it.”

He leans in again. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “Way too much.”

“Maybe i should remind you who you´re leaving the paddock with.”

He doesn’t say more than that—just surges forward and kisses you like he’s been holding back. It’s sharp and possessive, all tongue and heat. You barely register the click of the door lock sliding shut until his hands are on your hips, guiding you back step by step.

You laugh breathlessly when the backs of your thighs hit the narrow bench. “Seriously? Here?”

Lando’s already leaning in, eyes alight with smug mischief. “Charles’ motorhome is right across the path.”

You blink. “You’re seriously serious?” But you’re laughing, even as your pulse kicks.

“Window’s open too.” He tilts his head toward it, voice deliciously low. “Thought you liked a little excitement.”

You open your mouth to retort—something sarcastic and mildly threatening—but you never get the chance. He kisses you again before words can come, and this time it’s filthier. Slower. Deeper. Like he’s tasting something he missed.

Clothes get tugged away in messy, impatient layers. Your top is rucked up to your ribs, and his hands are everywhere—skimming your sides, cupping your breasts, fingers dipping just low enough to make you twitch.

By the time he sinks to his knees, you're already breathless.

He glances up at you through thick lashes, the corner of his mouth lifting into a knowing grin. “You said you like parties,” he murmurs, parting your thighs with deliberate ease.

“Lando—” your voice stumbles somewhere between warning and begging.

“Shh.” His breath ghosts over your skin. “Be a good girl and scream.”

Then his mouth is on you—hot and slow, tongue flicking in maddening patterns that make your head drop back against the wall with a thud. He licks you like he’s savoring something sweet, teasing your clit with just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge without giving in.

Your moans come out muffled, trapped behind your hand as you press your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a scene. But it’s hard to be quiet when his curls are brushing your thighs and he’s humming against you like he’s got a favorite song playing in his head.

Your fingers grip his hair, tugging reflexively as he flattens his tongue and rolls it, again and again, right there.

“Fuck—Lando,” you gasp, hips jumping beneath his hold.

He pulls back just far enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening. “Little louder, yeah? Let them hear.”

You manage a breathless glare, but it falters when he presses two fingers into you and sucks at your clit at the same time. Your gasp escapes unfiltered—loud, desperate, your head tipping back, chest heaving with each breath.

“Good girl,” he mutters, almost reverently, but there’s mischief in it too.

By the time he stands, you’re trembling, your knees weak from trying to keep it together. He doesn’t gloat—not really. Just slides his briefs down, eyes locked on your eyes as he guides himself to your entrance.

And when he sinks in—slow and deep, hips slotting against yours with a delicious press—you swear the whole motorhome tilts.

It knocks the breath out of you. You hold onto his shoulders as he starts to move deep, smooth strokes that build and build and build. One of his hands grips your thigh while the other cups your jaw, keeping your gaze on him like he wants you to see how badly you’re unraveling for him.

“Still thinking about Charles?” Lando mutters, voice low and cocky, lips brushing your ear as his hips snap harder, deeper.

You laugh—sharp, breathless—but it stutters into a moan when he shifts just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

“Didn’t think so,” he grits, and the smugness in his tone is nearly drowned out by the sound you make in response.

You claw at his back, nails dragging just enough to make him hiss, your breath catching as pleasure coils tight in your belly. The rhythm of his thrusts gets rougher, more erratic, like he’s chasing it too, both of you right on the edge.

“Fuck—Lando, I’m—”

“I know,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, voice cracking with how close he is. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

And you do—body arching, thighs shaking, the kind of release that makes your vision white out at the edges. You bite your lip hard to keep from yelling his name, but the sound still slips out, raw and broken.

Lando’s not far behind. He swears under his breath, hips grinding deep one last time before he stills, groaning your name like a secret slipping past his teeth. His fingers tighten at your waist as he pulses inside you, head dropping to your shoulder, breath hot and fast against your skin.

You both stay like that for a moment sweaty, breathless, tangled.

Then he lifts his head, smirks down at you, and says, “Still think he’s hotter than me?”

You snort. “You’re insufferable.”

He's calmer now. Sweaty, flushed, but calmer. He’s pulled his fireproofs halfway back up and is hunched over on the bench beside you, elbows on knees, hands running through his hair like he’s trying to cool himself off or gather the pieces of his sanity. Maybe both.

You nudge his bare arm with your knee. “You good?”

He chuckles, breath still slightly uneven. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to get all—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air “—possessive like that. Bit of a dick move.”

You arch an eyebrow. “A bit?”

He laughs, but then turns to look at you properly. “I’m serious. I’m not actually mad about Charles. He’s a good guy. And if you wanted to—” he shrugs “—y’know. Go there. That’d be completely fine. Your call.”

You stare at him.

“Oh, yeah?” you say, voice sweet. “That why you had to make me come so hard half the paddock probably heard it?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it. Just smirks, smug and lazy, eyes flicking down your body like he’s reliving it. “You were mine first.”

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder, but you're grinning. “You’re so annoying.”

He beams. “Yeah, but I’m right.”

A beat passes. You both sit there in the comfortable aftermath, heartbeat finally leveling out, skin cooling. Then you glance at the still-open window and groan. “God, I hope this is still a secret.”

He snorts and stands, pulling his suit up fully now. “It will be.”

You raise a brow.

“I’ll be subtle,” he adds, grinning like he absolutely will not be.

He bends down and kisses your cheek, soft and lingering. “Wish me luck.”

“Go be fast,” you mutter, still catching your breath.

He’s out the door before you can say anything else.

tag list: @lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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lov3lycosmos · 2 months ago

Text

𝑃𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑀𝑦 𝐵𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠- Jung Wooyoung

Genre: smut MDNI

Summary: during a dinner with Seonghwa, Yunho, and San...Wooyoung decides to push your buttons, literally.

Warnings: use of vibrator, multiple sex scenes, dirty talk, some degration, teasing, cursing, public sex, squirting, fingering, oral (f and m), let me know what I missed!

Word Count: 5k

Cosmos Note: this was so fun to write omg wooyoung just has me in a CHOKEHOLD HOLY FUCK-

my library! (not proofread!!!)

You’re adjusting your dress for the fifth time when Wooyoung steps into the room, watching you from the doorway with that unreadable look in his eyes. You know he’s been watching you get ready—he always does—but tonight, the air feels heavier. You can feel it in your chest. The way his gaze lingers. The slow drag of his eyes from your heels all the way up to your lips.

"You look unreal," he says finally, voice low and full of heat. “Like, actually insane.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just walks toward you until he’s behind you, fingertips lightly brushing the exposed skin of your arms. “It’s dangerous,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “You can’t expect me to see you like this and act normal.”

“I thought you said you could behave in front of the boys.”

“I said I’d try.” His voice dips. “Doesn’t mean I will.”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head toward him. “We’re just having dinner.”

“That’s what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can ask what he means, he takes your hand and tugs you gently toward the bed. “Sit.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Sit.” His tone is firmer now, commanding in that way that never fails to send a thrill down your spine.

You settle on the edge of the mattress, your thighs pressed together, your breath catching a little when he drops to his knees in front of you. He pushes your dress up slowly, deliberately, until it pools around your hips.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice suddenly softer.

“Of course I do.”

He leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Good girl.”

You shiver, thighs parting slightly on instinct. Wooyoung’s hand dips into his pocket, and when you see the small toy in his palm, your breath hitches. Sleek. Compact. Completely unassuming—except for the gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you, phone already in the other hand.

“You remember the rules?” he murmurs.

You nod, barely managing, “Green.”

He hums his approval and lowers his lips again, kissing along your thigh, his breath teasing, almost reverent. “This’ll be fun,” he whispers. “You’ll sit there at dinner all quiet and sweet while I have full control of this… just watching you squirm while no one knows a thing.”

“Wooyoung,” you whisper, heat blooming across your cheeks and deeper between your legs.

He grins, satisfied. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”

You do, and he slowly drags your panties down, pausing to kiss your inner thigh again, higher this time. The anticipation is a burning ache now, your pulse racing when he finally presses the tip of the toy against your entrance.

“You’re already soaked,” he teases. “All this just from getting ready?”

You gasp as he slides it in—slow, careful, too intimate—and your hands grip the sheets beneath you.

Wooyoung presses the toy in place with his fingers and watches your reaction. “Feels good?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He pulls his phone out, tapping it once. The toy buzzes faintly inside you, and your whole body tenses.

He smirks. “That’s level one.”

“Level one?!” you gasp.

He kisses your cheek as he helps you stand, smoothing your dress back down. “You’ll survive.”

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The car door shuts with a soft thunk, and your heart is already pounding. Wooyoung slides into the driver’s seat beside you, phone resting lazily in the cupholder, the little glowing app still open. You eye it warily. He catches the look and smirks, starting the engine with a purr.

“You look so tense, baby,” he coos, backing out of the driveway with one hand steady on the wheel and the other brushing over your thigh. “Don’t tell me it’s already too much?”

Your breath catches as he taps the screen. Just once. The sudden buzz of the toy inside you makes your legs jerk, your back arching slightly against the seat. You clamp your thighs together instinctively, trying to stifle the whimper crawling up your throat.

“I can handle it,” you manage to say, though your voice is already thinner than you’d like.

Wooyoung chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but his fingers are working fast, sliding up the intensity again with a flick of his thumb. You let out a soft cry, curling forward slightly as the vibrations pulse deep inside you. You can’t even think, let alone speak.

He grins at the sound, tapping again, letting it ease down to a gentle thrum. “Just teasing,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you falling apart before the appetizers.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You huff and cross your arms, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way you twitch when the toy flutters again. You can’t believe you agreed to this. Can’t believe how wet you already are, squirming in the leather seat while he hums along to the radio like everything is fine.

Then—he takes a turn you weren’t expecting. Off the main road. A quiet little pull-off where trees line the sides and the restaurant is definitely not.

“W-Wooyoung?” you ask, breathless. “Where are we—”

He’s already putting the car in park.

“Five minutes,” he says casually. “Maybe ten. Just wanna see something first.”

You start to protest, but he’s already reaching over, gently tugging your seatbelt aside as he leans in close. His voice drops to a whisper as his fingers trail up your thigh again. “I’ve been thinking about this since you walked out of the bathroom,” he murmurs. “How good you’d taste like this. Full of my toy, legs shaking, trying so hard to be quiet.”

He leans further, mouth brushing over your jaw, then lower, until he’s between your legs, pushing your dress up once again. He kisses the inside of your thigh—then bites, gently but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

And then—

The toy buzzes to life again, stronger now, and your hips buck. He grins, locking eyes with you as he presses a hand to your lower belly, holding you down, and leans in.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, right before he slides his tongue along your soaked folds.

You gasp, biting your lip hard. The added sensation of the toy inside while his mouth works you over is blinding. You can't focus, can't think—he's licking, sucking, moaning into you like he’s starving for it. The pressure’s mounting too fast, too much, and you’re so close to falling over the edge.

BZZZZZZZT

Your phone screen lights up on the dash. The contact reads Yunho.

You whimper. Wooyoung lifts his head just slightly, licking his lips, his chin shining. “Answer it.”

“W-What?!”

He raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. Pick up, baby.”

“No—Wooyoung, I can’t—”

BZZZZT. BZZZZT.

You scramble for the phone with shaking hands, managing to swipe it just in time. “H-Hey!” you squeak.

“Hey!” Yunho says, voice cheerful. “Where are you guys? Seonghwa’s already getting impatient, and San’s—well, being San.”

You try to steady your breathing, but Wooyoung dips his tongue back down between your folds, and your voice catches in your throat. “S-Sorry! We’re—um—we’re just… running a little late!”

“Everything okay?” Yunho sounds genuinely concerned now. “You sound out of breath.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to scream as Wooyoung adds a finger, pressing inside next to the toy, curling just right. You’re dying, you’re melting, and you have no escape.

“Y-Yeah! Just—uh—traffic!” you stammer. “And I dropped my phone! We’ll be there soon, I promise!”

“Alright,” Yunho laughs. “Drive safe, okay?”

You somehow choke out a goodbye and hang up. The moment the call ends, Wooyoung slams the toy to its highest setting.

You cry out, loud and raw, body jolting as your orgasm hits so hard your vision goes white.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re squirming and twitching beneath his tongue, hands tangled in his hair, your moans turning into desperate pleas for mercy.

And finally, finally, he pulls away, licking his lips again like he’s still starving.

“You good to walk into that restaurant?” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You blink at him, still dazed. “I hate you.”

He laughs, smug. “We’re only just getting started.”

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The walk from the car to the restaurant feels like hell.

Or maybe heaven—if heaven was hot, sticky, and full of tension that buzzes under your skin like the soft pulse currently teasing you from inside. The toy shifts ever so slightly with every step, sending small jolts of heat up your spine. You swear you’re walking slower than normal, but Wooyoung’s hand at the small of your back keeps you moving, gentle but firm. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You want to shove him into the nearest wall and yell at him—or maybe beg.

Instead, you push the door open and step into the warm lighting of the restaurant. It smells like grilled meat and soy-based sauces, and you spot them immediately—Seonghwa, San, and Yunho, already seated at a booth near the back.

San’s eyes light up when he sees you. “Finally!” he calls, waving exaggeratedly. “We were about to order without you.”

Wooyoung chuckles beside you. “Sorry, ran a little late.” His tone is smooth as always, not a single hint of the chaos he left brewing in your core.

You greet them with a strained smile and slide into the booth beside Wooyoung, across from Yunho. Your legs press together tightly the moment you sit, trying to find some semblance of relief. But the toy is still on—low, gentle, maddening.

“How was the drive?” Seonghwa asks politely, sipping his water.

Wooyoung shrugs casually. “Relaxing. Took a scenic route.”

You bite your lip.

San leans forward on his elbows. “You guys look kinda—glowy,” he says with a grin. “Like you were doing something fun.”

You almost choke on your water.

“We were just getting ready for tonight,” Wooyoung says, tone light but with a glance toward you that makes your thighs tense. His hand slides under the table, fingers resting just above your knee. The contact is warm, innocent—for now.

Menus are passed around, and the guys are quick to start discussing what they’re ordering. You’re trying your best to read through the options, but Wooyoung’s thumb begins to move—slow, soft circles against your thigh—and the toy gives a gentle thrum that makes your breath hitch.

You shift in your seat. The menu shakes slightly in your hands.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Yunho asks you.

Your brain scrambles. “Uh… I—I think maybe the bulgogi?”

Wooyoung hums. “Good choice.”

It’s so casual, like he isn’t currently testing the limits of your self-control with a remote-controlled vibe between your legs. Like he isn’t smirking right now because he knows you're already soaked and it’s barely ten minutes into dinner.

You try not to glare at him. Try not to let your lips part when the toy pulses again, a little stronger this time—just enough to make your hips shift under the table.

Conversation flows easily around you. San is ranting about a gym fail from earlier in the week, Seonghwa is giving Yunho shit about being too picky with food, and Wooyoung is the picture of calm.

But beneath the table, he’s not stopping. His hand inches higher, fingers brushing under the hem of your dress while the toy keeps its steady pace.

“Doing okay, baby?” he murmurs low in your ear, voice too soft for the others to catch.

You nod stiffly, gripping the edge of the table.

Your food arrives shortly after, and the smell is enough to make your stomach rumble—but eating proves to be almost impossible. Every time you lift your chopsticks, a sudden twitch of the toy throws you off. And the worst part is how normal everything looks from the outside. You’re here, having dinner with friends, smiling when they laugh. No one would guess that you’re sitting there with your thighs clenched, heat pooling deep in your belly, and a remote in Wooyoung’s back pocket that holds your sanity hostage.

Then, halfway through your plate, the buzzing shifts.

Not stronger—just slower. Deeper. A long, rolling vibration that makes you grip your chopsticks so tightly your knuckles whiten. You can't breathe.

Wooyoung picks up a piece of meat, holding it out to you.

“Try this,” he says sweetly, as if he’s not watching your every reaction, as if his hand didn’t just slide a few centimeters higher.

You open your mouth, letting him feed you, and try not to moan when the toy pulses again.

You chew mechanically. Nod. Smile. And all the while, you’re fighting the urge to squirm in your seat, to press your thighs together, to shove your face into his neck and whimper please.

But instead, you swallow, pick up your water, and take another sip with shaking hands.

Wooyoung leans back, smug. His fingers retreat—for now—but the toy doesn’t stop.

You’re not sure how you’re going to survive the rest of this dinner.

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You're barely halfway through your plate when things start to unravel.

Wooyoung’s hand, which had been resting innocently on your thigh, shifts upward again—fingertips brushing dangerously close to where the toy thrums steadily inside you. His palm settles over your panties, warm and possessive. You keep your eyes fixed on your bowl, pretending to listen to Yunho’s story, but your heart is thundering in your chest.

Then his fingers start moving—slow, subtle pressure, just enough to push the toy deeper against that tender spot inside you.

You inhale sharply through your nose.

The fabric of your panties is the only barrier left between his touch and your soaked, sensitive core. The heat has been building steadily this whole time, but that added friction is what tips the scale. You can’t focus anymore—on the conversation, on the food, on anything except the unbearable, searing pleasure crawling up your spine.

You clench the chopsticks so tightly they creak.

Wooyoung's voice is low, directed toward Seonghwa across the table. “Yeah, we tried that place once. Food was alright.” He’s so calm. So casual. And you’re trembling beside him.

Your thighs press together instinctively. You think you might be able to ride it out—just breathe, blink, survive—but then he rubs a little harder, just the heel of his palm pressing perfectly, and the toy syncs with the pressure.

And that’s it.

Your legs twitch. Your breath catches. Your body locks up for half a second—and then the wave crashes.

Your orgasm hits you hard, fast, and almost entirely silent. Almost.

Your lips part around a strangled sound—barely audible over San’s laugh—but Wooyoung hears it. He feels it. The way you seize up beside him, hips rocking against his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused. His fingers still gently as your walls flutter around the toy, soaked panties clinging to your skin, and then—

He freezes.

You feel it too. A hot gush between your legs—sudden, uncontainable, soaking through your underwear and trickling past his hand.

His head slowly turns toward you, eyes wide for the first time tonight.

He wasn’t expecting that.

You’re trying so hard to stay composed—staring down at your food like it holds all the answers to your shame—but your cheeks are burning, your thighs are a mess, and the seat under you is definitely damp.

Wooyoung swallows hard. His hand pulls back an inch, fingers glistening under the table in the dim light. He stares down at them for a second, then at you, his breath caught in his throat.

Your jaw tightens.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, baby… you really couldn’t hold it, huh?”

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes still locked on your plate. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from shattering into pieces right there.

His voice drops even lower.

“You just made a mess in a full restaurant… and I haven’t even turned the toy all the way up.”

You don’t even look at him.

You can’t.

Your body’s still buzzing, the aftermath of your orgasm simmering through every nerve ending—your panties soaked through, thighs slick, the soft hum of the toy still pulsing deep inside you like a cruel reminder. You shift in your seat and flinch at the wetness. There’s no hiding it now.

Your fingers clench around the edge of the table.

“I—uh—excuse me for a second,” you mutter, your voice shaky but controlled enough not to draw suspicion.

San glances up from his bowl. “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, just… bathroom.”

You don’t wait for a response. You stand up quickly, trying to keep your legs steady as you do, but the moment you straighten, a sticky warmth trickles between your thighs. You’re soaked. You pray to every god that it hasn’t leaked down your legs, that there’s no visible stain on your dress as you turn and walk briskly toward the restroom.

You don’t dare look back at the table, but you feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Burning into the back of your neck like he’s holding himself back from dragging you into the bathroom instead.

As soon as the restroom door clicks shut behind you, your hands shoot down to lift your dress, heart pounding. You let out a breathy curse at the sight of your panties—utterly ruined, dark with wetness. A soft hum still vibrates from inside you, faint but relentless. You grip the sink, trying to breathe through it, thighs trembling.

He made you come in the middle of dinner. At a table full of his friends.

And now you’re standing here, trying to gather yourself while the toy hasn’t even been turned off.

Your phone buzzes in your purse.

A message from him.

Wooyoung:

| Don’t take too long, princess.

| You’ve got something of mine inside you, and I’m not done playing yet.

Your knees almost buckle.

You stumble into the nearest stall, the lock clicking shut behind you as your back hits the door.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The toy is still vibrating—gentle but persistent—and your thighs instinctively squeeze together around it, desperate for friction. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Wooyoung didn’t tell you to come again. He didn’t even give you permission to touch. But you can feel it, curling in your stomach again, dragging you right back toward the edge.

And the ache is unbearable.

One hand presses over your mouth to muffle the whimper that escapes as your other sneaks beneath your dress, fingers trembling as you rub quick circles over your soaked panties—trying to stay quiet, trying to be fast. You’re so close. You can’t stop now. You can feel it building, all heat and pressure and want, thighs trembling as your back arches slightly from the door.

Your body doesn’t care that you’re in a public bathroom. It doesn’t care that you didn’t ask.

All it knows is that you need it again.

“F-fuck—” you whisper into your palm, nearly there, your fingers moving faster—

And then the vibrations stop.

Gone.

Just like that.

Your body jerks in shock at the sudden loss of stimulation, and your eyes fly open in panic. You fumble to check your phone, heart thundering in your chest, hands still shaking.

Wooyoung:

| Did you really just try to come again without asking me?

| You think I wouldn’t know?

A second message follows before you can even respond:

Wooyoung

| Keep those legs closed until I get there.

| Or I swear I’ll bend you over that sink in front of everyone.

Your pulse explodes.

Suddenly, the room feels hotter. Smaller. You swallow hard, frozen in place, not even daring to touch yourself again. You’ve never felt more caught, more owned.

And you know now—you’re not done paying for it.

Your whole body freezes when the door creaks open.

You barely have time to pull your hand away, still shaking, panties soaked and heart racing. Footsteps echo across the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, and your stomach drops when you hear the stall door next to you creak open… and then close again.

You don’t dare move. Not until you hear his voice.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait?”

The door to your stall rattles gently, then opens—

Wooyoung steps inside and shuts it behind him, eyes locked on you like he’s ready to devour you whole. You don’t even try to defend yourself. Not with the way his jaw is clenched and his phone is still glowing in his palm.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, crowding you back against the stall wall. “You were about to come all over your fingers without permission. Didn’t even ask me, baby.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat dry, legs trembling under his stare.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it.” His voice is low and dark, dripping with that dangerous edge you’ve come to crave.

Then he’s dropping to his knees.

Just like that.

Hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress up, tugging your panties down slow enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t say another word. He just looks up at you—like he owns you—lips already brushing your dripping folds.

And then he devours you.

Right there, in a bathroom stall, tongue licking into you like he’s starving, like this is his favorite meal and he’s been denied it all day. Your hand shoots to your mouth to muffle the broken whine that rips out of your throat. His grip on your thighs tightens, anchoring you in place as he feasts, nose brushing your clit every time he moves, tongue relentless and precise.

Your knees nearly buckle.

Your orgasm builds again—harder this time—your whole body shaking as you try to keep quiet, try to hold it back. But Wooyoung knows. He can feel you clenching, your thighs twitching, body tensing like a live wire.

And he pulls back.

You whimper, on the edge, desperate and ruined.

He stands, lips shiny, eyes blazing. “If you wanna come so bad,” he whispers, pressing his body against yours, “you’ll ask. On your knees.”

You don’t even think. You just move. The guilt, the ache, the unrelenting need all crash into each other inside you, and your knees hit the cold tile with a quiet thud. You look up at him from the floor, flushed and needy, your breathing uneven.

Wooyoung stares down at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half amusement, half disappointment—but all dominance. “Oh?” he murmurs, his voice a low hum. “Is this your idea of an apology?”

You nod slowly, fingers reaching for his belt with trembling urgency. “I-I just… I’m sorry,” you whisper, too embarrassed to meet his eyes but too desperate to stop. “Please.”

His gaze sharpens as you undo the buckle, and he lets you work in silence, letting the tension thicken like smoke. You pull his pants down enough to free him, and your lips part slightly as you take in the sight of him—hard already, the tip flushed, precum beading just enough to taunt you.

Wooyoung chuckles, slow and wicked. “You’re drooling already, baby,” he says, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “So fucking needy, even with the toy off.”

You lean forward, tongue flicking out for a tentative taste. He’s warm against your lips, slightly salty, and you moan softly as you swirl your tongue around the tip. He hisses at the contact, a hand threading through your hair, gripping lightly but firmly. “That’s it. Show me how sorry you are.”

You take more of him in slowly, inch by inch, letting your tongue press along the underside, your mouth wrapping around him with sinful devotion. His head tips back with a low groan. “Fuck, your mouth always feels so good…”

But it’s not just about pleasure for you. You’re trying to earn it—to get back in his good graces, to beg for the high he took away. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, the toy inside you still dead silent and unmoving, leaving you aching, twitching for more.

Your hands slide to his hips, fingers curling in his waistband as you take him deeper. He twitches in your mouth, and you moan around him, tears starting to prick at the corners of your eyes from the stretch.

Wooyoung glances down, breathing harder now. “Such a good girl when you’re on your knees… Look at you. All messy and needy, and I haven’t even touched the remote.”

You pull back just slightly, your lips glossy and slick as you suck gently on the head. “Please,” you whisper again, voice shaky, your cheeks burning. “Please, Wooyoung. Let me come. I’ll be good, I promise…”

He smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of you begging, so desperate and teary-eyed in the middle of a public bathroom, licking and sucking like your life depends on it.

“Keep going,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see how much that pretty mouth can convince me.”

You don’t stop.

Your tongue keeps working him with slow, worshipful licks, your lips wrapped tightly around him, head bobbing in a rhythm that grows needier the longer you go. His grip in your hair tightens, hips twitching slightly, but he holds himself back, just watching you—his desperate little mess on her knees, trembling from the restraint he’s forced you to hold.

Your thighs are clenched so tight it hurts. The toy inside you still isn’t moving. It’s maddening—being full but empty, stretched but unsatisfied. You moan around his length, letting the sound vibrate through him, and Wooyoung’s jaw clenches with a sharp inhale.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “You’re gonna make me cum like this?”

You pull back just long enough to whisper breathlessly, “I want to. Please let me—please let us.”

He stares down at you for a second, and then you see it—his hand slipping into his pocket. Your stomach flips. He pulls out his phone, eyes still locked on you.

You’re still sucking him off, tongue swirling faster now, desperate for any sign he’ll give in. And then—click.

A soft buzz ignites deep inside you.

Your entire body jerks. You moan loudly around him, eyes rolling back as the toy finally comes to life again, vibrating low and deep right against your sweetest spot. He smirks when he sees your thighs quiver, your hands gripping his hips like you might fall apart.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish without me, did you?” he pants, voice darker now. “You’re gonna cum with me, baby. Right here. Right now.”

You nod frantically, mouth still wrapped around him, lips slick, face flushed. The pressure builds in your core so fast it’s dizzying, the buzz hitting you perfectly, the stretch from earlier leaving you already right on the edge. Every swirl of your tongue now is shaky and desperate.

Wooyoung groans, hips bucking slightly as he hits the back of your throat. “Fuck—just like that. Don’t stop. We’ll cum together. You ready, baby?”

You whimper a muffled yes, eyes fluttering shut as the orgasm rushes toward you, hot and fast and impossible to hold back. And when you feel him twitch on your tongue, groaning your name—

“Now, baby. Let go.”

You explode.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, a silent cry escaping your lips as you keep sucking through it. The toy pulses right into your peak, milking every second of it, and Wooyoung cums deep in your throat with a strangled moan, fingers tangled in your hair as you both ride it out.

You’re still trembling when he gently pulls away, chest heaving, your lips swollen, slick on your chin, mascara threatening to smudge.

And he looks down at you with a proud, dangerous grin.

“Now that’s my good girl.”

Your breathing is still erratic, knees weak, head resting against his thigh as the high slowly fades. Wooyoung's hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair now, stroking you down gently like he’s grounding you back to earth.

A soft click sounds from above — the toy finally powering off.

You let out a small whimper of relief, thighs still trembling from how hard you came. But Wooyoung is already crouching in front of you, guiding you up with warm hands and a soft, “C’mere, angel.”

He helps you stand, even if your legs are jelly. His hands stay steady around your hips, holding you close as his eyes dip down. “You did so well,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”

His hand disappears beneath your panties again — not teasing, not playful this time, just careful and precise. You brace against his shoulder as he slips two fingers in, curling them around the now-slick toy and sliding it out of you slowly.

You let out a soft gasp at the stretch, at the feeling of being emptied again. But what catches you off guard is the sound he makes next — a low groan, absolutely filthy — as he lifts the toy to his lips.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he slowly licks it clean.

Deliberate. Intense. He never breaks eye contact with you.

Then, with a wicked smirk, he tucks the glistening toy into his pocket like it’s nothing and reaches for some toilet paper from the dispenser. He’s gentle, carefully wiping between your thighs, brushing over the sensitive parts with soft dabs and tender strokes.

You’re flushed all over again. Not from embarrassment — but from how soft he is with you. How, after ruining you completely, he still treats you like something delicate. His thumb brushes your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Still with me, baby?”

You nod.

“Good. Fix your lipstick—” he smirks, handing you your lip gloss from your bag, “—and let’s go say hi to the boys, yeah?”

You try your best to clean up. The ache between your legs lingers, your body still too sensitive, but you manage to pull yourself together enough to walk out with him.

As you both return to the table, you feel it instantly — three pairs of knowing eyes.

Seonghwa raises a brow, swirling his drink slowly.

San bites back a grin, his gaze flicking between you two with unmistakable amusement.

And Yunho? He just shakes his head, laughing softly into his glass. “Took your time,” he says, not even pretending to play dumb.

Wooyoung pulls your chair out for you with a smug smile. “Sorry, had to take care of something important.”

You sit down, cheeks still warm, heart still pounding — and when you glance at the three men across from you, you know they know exactly what that ‘something’ was.

But no one says anything else.

They just smirk, sip their drinks, and continue the conversation like nothing happened.

Except now, under the table, Wooyoung’s hand slides over your thigh again.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget

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meiyokbf · 12 days ago

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under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part two

author’s note: absolutely loved how this turned out!! lmk what you guys think, i love your feedbacks! hope you guys enjoy <3

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara, sobering up, smut (oral, reader and megan recieving, p in v). reader is still kind of a loser lol, megan is more vulnerable on this one.

word count: 2,3k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut.

masterlist. | prev. | next.

— megan… — her name slipped out of your mouth like a secret; and then you laughed, breathless, throat still raw from the sounds she pulled out of you. — i… yeah. i think i am. but… not here.

she tilted her head, amused. — really? i kinda liked hearing you moan over the sound of closer by nine inch nails playing in the hallway.

— god. — you covered your face with both hands. — that’s not what i meant. i just… i wanna do this somewhere else. somewhere that doesn’t smell like… like…

— regret and glitter?

— yes. and also… — you looked at her, suddenly feeling a little shy. — i just… want this to be good. like, actually good. not a backroom fantasy with bad lighting and a questionable couch. like, something i’d wanna remember later.

she blinked, and the teasing dropped out of her face for a second. just like that. gone. she looked at you like she wasn’t expecting that; like you’d just surprised her. something in her gaze softened, just slightly. — you want this to be… nicer?

you nodded, sheepish. — yeah. if that’s okay.

megan smiled, and it wasn’t teasing. it was warm. something you hadn’t seen yet. — that’s more than okay, baby.

you fumbled for your phone, pulling up your messages, just in case manon had texted some kind of “where the hell are you” threat.

and there it was.

manzanita: “don’t come home. lara and i are watching twilight and possibly scissoring. try not to impregnate anyone. cya 💋”

you blinked. — well. guess my place is off-limits tonight.

— wait… lara? — megan raised a brow.

you shrugged. — yeah. i think that’s her name? the indian one with the fire engine red hair and those green boots that look like they’d file a tax return for you?

megan laughed, loud and real. — you mean dallas?

you stared. — what.

— that’s her stage name. — she shook her head, amused. — her actual name’s lara. i’ve known her for a while.

— of course you do. of course you know their real names. — you huffed. — do you have some stripper mafia group chat or something?

megan smirked. — maybe. if you play your cards right, i’ll add you.

you grinned, then sobered a little. — so… your place?

— yeah. come on. — she laced her fingers with yours. — i’ll take you home.

the uber ride was quiet. not awkward-quiet. just… heavy with anticipation.

you both sat in the back seat, her hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing slow circles through the denim. it wasn’t even sexual. it was grounding.

you couldn’t stop looking at her reflection in the window. the way the streetlights caught the edge of her jaw, her lashes. she looked unreal. like someone from a dream you forgot and just remembered again.

her apartment was on the third floor of a brick building with vines growing up the side. it was small, but not cramped. clean, but lived-in. soft orange lighting. plants. a bookshelf with exactly three books in it and some bottles of wine. candles on the shelves. a framed photo of two girls you assumed were her friends. there was a warmth to it, something quiet and safe.

she locked the door behind you and leaned back against it. — nervous?

— no. — you said, too quickly.

she smiled. — liar.

you stood there like an idiot, still in your jacket, your heart hammering in your chest.

megan walked up to you, took your face in both hands. — take your shoes off.

you blinked. — what?

— first rule of my place. no shoes. — she was grinning, but her voice was soft. — second rule: you have to kiss me like you mean it.

so you did.

slow. deep. like your whole night had been leading to this moment. she didn’t rush.

her fingers traced under your shirt, grazing your stomach like she was feeling her way into your body one inch at a time.

you let her peel it off of you alongside your jacket, raising your arms without thinking. her eyes drank you in, hands spreading over your bare chest, thumbs stroking lazy circles just beneath your ribs.

— god, i love that you’re soft and strong. — she whispered. — you’re built like a goddamn daydream.

you flushed, overwhelmed by how she was looking at you. — you say shit like that often?

— only when i mean it. — she kissed down your throat, her hands slipping lower. — and i mean all of it.

she kissed you while directing you to her room, and then pushed you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees hitting the edge as she dropped to her knees. you froze.

— megan…

— shush. — she murmured, kissing the trail from your belly button to the waistband of your pants. — i want you to remember this forever.

her fingers popped the button of your jeans, slow and steady. the zipper came down. your boxers were already damp. painfully so.

when she pulled your cock free, she moaned; actually moaned, as if only the mere sight of you was enough to get her off.

— fuck… you’re beautiful. — she wrapped her hand around you, stroking once, slow. — i bet you’re so sensitive now, aren’t you?

you nodded, hips already twitching.

— yeah? still all worked up for me? after what i did to you back there?

— fuck, yes, megan.

she kissed the head of your cock, then licked a stripe down the underside, slow as honey.

— say it again.

— megan.

— again.

— megan. — you moaned it this time, your fingers curling in her hair as she took you into her mouth.

she sucked you slow, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the tip like she wanted to taste every part of you. her hand gripped the base, twisting in rhythm with her mouth.

you gasped, bucking slightly, but she pressed a hand to your stomach, holding you still.

— easy, baby. let me worship you.

you could’ve come right there. but you didn’t want to. you needed to feel her.

— megan… please, i want to be inside you…

she pulled off with a soft pop, lips slick. her eyes were dark, pupils wide. — say that again.

you reached for her, voice cracking. — i want to be inside you. i want to fuck you so bad... please.

her whole body shivered.

— god. you don’t even know what that does to me when you beg.

she climbed into your lap, straddling you, sliding off her tank top, shorts and underwear without ceremony. you were half gone just looking at her. her skin, her softness, the flush in her cheeks.

— ready?

you nodded. she reached between you, lined you up, and sank down onto your cock with a long, gasping breath. you both stilled for a moment, overwhelmed.

— jesus christ… — she whispered. — you feel so fucking good.

you couldn’t even speak. she was tight. wet. perfect. the way she held you inside her like she was made for you.

she started moving slowly, hips rolling in steady, delicious circles.

— god, you’re so thick… fuck, i can feel you so deep… — her hands slid down your chest. — every inch of you. stretching me just right.

your hands went to her hips, gripping without meaning to. — megan… fuck, you’re so tight. i can’t-

— oh yes, you can. — she rocked down harder, making both of you moan. — you’re taking it so well, baby. making me feel so fucking full.

you moved with her, hips meeting hers, matching her rhythm now. her breath hitched every time your cock hit that perfect angle inside her.

— fuck, right there… — she whimpered, hands bracing on your shoulders. — keep fucking me just like that, baby. shit, you’re ruining me.

— you feel like heaven. — you gasped. — fuck, i never want to leave your body.

she kissed you then; messy, urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing.

— you make me feel like me… not jade, not the fantasy… just me. — she whispered against your lips. — thank you.

your hands cradled her face, thrusts slowing just for a second. — thank you, megan.

— say it again.

— megan...

she clenched around you at the sound of it, hips stuttering.

— i’m gonna cum, baby… please, cum with me. — she almost sobbed while holding you for dear life once the tip of your cock massaged her sweet spot.

— fuck… fuck, i’m there- i’m..

you both shattered almost at the same time; bodies locking, sounds swallowed in each other’s mouths. your thick cum filled her, hot and deep, her walls pulsing around you like waves as she moaned like a bitch upon you.

and when you finally stopped shaking, she was still holding you like she never wanted to let go.

but you weren’t done with her. not even close.

you slid your hands to her waist, coaxing her gently off of you, and before she could ask what you were doing, you were guiding her to lie back against the sheets.

— what are you… — her voice was breathless, unsure.

— shh. — you kissed her inner thigh, lips barely brushing her flushed skin. — let me take care of you.

you didn’t give her time to protest. not that she would’ve. her breath caught when your tongue dragged slowly through her folds, tasting her pussy; warm, slick, everything. her body jolted like she hadn’t expected it, like she wasn’t used to someone worshipping her this way.

— oh, fuck… — she whispered, already breathless.

you licked her slow, deliberate, taking your time, tracing every ridge of her with your tongue. her thighs tensed around your shoulders, not closing; never that. but holding on. grounding herself.

she tried to keep quiet. tried to stay in control.

— baby, you don’t have to- oh, god… i already came-

— and you’ll come again. — you murmured against her, voice low. — let me feel you fall apart.

you sucked her clit gently, tongue flicking it with just the right pressure, and she gasped. one hand flying to her mouth, the other twisting in the sheets.

— jesus christ… — she moaned, trying to keep it together.

you glanced up at her, eyes locking onto hers as you pushed two fingers inside her, slow and deep. her jaw dropped, back arching.

— f-fuck… (y/n)…— she whined, louder now, more raw than you’d ever heard her.

— that’s it. let go for me, megan.

her name from your lips did something to her. her composure cracked further, pleasure unraveling her second by second. you curled your fingers just right, tongue never breaking rhythm, and her hips started to buck; searching, needy.

— i… — she gasped, voice high and ragged. — i never let anyone do this. fuck, i never let anyone-

— but you’re letting me. — you kissed her clit again, sucked harder. — let me have all of you, megan.

her thighs clamped tighter, body tensing like a wire ready to snap.

— oh my god- i’m… fuck, baby, i’m gonna…

and she shattered. came so hard she quite literally cried out, voice hoarse, face buried in her arm like she couldn’t let herself be seen like this, even now. you didn’t stop until her legs were trembling and her breaths were stuttering out of her chest like aftershocks.

when you finally kissed your way back up her body, she was flushed and quiet, her eyes a little glassy. still catching her breath.

you laid beside her, brushing hair from her face. she looked at you like she didn’t know what to do with all the feeling inside her.

— you okay?

she nodded, slow. then whispered, almost like a confession.

— i don’t usually let people do that. i… don’t really like feeling… exposed.

— did you feel safe?

she didn’t said anything right away.

— yeah. i did. — she answered truthfully.

you leaned in, kissed her cheek. — good. because that was one of the sexiest things i’ve ever seen.

she laughed; soft and real, and pressed her forehead to yours. — you’re such a nerd.

— you’re still shaking.

— yeah. your fault. dick.

you kissed her again, smiling into it. when she finally relaxed, her limbs draped over yours, and then she collapsed against your chest, breath uneven. you kissed the crown of her head, still trembling a little.

there was a long pause, but not at all uncomfortable. quite the opposite, actually.

— you used my name a lot.

you smiled. — well, you gave it to me. figured i’d use it.

— feels different when you say it like that.

you kissed her shoulder. — then i’ll keep saying it. every time i make you feel like this.

her smile was sleepy, satisfied.

— deal.

the room was still, lit only by the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp. her fingers traced slow shapes across your skin like she was absentmindedly writing poetry she didn’t want to say out loud.

you stared at the ceiling, your heart still a little uneven. not from the sex. from the after.

you cleared your throat, voice barely above a whisper.

— so… will i see you again?

megan didn’t answer right away. her hand stilled, just for a second.

then she propped herself up on one elbow, looked down at you with those sleepy, unreadable eyes.

— baby, after the way you just fucked me? — she smiled. soft. real. — you’re not getting rid of me that easy.

and somehow, that meant more than yes.

you let yourself exhale, pulling her closer again, like maybe tonight wasn’t just an accident.

maybe it was a beginning.

#nsfw.#imagines.#under your spell.#katseye x reader #katseye #katseye smut #katseye imagines #katseye thoughts #katseye x reader smut #megan skiendiel x reader #megan x reader #megan skiendiel smut #katseye megan smut #katseye megan #megan x reader smut #megan skiendiel #katseye x you #katseye x y/n

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honeyncherry · 5 months ago

Text

secret of us V - joe burrow

summary you’ve always been joe’s little secret, but secrets have a way of slipping through cracks — especially when love refuses to stay hidden anymore

content 18+, suggestive, angst, fluff

part four

It took three seconds to realize what was happening.

One. The blinding flash sears itself into your vision leaving a ghostly imprint behind. You blink, but the world doesn’t clear— it stays blurred, spinning out of focus. The air crackles, charged with something you feel coursing through every nerve.

Two. The shouted voices slice through the chaos as the pieces begin snapping into place: the cameras, the sudden crowd, the world collapsing in on itself. It feels like a nightmare where no matter how loud you scream, you can’t wake up.

Three. His hand grabs for yours, a grip of steel, and you hold on for dear life. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The pull of his touch says it all: Run.

It took fourteen seconds to get to the car.

One. Your feet falter on the pavement, his sudden tug jolting you forward. His pace is quick, his shoulders a solid wall against the growing noise.

Five. Your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. Your lungs burn, catching in your throat as you struggle to match his strides.

Nine. The car comes into view, his free hand fumbling for the keys in his pocket, every movement laced with urgency.

Fourteen. The door slams shut behind you, the echo rippling in the quiet. Inside, everything feels smaller, but no less suffocating.

It took eight seconds to leave the parking lot.

One. The click of the engine turning over, the low rumble vibrating through the silence.

Four. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Six. The first motion forward, tires crunching against gravel as the car pulls away, leaving the chaos behind.

Eight. The world outside blurs, neon streaks against the darkness as the car slips into the flow of traffic.

And now?

It’s been four hundred and twelve seconds since that moment. Four hundred and twelve seconds since the flash of a camera shattered everything you thought you knew.

Is it possible for a single moment to stretch and shrink at the same time? To feel infinite and fleeting, slipping through your fingers even as it carves itself into your memory?

The question loops in your mind, circling endlessly, as the glow of the streetlights flashes across the car windows. The world outside feels unreal, hazy and distant. But here, everything feels vividly clear — painfully so. The rattle of the engine, the silence of the radio, the shallow sound of breathing in a space that feels impossibly heavy.

You replay it again and again: the savage flashes, freezing you in a way that feels too permanent, too exposed. His hand wrapped around yours, an unspoken promise that he wouldn’t let go.

The way his eyes locked onto you, saying everything his voice didn’t. And you followed without question. Because how could you not, when he looked at you like that? Like the earth itself might crack open if you didn’t.

But now, in the suffocating quiet of the car, another thought lingers in an unshakeable manner: What does it mean when someone holds onto you like that? Like letting go isn’t even an option.

It feels bigger than the moment, spilling over into the corners of your mind where other thoughts linger. You’ve spent so long trying to untangle this, trying to understand the pull he has on you. This quiet gravity that makes it impossible to stay away, even when you know you probably should.

It’s not just the way he looks at you, though that’s part of it. It’s the way he exists in your life, like he’s always been there, even when he hasn’t. Like he’s a constant you didn’t realize you needed until it was too late to imagine life without him.

Four hundred and twelve seconds, and you’re still replaying it. The light. His hand. The urgency of the moment.

Four hundred and twelve seconds since the moment everything changed.

Four hundred and twelve seconds, and you still don’t know what to say.

The Solution

You’ve always been good at overthinking. Analyzing every word, every look, every moment until it loses its shape entirely. Luckily, over the years, you’ve learned how to temper the thoughts, pushing them aside just enough so they don’t consume you. Born out of necessity, it became a skill that made sense of things that felt too big, too messy to hold.

But tonight, in the stillness of Joe’s car, that careful control feels fragile. Like the threads holding your thoughts together could snap at any moment. The events of the night are too big, too messy, and too loud to fit into those neat corners you’ve carved space for.

When he parks right outside your apartment, Joe doesn’t move at first, his body stiff, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. One hand grips the gear stick so tightly his knuckles whiten, while the other rests on his knee, fingers twitching like they want to reach for something but don’t know what.

“I messed up,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence between you.

You glance at him, startled. “What?”

“I messed up,” he repeats, quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. His eyes stay fixed on the empty parking lot ahead, the glow of the overhead lights casting shadows across his face. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve been smarter about all of this.”

You blink, the weight of his words hitting you all at once. “Joe, you couldn’t have—”

“Yes, I could’ve!” he snaps, voice loud enough to make you flinch. He exhales sharply, raising his hand and dragging it down his face. His palm scrapes over tired eyes before falling heavily to his lap. “This is my world. I know the risks, and I brought you into it anyway. Now look at what’s gonna happen.”

Your stomach twists at the guilt in his tone. “You didn’t do this,” you murmur, tone gentle. “Those people out there? That’s not on you. You didn’t ask for it, and neither did I, but that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “It feels like my fault. Every single part of this feels like my fault.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. You want to reach for him, but something about the way he’s holding himself — so tightly wound, like he might snap, stops you. “Joe,” you say carefully. “You didn’t force me into this. I chose to be here. I chose you.”

His head snaps toward you, his eyes assessing you. For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s trying to find some hidden meaning in your words. “You don’t get it,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know what they’re going to say. What they’re going to do. They don’t care about you, about how this could hurt you. All they see is me, and anyone connected to me becomes fair game.”

“I don’t care about them,” you say firmly, cutting him off before he can spiral further. “I care about you. That’s all that matters to me.”

His jaw tightens, gaze dropping to where his hands rest in his lap. For a long moment, the only sound is the rattle of the car engine. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, stripped of all the bravado he usually hides behind. “I’m scared.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Of what?”

“Of ruining this,” he repeats for the tenth time, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Of ruining us. Of losing you because I can’t keep my shit together.”

You don’t know what to say, so you do the only thing you can think of.

Your hand finds his where it rests on his leg, fingers curling gently around his own. His skin is cold to the touch, and you wonder if he’ll pull away. But instead, his hand shifts under yours, fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say softly, holding his stare. “I’m here, Joe. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite know how. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he murmurs, almost like he’s trying to warn you away.

“Maybe I don’t,” you reply. “But I’m still here. That has to count for something.”

He watches you for a long moment, the tension in his body finally starting to ebb. “It counts for everything,” he says quietly, the words feeling so honest, so simple, you almost forget to breathe.

The silence that follows feels different. It’s still quiet, but the weight of it seems to shift, no longer pressing on you but instead settling between you like something you both understand now. There’s a calmness to it, a fragile kind of peace that you’re not sure either of you knows how to hold onto yet.

Joe turns back to the windshield, his hand still wrapped around yours. His thumb brushes absently across your knuckles, a soft, repetitive motion that somehow feels like it’s grounding you just as much as it seems to be grounding him.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, the words spoken so quietly you almost think you imagined them.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, a soft smile ghosting across your lips.

And then you feel it. Not the fear of being exposed, or the chaos of his world pulling at yours. Not the shadows of doubt or the suffocating weight of all the things that could go wrong.

No. It’s a gnawing sensation, the tender pull deep in your chest that feels like both comfort and pain, wrapping itself around you like something you can’t shake. The kind of feeling that tells you what you’ve been denying for too long: you love him.

You’re in love with Joe.

You don’t know when it started, or how. Could it have been the stolen glances, when his eyes found yours across crowded rooms and locked onto you just long enough to make your heart stutter? Those glances weren’t casual. They felt as if they carried unspoken confessions, like he was saying something meant only for you.

Maybe it was in the warmth of his hand on those occasions when he reached for you. The way his fingers laced through yours with an ease that left you breathless, as if his touch had always been destined to find yours.

Or maybe it was in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, as though you were something he couldn’t figure out how to keep but couldn’t bear to lose. When he leaned in, just a little closer than necessary, it didn’t feel like coincidence — it felt like gravity, always pulling him toward you, like the universe itself had decided to play matchmaker. Like it knew he craved it, craved you.

Was it in the quiet nights, when the conversation faded but neither of you moved, and the world seemed to hold its breath around you? Those silences weren’t empty — no, they were full of all the things you were both too afraid to say.

Or maybe it was in the small, ordinary things: the way his laugh softened when you were the one making him smile, or the way his gaze held something deeper, like you weren’t just someone he cared for, you were someone he needed.

It’s possible that it wasn’t any one thing, but instead the way that being around him had shifted into something more, something inevitable. Like you had never truly been just friends.

Over the past couple of months, it had become harder to convince yourself otherwise. Harder to ignore the way your heartbeat kicked up when he was near. Every conversation seemed to carry more meaning than it used to, as if you were both inching toward something neither of you had planned but couldn’t stop.

So, maybe it wasn’t any one moment at all, but a slow unraveling, like the fragile thread holding you together had been pulled loose without you even noticing. Little by little, it unraveled until it finally snapped, and by the time you realized it, you were already falling.

And the fall wasn’t chaotic or sudden. It was quiet, so quiet you hadn’t even heard it coming until you hit the ground, breathless and entirely his.

With that realization comes the weight of everything you’ve tried to ignore.

You’d told yourself this wasn’t love. That it couldn’t be. That it was something temporary, something you could let go of when the time came. You tried to believe it and hold on to the idea that walking away would be easy.

But now, with his hand in yours and his faint declaration echoing in your mind: I love you — you know you were wrong. His words didn’t just sit there; they seeped in, filling the cracks you’d tried to patch over with excuses. Because it wasn’t just his touch that felt familiar; it was the way he laid his heart bare, leaving you no place to hide. They pulled you under.

You love him.

Terrifyingly.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

And the truth is, you don’t want to let him go.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s the kind of thing that could ruin everything if you let it. But none of that matters anymore. Because in this moment — with his presence grounding you and the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips — it feels like enough.

For now, this is enough.

The Party

“It’s just something small,” Joe had said leaning against his kitchen counter. “Nothing big. Just a couple guys from the team, some of their girls, barely anyone.”

You’d hesitated then, rolling the strap of your top between your fingers. The thought of showing up somewhere in public with Joe still made your anxious thoughts skyrocket after what happened just a couple of days ago.

Safe to say, the media is ruthless.

Joe noticed your hesitation. His brows pulled together like he wanted to say something comforting, but wasn’t sure what. He didn’t push. He never did.

“Okay,” you agreed, nodding hopefully. Your voice was calmer than you felt. You pursed your lips, the realization settling in — this would be the first time you’d be in his world like this. You, him, and everyone else. Not hidden in the shadows but right there, where people could see you.

Would they wonder why Joe brought you? Would they piece together what the public had already started whispering about?

“It’s really no pressure,” Joe added, sagging his shoulders and leaning forward. “I just thought... it’d be nice to have you there.”

And just like that, the warmth in his voice melted through some of the fear knotted in your chest.

You managed a small smile. “I know.”

Now you’re here, standing just outside the front door of the house, the muffled thump of music vibrating through the walls. Joe is by your side, his hand resting lightly on your back as he opens the door.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, even though your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest. “Mhm. Just a little nervous.”

His hand stays for a moment longer, warm and steady. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he murmurs. With that, he guides you inside.

The space is sprawling, filled with the soft glow of dim lighting, conversation, and music that pulses just enough to set the mood without being overwhelming. The smell of food drifts faintly from the kitchen, and you spot a few familiar faces mingling in small clusters around the room.

A few heads turn when you walk in, mostly curious glances. Nothing too intense, but enough to make you hyper-aware of Joe’s hand still resting lightly on your back. You hope you look more put together than you feel.

“Relax,” Joe murmurs, his lips brushing close to your ear. “I‘m right here.”

Before you can respond, Ja’Marr’s voice booms from across the room.

“Joe! There’s our golden boy.” He weaves through the crowd with his usual grin and a drink in hand. “And hey — look who he brought with him! Superstar, it’s been a minute.”

You smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. “You’ve been busy, Ja’Marr. Don’t blame me.”

He chuckles, pulling you into a quick, friendly hug. “True, but you could’ve texted. You’ve got my number, right?”

Joe raises a brow, smirking. “Pretty sure she has mine. That’s enough.”

Ja’Marr snorts. “Possessive much? Don’t worry, I’m not trying to steal her.”

Before either of you can respond, someone calls Ja’Marr’s name, waving him over. He gives you both a knowing smile, like he’s in on a secret you haven’t figured out yet. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”

Joe chuckles under his breath, leaning down so only you can hear. “Ignore him,” he mutters.

He guides you through the room, his chest brushing lightly against your back as you weave through groups of people. The hum of conversation and music blurs around you like static. Your first few conversations are polite but brief — quick introductions and names you probably won’t remember tomorrow.

As Joe leads you to the bar setup, you glance up at him. He seems relaxed, like he’s done this a million times, but you know better. You know how much he hates public interactions like this: the noise, the small talk — but somehow, he’s making it look effortless. He catches you watching him.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft.

You’re about to answer when someone stumbles into you, a guy neither of you recognize, tipsy and barely aware of how he’s thrown you off balance. Joe’s arm is around you in an instant, pulling you firmly against him.

“Watch it, buddy,” Joe says, cocking his head slightly as the guy mumbles an apology and stumbles off.

“I’m fine,” you say, stifling a laugh as you steady yourself. “Thanks, Captain America.”

Joe’s lips twitch. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’d tackle someone if I had to.”

“Oh, I know.” You nudge him playfully. “But let’s avoid that, yeah?”

He chuckles, urging you forward. His fingers brush against yours briefly as he grabs two drinks and hands you one. The cool glass anchors you, but it’s Joe’s presence hat keeps you steady.

Just as you’re settling in, familiar faces approach. Sam and Jess greet you with warm smiles, Jess pulling you into a quick hug.

“There she is!” Jess says, her eyes lighting up. “I was wondering when we’d see you.”

You smile as Jess nods toward Joe. “I see you’ve got your shadow tonight.”

Joe raises a brow. “Shadow?”

Jess grins. “You heard me. Wherever you go, she goes.”

Sam chuckles, giving Joe a playful nudge. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. What’s the deal, Burrow? Can’t keep her out of your sight?”

Joe laughs, his ears turning the faintest shade of pink as he shakes his head. Sam claps him on the back, and the two slip into conversation about something you don’t quite catch. Jess links her arm through yours, leading you a few steps away for a quick catch-up.

“How have you been?” she asks.

The conversation flows easily, filled with updates on work, life, and everything in between. Before you know it, Sam sneaks up behind Jess, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Mind if I steal my wife back?” he teases, swaying her slightly.

Jess giggles, leaning into him. “You’ve had me all night.”

“Still not enough,” Sam grins, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Jess rolls her eyes fondly as he tugs her back toward the crowd. “See you soon,” she calls with a wink.

You shake your head, laughing softly as you step back beside Joe.

“They’re always like that, huh?” you say.

Joe leans closer, his arm resting casually on the countertop, fingers brushing against yours again. “Yep. But they’re not wrong.”

You blink, a little caught off guard, and turn to face him. “About what?”

“Not wanting to let you out of my sight.”

Your breath catches, and before you can respond, he’s smiling again, the glint in his eyes softening the weight of his words.

“Come on,” he looks around. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.

Joe takes your hand, and you follow him as he weaves the two of you through the house, brushing past groups of people without a second glance. When the door to the back patio opens, the air shifts — cooler, quieter, an overall welcome contrast to the buzz inside. String lights hang above, casting a soft glow over the deck and the surrounding yard, like you’ve stepped into a secret corner of the night.

You settle onto the top step of the deck, knees tucked close together as you relax into the moment. Through the open patio door you spot a TV mounted inside, playing a replay of last night’s Thursday night game. The players’ jerseys blur across the screen as you watch them move, your thoughts drifting.

Joe catches you staring, the soft glow of the lights catching the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say softly, a smile pulling at your lips. “It just reminded me of when you tried to teach me how to throw a perfect spiral.”

Joe groans dramatically, tossing his head back like he’s reliving the trauma. “How could I forget? You nailed me right in the chest with the ball.”

“You told me to ‘just throw it!’” you protest, laughing. “That’s on you.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t mean at me,” he says, grinning. “But I’ll admit, you’ve got a hell of an arm.”

Your laughter lingers, but it fades when his hand brushes against your knee. It’s a whisper of a touch, something casual that feels anything but. He doesn’t move, and neither do you.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, playful but edged with something deeper, “I still think you did it on purpose.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “Maybe I did.”

“Yeah?” His fingers shift slightly, sliding up and beginning to trace soft circles against your leg. “What else haven’t you told me?”

His touch sends butterflies through you and the playful banter blurs into something else entirely. His thigh presses lightly against yours, and when you meet his gaze, it’s no longer just playful; it’s careful and maybe even hopeful, like he’s giving you a choice.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to figure it out.”

His smile softens, but the weight of his gaze stays steady. The space between you shrinks without either of you moving an inch. The cool breeze drifts past, but it barely registers, not with him right next to you and warmth buzzing under your skin. His fingers continue their slow, absentminded movements on your knee, like he’s forgotten he’s even doing it.

The conversation flows easily from there. Soft teasing, shared memories, and those idling stares that neither of you bothers to hide. Every laugh, every small tease feels like a thread pulling you closer, wrapping you both in something that feels too easy to sink into. And neither of you seem in any hurry to pull away.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks after a moment, his voice gentle.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting his gaze. “More than I expected to.”

“Good.” His eyes stare into yours for a moment longer before he finally exhales, fingers giving your leg a gentle squeeze before standing. “Come on,” he murmurs while holding a hand out and helping you to your feet. “Let’s head out.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he guides you back through the house, throwing your cups and brushing past a few familiar faces, exchanging quick goodbyes. By the time you step outside, the cool breeze feels harsher now, weaving through your clothes like a needle threading cold straight into your core. You shiver as it grips you.

Without a word, Joe notices and slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. His hands hover over you as he gently guides your arms into the sleeves.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, clutching the jacket a little closer to you.

“I wanted to,” he replies simply, the sincerity in his voice winding itself into a part of you that feels untouched by him.

The walk to his car is quiet, but it’s not awkward. Your shoulders brush every few steps, and you can feel the energy of the night still there between you. When he pulls up to your building, he turns off the engine but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he sits there for a moment, looking over at you like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

When he walks you to your door, his pace is unhurried, like he’s savoring the final seconds of the night. His hand lays itself on your arm, his thumb brushing gently against the sleeve of his jacket. For a moment, you think he might lean in. You think you might.

But neither of you moves.

Instead, his gaze stays locked on yours. “Goodnight,” he says softly.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates for just a second before stepping away, and you stay there, watching him until he disappears into his car. You know he won’t leave until he’s sure you’re safely inside.

Once you step through the door, you close it softly behind you, locking it before leaning back against the cool surface. Your eyes flutter shut, and you exhale, the weight of the night settling into you in the best way. The warmth of his jacket still clings to you, and his scent wraps around you like a second skin.

You pull the fabric tighter, holding on to him just a little longer.

The Tabloids

The first message hit just after sunrise, the soft buzz of your phone pulling you from the edges of sleep. You blinked against the dim morning light, reaching for it on the nightstand. Mia’s name lit up the screen, along with a message that made your stomach twist:

Mia: Just a heads up before you see it yourself. They’re at it again.

You sat up, that familiar itch beginning to form in the back of your mind. After what had happened a couple of days ago, you already knew what this was about. Your heart pounded as you opened your browser and typed “Joe Burrow” into the search bar.

The headlines popped up immediately, one after another, each one louder than the last:

“Late-Night Deckside Romance? Burrow Seen Getting Cozy With Unnamed Woman at Private Party.”

Your breath hitched as you tapped on the first link. The article loaded too quickly, giving you no time to prepare. The first photo hit like a punch to the gut — Joe sitting beside you on the patio steps, his body pressed beside yours, his hand resting on your leg. The glow of the string lights overhead made the scene look dreamy, romantic.

The whole atmosphere conveyed how special last night had felt to you, how much it had meant. But now, the intimate moment was all on display for strangers to analyze, twist, and pick apart. The quotes from the article stung:

“Looks like Burrow isn’t spending his off nights alone anymore. Sources say the pair spent most of the evening together, sharing quiet time away from the rest.”

“The way they leaned into each other was more than telling. If this wasn’t a date, it was certainly giving off the vibe of something more than casual acquaintances.”

Your fingers trembled as you scrolled down, stopping at the next photo: Joe placing his jacket over your shoulders, helping you into it. The caption beneath the image made you shake your head and scoff a quiet laugh:

“Chivalry isn’t dead! Our quarterback is seen wrapping his mystery date in his jacket, making sure she’s cozy before they leave together.”

You closed the tab for a moment, setting the phone down like it was burning you. But you couldn’t leave it alone. The curiosity gnawed at you, and soon enough, you were back, pulling up the photos from a few days ago — the ones from the night at the bar.

This time, you noticed they’d somehow gotten a picture you hadn’t seen before. There you were at the counter, Joe standing close behind you, his chest brushing against your back. The next image showed him leaning down, his mouth near your ear as you tilted your head to hear him better. Of course, they’d taken the image at face value and run with it:

“Mystery Girl Captures Burrow’s Full Attention During Night Out.”

And then came the comments, scattered beneath the articles like debris after a storm:

“She’s cute but doesn’t really stand out. Wonder how long this will last.”

“It’s always something new with him, isn’t it?”

“Hope she knows what she’s getting into.”

You sighed, your fingers hesitating over the screen before curiosity won again. You scrolled further until an all-too-familiar headline caught your attention, stopping you cold:

“Passion or Trouble? Burrow Spotted in Heated Alleyway Argument Before Leaving with Mystery Woman.”

Your stomach flipped, the weight of recognition sinking in immediately. You didn’t need to click on it to remember the photos. You’d already seen and memorized them — Joe’s hands clenched in fits, and your own posture rigid. The dim lighting casted sharp shadows over his tense expression, and most of all, the way the people had made his confession look like some explosive argument instead of what it truly was.

“An emotional confrontation unfolded last night as Burrow and his companion were spotted in what appeared to be a tense discussion before running off together.”

“Witnesses report raised voices and what seemed to be a heated but private moment between the pair before they left the scene hand in hand.”

The memory of those photos haunted you just as much as the fabricated narrative. What should have been a vulnerable, private moment had been twisted into public consumption, turned into something unrecognizable.

You quickly closed all the tabs, swiping them away, but your thumb hovered over the screen, debating whether to text Joe.

"Call me?" you typed, only to delete it a second later.

He had a game tomorrow. The last thing you wanted was to add to his stress. But the question wouldn’t leave you: Was he okay? Was he blaming himself for this, the way you knew he would?

You could picture him now, in the locker room, sitting on the wooden bench with his elbows on his knees, head bowed, running through every decision he’d made last night. Joe always carried things like this on his shoulders, even when it wasn’t his fault. He would blame himself for all the photos and the headlines and the comments. The way your privacy was slowly being stripped away.

You could almost hear his voice, laced with quiet self-critique: I shouldn’t have let this happen to you.

But it wasn’t just you. It was the both of you. And you knew that somewhere in the middle of his self-recrimination, he was probably wondering if you regretted last night — if you thought being with him wasn’t worth all of this.

With a sigh, you set the phone aside and leaned back into the pillows, exhaling a shaky breath. Everything with Joe had always felt so personal, something special between just the two of you. Now, right as things were finally falling into place, perfectly, like something out of a dream, it was all on display for everyone else to judge.

Your gaze drifted toward Joe’s jacket lying on the edge of your bed, the fabric still holding the faint scent of him — clean, warm, familiar. You closed your eyes, letting that comfort wrap around you like a protective shield.

Let them speculate. Let them write their stories.

Because at the end of the day, they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know what it felt like to hear Joe confess everything he’d been holding back, his voice raw, his words slipping into your heart like they’d finally found the place they were always meant to be.

They didn’t know that this wasn’t just a headline for you. It wasn’t a scandal or some fleeting story.

It was real.

Let them talk.

Because when the noise faded, it would still be just you and Joe.

The Repercussions of Love

The sunlight streaming through your window had shifted, casting lazy Sunday afternoon shadows across your living room. You’d been texting Joe for most of the weekend, your usual conversations making it easy to forget — easy to pretend the world wasn’t watching.

Neither of you had brought up the new wave of photos and articles. You weren’t sure if it was an unspoken agreement to leave it alone or simply both of you not wanting to risk unsettling what had been building between you. Either way, it felt like the right choice.

But when your phone buzzed again, it wasn’t another text. It was Joe calling.

You answered on the second ring, his voice already lighting you up inside.

“Hey,” you greeted. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the zone or something right now?”

Joe’s laugh rang through, “talking to you is part of the zone.”

“Oh, so now I’m part of the pre-game ritual?” you teased, shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“Obviously.”

You grinned, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Well, should I say something motivational? Or do you just want me to repeat random sports clichés until you feel inspired?”

He chuckled. “Let’s hear your best halftime speech.”

“Okay, ready?” You cleared your throat dramatically. “Gentlemen, you’ve got one chance. One opportunity. Don’t mess it up or—”

“Are you quoting Lose Yourself by Eminem right now?” Joe interrupted, his chuckle spilling like he couldn’t help himself.

"Don’t act like you’re above it. This is probably better than half the stuff on your pre-game playlist."

"Careful, that playlist is sacred."

"Yeah, sacred," you mocked. "To Bon Iver and whatever woodland creatures you’ve got singing backup. What’s next, a whale call remix?"

Joe laughed, ��you’re never going to let that go, are you?"

"Absolutely not. The fact that you once tried to convince me that bird sounds help you win football games is too good."

"They do," he defended. "Bon Iver, nature, all of it — it’s part of the process."

"Sure. But if I hear even a hint of Eminem playing before today’s game, I’m calling you out."

"Fine," Joe said. "But only if you admit you’re rooting for me the whole time."

"Always," you replied, warmth settling into your chest.

"Next time I’ll swap Bon Iver for Eminem and see if that’s the secret sauce."

"Thank me when you win," you replied.

“Well, thanks, Coach. I feel unstoppable now.”

"Glad I could help," you said, resting your chin on your knee. "Anything good happen today, or was it just the usual pre-game chaos?"

Joe chuckled, the sound making you smile without even trying. "Depends on your definition of good. Marr tried stealing an extra smoothie and nearly took out an entire table in the process."

You held back a laugh, leaning into the cushions. "Let me guess, he made it look like it wasn’t his fault?"

"Of course. Said the table was unstable.”

"Did he at least get away with it?"

"Not exactly. He got caught but still managed to convince the kitchen staff into giving him another anyway."

"Smooth. You’ve got to admire the dedication."

"Or fear it," Joe joked. "One of these days, he’s going to bring down the whole cafeteria, and we’ll be the ones getting dragged for it."

"Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?" you teased.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on nothing important but feeling like it meant everything. Eventually, the inevitable moment arrived when you both started winding down, neither of you wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’ve got a game to win, Burrow.”

“And you’ve got the best seat in the house to watch me,” he teased.

“Don’t trip running out of the tunnel,” you teased back.

“I’ll try not to.” He fell silent for a beat. “Thanks for this.”

“Always.”

You both paused for a second before your ears perked up at the sudden rowdiness on the other line.

“Okay. Bye, Joe.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

It should’ve ended there. The warmth in your chest spread faster than you could stop it, sending your thoughts into a flurry — scattering reason like leaves caught in the wind as the sound of his voice echoed, over and over, in your mind.

“Love you.”

The silence that followed was thick, pressing against your ears and drowning everything else out beneath the thunder of your pulse. Your hands trembled as you quickly ended the call, dropping your phone onto the couch like it had betrayed you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the panicked gasp as you collapsed back against the cushions. Heat flushed over you, spreading from your chest to your neck like you’d been doused in embarrassment.

What have you done?

You let out a silent scream, burying your face in a pillow.

You said it. You actually said it.

You groaned, rolling over and snatching your phone back. The screen lit up, Joe’s name still sitting at the top of your call log like a glowing reminder of your slip-up.

You couldn’t just leave it like that. You had to say something, didn’t you? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as a dozen terrible options flashed through your head.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to—

No. Delete. That made it sound worse.

Ignore that.

Delete. Too dismissive.

You bit your lip, exhaling shakily, and rubbed your forehead. Just say something normal. Casual. Act like you didn’t just spill your soul into the phone.

You tried again:

Just wanted to clarify—

Delete.

But before you could type anything else, a message popped up.

Joe: I know.

Your breath caught in your chest. The typing bubble appeared quickly again, and then his next message came through:

Joe: Love you too.

The Confrontation

The knock at the door startled you, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of the evening. You set your mug of tea down with a soft clink against the coffee table, your heart skipping a beat. You were already ready to head to bed, you weren’t expecting anyone.

If anything, just waiting for a message from Joe. But, he was probably still tangled up in post-game obligations — press, interviews, team meetings.

Then again, after everything, you couldn’t help but wonder if tonight might be a little different.

You stumbled when you opened the door.

Joe stood on your doorstep, his hair still damp from the shower, a hoodie clinging to his broad frame and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His smile was small, soft, the kind that sent your heart into a quiet free fall.

“Hi,” you breathed, stepping aside to let him in. The warmth of his presence immediately filled the room, chasing away the quiet solitude that had settled there.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he teased lightly, holding out the bouquet. “Didn’t feel like sticking around for the press tonight.”

You blinked, taking the flowers and inhaling their sweet scent before setting them gently on the table next to the door. “You skipped press?”

He shrugged, a low chuckle escaping him. “Told them I had somewhere more important to be.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you as hard as they did, but they did.

“Come on,” you whispered, lacing your fingers together and pulling him toward the couch.

You both collapsed onto the cushions, Joe letting out a quiet sigh as he leaned back and stretched his legs out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to sit down,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opened them and found you already watching him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you this soon,” you spoke up.

“I couldn’t stay away."

“Congrats on the win,” you ignored his comment, your fingers absently toying with the edge of the throw pillow between you.

Joe smiled, that infamous, boyish grin making an appearance. “Thanks. Not exactly a nail-biter, though. It’s the Cardinals.”

You laughed. “Still, you played well.”

“Well... I had a great motivational speech before the game."

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. The room fell quiet, Joe’s arm moved to rest along the back of the couch, his fingers grazing your shoulder. You shifted closer, tucking yourself against him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he admitted, resting his chin on the top of your head. “But good.”

You stayed like that for a minute longer, his arm resting over your shoulders, its weight growing heavier as his body softened beside you. His breaths deepened, each exhale brushing against the top of your head.

“Come on,” you stood up, gently taking his hand in yours. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion, but he followed without hesitation.

He made no move to pull his hand away as you led him down the hallway into your dimly lit bedroom, the quiet of the night wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

You walked to the corner of the room, fingers brushing the lamp switch as you dimmed the light. When you turned around, Joe had already pulled his hoodie off with a lazy tug, the fabric lying in a heap on the floor. He stretched out on the bed, one arm resting behind his head, his gaze soft and steady as he watched you.

Without a word, he held his other arm open, inviting you closer. You slipped under the covers, and his arm easily found its place around your waist, pulling you into him. His warmth enveloped you instantly, your head settling on his chest, where his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear.

His fingers brushed against the soft fabric of your shirt before slipping just beneath it, resting gently in place without shifting. The touch was gentle, unfamiliar in its meaning but not in its comfort. New, yet welcomed all the same.

“I missed you,” he spoke, the words barely audible.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your fingers hesitating before sliding lightly across his chest, your touch mirroring his.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp painted the room in muted gold, shadows swaying gently across the walls as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly cracked window.

His fingers began tracing lazy, mismatched shapes across your skin. The stillness between you felt unspoken, broken only by the rhythm of his breath aligning with yours.

“How long do you think we can avoid it?” you asked suddenly.

He didn’t answer right away, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow patterns against your side. “Avoid what?”

"Joe," you whispered, a soft plea woven into your voice.

He sighed, his arm flexing as he pulled you even closer, your legs brushing against his under the covers. “I thought we were doing pretty well pretending.”

“You’re terrible at pretending,” you teased as your fingers reached to graze along the line of his jaw.

Joe’s gaze flickered down to you, the teasing dropping away, leaving something heavier in its place. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

The room felt smaller and the air heavier as his fingers skimmed higher across your body. His other hand moved from behind his head to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin as he studied you with a look that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You didn’t ask me why I came straight here tonight,” Joe said, as if he was pulling the thought from somewhere deep within.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “I figured I didn’t need to.”

His lips parted slightly, “I couldn’t stay away,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. “I thought about waiting, about giving you space, but I didn’t want to.”

The honesty in his voice cracked something open in you. “I didn’t want you to wait either,” you admitted, your hand sliding further, nails gently trailing along the side of his neck

His gaze locked on yours, “I don’t think I can anymore.”

The weight of his words hit you like heavily, pulling you toward him before his lips even touched yours. When they did, it wasn’t soft or cautious, nothing like his actions have been over the past how many weeks.

It was fierce, consuming, like he had been holding this back for too long. His hand slipped further under your shirt and along the curve of your torso.

You found it hard to not only focus on the way he was grasping for any part of you that he could hold onto, his touch igniting sparks that spread like wildfire.

Your fingers tightened along the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, like you needed more and couldn’t stop.

His lips parted against yours and the kiss turned feverish. The taste of him was intoxicating, dizzying. He pulled your body flush against his, as though even the smallest distance was unbearable.

When you finally drew your head back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together as you struggled to find air. His breath ghosted over your lips like he wasn’t ready to fully part from you just yet.

For a moment, the both of you stayed there — his one hand still cradling your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in lazy, soft strokes. The other gently resting on your hip. It was a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing between you.

Your hand slowly trailed upward, fingers threading gently through his hair before settling back against the side of his face.

His gaze flicked down to your lips and back up, like he was memorizing the way they swelled from the kiss.

“Today felt different,” you whispered, your lips brushing softly against his with the faintest tremor, like you weren’t ready to pull away yet either.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, his lips grazing yours again, teasing and gentle, as though saying that this moment deserved to last a little longer. “It did,” he replied.

His hand slipped to the back of your head, fingers tangling gently at the base of your neck. He tilted your face toward him, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you. “And it didn’t scare me.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that held a mix of relief and something deeper. “It didn’t scare me either.”

And that was all it took.

He kissed you again, this time with a slow, unhurried intensity that left no room for doubt. His lips moved against yours, patient but firm, pulling you under like the tide. His hand slid down from your head to join the other at the curve of your waist, fingers splaying wide against your skin as though he was trying to commit the feel of you to memory.

Every touch was electric, his hands mapping over the length of your body with a measured intent. He kissed you deeper, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine.

His thumbs dropped down lower, grazing against your hip bones and making your stomach flutter. He knew exactly where to linger, exactly how to unravel you without a word.

There was something about the way he kissed you now — like the weight of everything unsaid had finally lifted, leaving only the need to be closer, to feel more.

By the time you pulled back again you were gasping for air, your lips tingling and your heart racing so fast you could feel it in your fingertips. His forehead rested against yours, and his hand traced soothing circles on your back. His breath brushed against your cheek as he smiled.

“Still not scared?” he asked, voice teasing but laced with meaning.

Your fingers brushed over his jaw, tracing the slight stubble there. “Not even a little.”

And the way he kisses you after that is even better than before.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow angst

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arenashyambazarsposts · 1 year ago

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itneverendshere · 7 months ago

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INVISIBLE STRING - r.c series (eight)

pairing: pogue!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader. chapter warnings: mentions of domestic violence; unhealthy relationships;

It takes another week for your bruises to disappear entirely and for you to get comfortable enough to join Rafe downstairs while he’s working away with Jerry.

He didn’t mind though, he liked watching you heal, loved seeing you devour whatever he cooked for you. It was almost like he was healing himself too.

Rafe glances up from under the hood of the Chevy, the clang of metal on metal breaking the heat of the afternoon.

He isn’t sure what draws his attention, but there you are, sitting on the porch steps with sunlight catching in your hair, watching him and Jerry work like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

It devastates him—how much happier you look. A week ago, you'd barely let him leave your side without that haunted look creeping back into your eyes.

You sit there comfortably, legs stretched out, looking eerily like the girl he remembered from so long ago. Almost.

He wipes his hands on the rag tucked into his pocket, taking a moment to breathe you in. Seeing you there, in his space, still feels unreal.

Somehow, the universe had given him a second chance when he’d never thought he’d get one, hee wants to keep you that way, safe, comfortable, smiling.

“Rafe,” Jerry’s voice pulls him back to work, and he tears his gaze from you reluctantly, not before he catches the way your lips quirk just a little more when you realize he’s been watching.

He ducks his head back under the hood, focusing on the busted engine. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but the truth is, he’s already planning what to make you for dinner. Maybe spaghetti?

You’d eaten three helpings of it the other night like you couldn’t get enough. He’ll make extra.

He grins to himself, a small, private thing, as he tightens the bolt on the alternator. He isn’t usually one for kitchen work but he’d been experimenting ever since you got here, he'd been cooking more than ever.

Figured out how to make pancakes the way you liked them, even if it meant burning the first couple batches, learned the trick to getting mashed potatoes just right, and spaghetti? He can make that blindfolded by now, if it means seeing you sitting, all full and satisfied, looking at him like he’s doing something right for once.

He peeks your way again, can’t help it.

God, he could write poetry about you if he had the words, if he was smart enough for that shit. Something about how your skin soaks up the sun like it’s meant just for you, or how you make the whole world quiet just by sitting there, looking at him.

You stretch, raising your arms over your head and his chest hurts so good. You don’t know what you’re doing to him, do you? You have no idea how much he wants to drop this wrench, cross the yard, and pull you into his arms, just to feel you against him, like the good old days.

“Rafe,” Jerry calls again, this time a little more assertive.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” He mutters, running a hand through his hair, smearing grease. The old man shoots him a look but says nothing.

He blames you, how is a guy supposed to focus with you sitting there like that? Looking all pretty and sweet, like you belong nowhere else but on his porch, waiting on him to finish up.

He wonders if you’d blush if he told you.

Maybe later, at dinner, he’ll get you talking about something—something that makes your eyes light up and your hands move like they always do when you got excited. Not the whole thing, of course, not the part about how he wants to keep you here forever, how he spent the last week falling asleep next to you, scared out of his mind to wake up and you’d be gone.

He can’t say that, not yet.

He still doesn’t feel deserving, the years haven’t dimmed you a bit—if anything, you’re brighter, and stronger, especially after what had happened, after you showed up on his doorstep with bruises and trembling hands, you’re still here, looking at him like he’s someone worth trusting.

He can’t stop thinking about what your parents said, all those years ago. How they’d made him feel like the scum on their shoes, but he isn’t that same kid anymore, is he? He built a life here, fixed cars, learned to cook, stayed out of trouble. You came back to him.

The sound of pawsteps across gravel draws his attention before he even realizes he’s been listening for it. A familiar shadow pads around the corner of the garage—a big mutt with a patchy brown coat, floppy ears, and a wagging tail that never quits.

Rafe chuckles under his breath. “Look who finally decided to wake up,” he drawls, wiping his hands on his jeans as the dog, Ace, makes his way toward you, bypassing him completely.

Traitor.

You sit up straighter on the steps, blinking at the unexpected visitor, “Who’s this?”

“That’s Ace, the one I told you about,” He explains, leaning against the Chevy, arms crossed. “Sleeps in the garage most nights. Jerry feeds him scraps when he thinks I ain’t lookin’.”

“Bull,” Jerry mutters from under the hood, but Rafe just grins.

Ace stops a few feet away from you, his tail still wagging but slower now, careful, he sniffles the air, head tilting as if he’s sizing you up.

You extend a hand tentatively, and Rafe’s heart damn near fucking stops when Ace leans forward, his big nose brushing your fingers like he’s been waiting all his life to meet you.

“Oh,” you breath, your lips curving into a blinding smile as you tenderly scratch behind his ears. Ace practically melts, pressing his head into your palm like you’re the best thing that had ever happened to him and Rafe feels like someone punched him, at least a hundred times, square in the chest.

Even the fucking dog is in love with you.

“He’s sweet,” you coo as you stroke Ace’s scruffy coat. “Aren’t you, boy?”

The dog lets out a contented huff, flopping onto the ground at your feet like he’s ready to stay there forever, Rafe can’t blame him.

“He doesn’t warm up to folks like that,” He finds himself admitting, “Usually takes him a while to trust people. Guess he’s got good taste.”

You look up at him, and there it is—that little spark in your eyes that makes his knees weak. “He must take after his owner, then.”

He lets out a noise, between a laugh and a swallow, scratching the back of his neck, looking down at the ground because he knows if he looks at you too long, he’ll probably do something stupid, maybe kiss you right there in front of Jerry and the whole damn yard.

“Nah,” he concedes finally, “Dog’s got way more sense than me.”

You laugh, that sound was always better than any song he ever heard, even if you haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

“You’ve got your moments.” You tease, still scratching the mutt behind his ears.

“Moments, huh?” He smirks, slow and lazy, the way that always makes you blush.

Your cheeks are still flushed, just like he hoped they would, and you shake your head, but he doesn’t miss the way your grin only grows.

God, you’re so beautiful it hurts. He wants to bottle this moment up and keep it forever—the sun on your skin, Ace curled up at your feet, and that look in your eyes.

Jerry clears his throat loudly, and Rafe drags his attention away, turning back to the engine with a muttered, “Don’t you got somethin’ better to do, old man?”

Jerry snorts. “Not when you’re makin’ moon eyes at her like that, might as well sell tickets.”

He shoots him a glare, his ears turning pink, and you cackle again, a little louder this time. It’s worth the ribbing, worth all of it, just to hear that sound. Rafe sighs, long and dramatic. "Don’t you have a crossword or somethin' to keep your mouth busy?"

The old man sniggers, his laugh scratchy and full of life as you look between the two of them, enjoying the show.

“So,” you pipe up, resting your chin on your hand, comfortable enough around Jerry to finally ask, “How did you two meet? Officially, I mean.”

“Cameron didn’t tell you?”

He groans, already regretting everything. “Oh, come on—don’t—”

“Shut up, kid,” Jerry clicks his tongue, waving him off, turning turned to you, his eyes already sparkling with mischief in the late afternoon sun. “It was, what, five years ago? Somethin’ like that. I was in the middle of the hardware store, cussin’ out a kid who bagged up the wrong screws for me.”

Rafe ducks his head, mumbling, “It wasn’t that bad.”

Jerry ignores him, his hands moving as he speaks. “And here comes this scrappy little punk, all long limbs and attitude. He’s hanging around the counter, lookin’ like he’s ready to swipe somethin’. I figured, well, either he’s desperate or he’s an idiot, so I hollered at him.”

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at Rafe. “Scrappy little punk? I remember that.”

He sends a faux glare your way, “Don’t gloat him on.”

“Could’ve called the cops on him,” Jerry goes on, enjoying himself. “But I didn’t. Somethin’ about him looked...he just needed a break. I handed him a sandwich instead. Figured, worst-case scenario, he’d run off and I’d be down a couple bucks.

“But he didn’t.”

Jerry beams, “He sat right there on the curb and ate the whole damn thing like he hadn’t had a meal in days. Then, after he was done, he asked me if I had any work for him.”

You try to keep your expression even, but your throat tightens a little as you take a peek at Rafe’s reaction. He isn’t looking at you, his hands are busy wiping grease from a bolt that needs no more attention.

Your mind paints a picture you don’t want to see: him, still just a teenager, sitting alone on a curb in a strange town, starving, with no one to turn to. You remember the boy you’d known back then—the one who laughed loudly, talked too big, and held your hand like you were the only thing he had in the world.

The thought of him losing all of that, of losing you and ending up so desperate, breaks something inside you.

Jerry isn’t oblivious; he sees the flinch when he mentions Rafe’s first meal here. He catches how your shoulders tense, how Rafe avoids looking at you, the old man has a knack for reading people, so, still with a knowing smile, he pivots.

“Speakin’ of this kid’s early days,” Jerry claps his hands, “Y’know, I had half a mind to send him back to whatever dock he washed up from.”

His free hand dragged down his face. “C’mon, Jerry—”

“No, no, she’s gotta hear this,” Jerry insists, grinning again now. “You ever heard the phrase, ‘bull in a china shop’? That was this one.” He jerks his thumb toward him. “I handed him a wrench, told him to take off the oil pan on an old Ford. Figured, simple job, even he couldn’t screw it up.”

You tilt your head, curious despite yourself. “And?”

“The next thing I know, I hear this god-awful bang—like a car had fallen off the lift. I run over, and there’s Rafe, sittin’ on the ground, oil pan in one hand, half the damn exhaust in the other.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle, your eyes widening. “No!”

“I was new!” he defends, albeit childishly, his neck turning a faint shade of pink. “I didn’t know cars back then, alrigh’? Boats are different.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jerry chaffs, “Different enough that I had to spend half my day puttin’ that exhaust back together.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but there’s a sheepish tilt on his lips. “You’re lucky I didn’t quit after that.”

“You?” Jerry cackles, slapping his knee. “You were lucky I didn’t fire you!”

“Alright, that’s enough outta you,” Rafe grumbles, though his tone is more affectionate than annoyed. “She doesn’t need to hear every stupid thing I did.”

Jerry winks at you, “Stick around long enough, and I’ve got plenty more stories where that came from.”

Rafe sighs dramatically, shaking his head, he turns back to the car, he doesn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it makes you laugh.

You’re still petting Ace, murmuring something that he can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. The way your lips move, the gentle tilt of your head—it’s enough to send his heart hammering.

He doesn’t know what he did to get you back in his life, but he’s sure as hell not going to mess it up. Not this time.

Ace moves at your feet, rolling onto his back, his tail thumping against the ground and you laugh again, that heart-wrenching melodic sound.

He doesn’t even care that Jerry caught him “makin’ moon eyes” earlier—because this is what love looks like, he’ll gladly wear the fool.

“Everything okay over there?” you call, a teasing tilt in your voice.

He clears his throat, coming up with something to say, “Yeah, just—uh, makin’ sure Jerry doesn’t mess up the alternator.”

Jerry barks a laugh from behind the car. “Kid, I’ve been doin’ this since before you could walk. Go ahead, tell her about the time you tried to put windshield wiper fluid in the oil tank.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe mutters as your snort spills out, unrestrained and perfect. He wants to record that sound, keep it for the nights when his demons get too loud.

Jerry pops back up, smirking as he wipes his hands on a rag. “She oughta know what she’s dealin’ with.”

He shakes his head, the faintest grin on his lips. “She knows enough. Don’t you, darlin’?”

The nickname slips out without him meaning to, but it feels right.

“Yeah, I do.”

Jerry slaps him on the back, pulling him out of his head. “Alright, kid. Let’s fire her up, see if she’ll run.”

He nods, tossing the wrench onto the workbench. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

He steps around to the driver’s side, sliding into the worn seat, the key turns in the ignition, and the old Chevy grumbles to life, sputtering a little before settling into a steady rumble.

Jerry whoops, giving the hood an affectionate pat.

You’re clapping, beaming brighter than the sun dipping low on the horizon, the pride in your eyes, you’re looking at him like he just moved mountains instead of fixing an old truck—it’s overwhelming.

He kills the engine, stepping out of the car, wiping his hands on his jeans as he crosses the yard, Jerry mutters something about grabbing a beer and heads inside, leaving the two of you alone with the fading light and the lazy wag of Ace’s tail.

Rafe stops, suddenly nervous, scratching the back of his neck, his attention flickering between you and the ground.

“I like watching you work. You look happy.”

Happy, such a simple word, but hearing it from you feels monumental, you’re giving him something he didn’t even know he was missing.

“Yeah, guess I’m not used to having an audience,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into a small, sheepish grin.

You tilt your head, studying him and he feels completely exposed, knowing you remembre all the cracks, every scar, every damn thing about him, but instead of turning away, you lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand.

“You’re good at it, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

He looks away, swallowing hard, “Already promised I’d make you that pasta again, don’t need to butter me up, princess.”

You roll your eyes, as you wave him off. “Don’t let it go to your head, country boy.”

He chuckles, the sound wrapping around you. “Too late for that.”

Ace stirs at your feet, letting out a happy huff as your hand absentmindedly scratches his belly. Rafe watches the way you’re with the dog, so effortless and full of love, and his heart swells.

“Y’know,” he says, his voice more serious, “it’s nice, havin’ you here. Feels... right.”

You brush a strand of hair out of your face, glancing down at Ace before looking back up at him. “It feels right to me too,” you admit.

Rafe’s breath catches, his hand twitching at his side like he wants to touch but doesn’t know how. Instead, he clears his throat, tilting his head toward the garage.

“Guess I should, uh, finish cleanin’ up.”

You nod, smiling a little. “Don’t let me stop you, grease monkey.”

He gives you a tongue-in-cheek smirk, the side of his cheek puffing out slightly, shaking his head as he stands, but not before he leans down, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, and whispers, “Keep callin’ me that, and I might start likin’ it.”

He knows exactly what he's doing when your lips part in a gasp as he leans in, how your eyes widen before you try act unaffected—it’s like you’re both teens again. He didn’t mean to flirt, not at first, but the way you look at him, it’s impossible not to.

He pulls back, letting his smirk settle into place, giving you that lazy, self-assured grin you always pretended to hate when you were younger.

By the time you think of a comeback, he’s already halfway to the workbench, his smug grin unmistakable even from a distance.

Jerry returns with a beer in hand, catching the tail end of your flustered expression. “What’d he say this time?”

“Nothing,” you reply quickly as you scratch Ace behind the ears again.

“Uh-huh,” Jerry says knowingly, settling into his chair and shaking his head with a chuckle.

Dinner comes slow but is worth the wait.

The sun's long since tucked itself away, and by now, the house smells like garlic and tomatoes, the scent that makes you feel like you’re right where you belong.

Rafe stands in the kitchen, his back to you as he plates up the spaghetti he promised. He’s in a worn t-shirt and jeans, the grease scrubbed from his hands but still faintly streaked along his forearm.

He’d gone all out—spaghetti with his homemade sauce, garlic bread, and even a side salad, though he figured that would mostly be for show.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he calls, leaning on the doorframe as you appear from the hallway, fresh-faced and relaxed after cleaning up from earlier. You smile at him, and his heart stutters like it always does when you stare at him like that, turning with two plates balanced in his hands, “One gourmet pasta dish, comin’ up.”

You laugh, sitting cross-legged at the table. “Big words for a guy who learned how to boil water when he was seventeen.”

“Now, that’s just mean.” He sets the plates down with mock offense, but there’s a light in his eyes, the kind that only shows up when you’re here.

The first bite is heaven—simple, hearty, comforting.

You can’t help the little sigh that escapes as you twirl more noodles around your fork. He watches from across the table, leaning back in his chair, one hand loosely gripping his beer. He’s not subtle about it either, letting his eyes wander over you like he’s cataloging every detail.

“This is amazing,” you say after swallowing. “Seriously. You’ve been holding out on me.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a bite of his own. “Nah, just figured if I burned a few meals first, you’d lower your expectations. Keep the bar manageable.”

“If this is you being ‘manageable,’ I’m almost scared to see what happens when you’re trying.”

“Careful, princess,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Might start thinkin’ you’re tryna keep me in the kitchen.”

“Well, you do look good in an apron,” you bite back a shit-eating grin as his face warms ever so slightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, stabbing a piece of garlic bread and pointing it at you playfully. “Keep it up, see what happens.”

He takes a sip of his drink, watching the way your shoulders relax, and how you reach for another piece of bread without hesitation. It’s everything he wanted when he planned this—just to see you like this, comfortable, at home.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” you say after a moment, gesturing toward the food. “It’s kind of... surprising.”

Rafe shrugs, his lips twitching into a crooked smirk. “Figured it was time I learned somethin’ useful. Can’t live off fast food forever, y’know?”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You’ve changed.”

He doesn’t look at you right away, focusing instead on twirling his fork through his pasta. “Time does that, I guess. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it ain’t.”

“I think it’s good,” you say, and the sincerity in your voice makes him glance up. Your eyes meet, and there’s something there—something that makes his chest feel all empty and full at once.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, “I like this version of you. Feels like you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

You talk about the past like as if it’s something distant, like it doesn’t still linger in the cracks of who you’ve become. He hates it—hates the way your voice wavers. Hates that, for five years, you’d been fighting to survive while he wasn’t there to stop it.

He should be grateful for the words, for the way you look at him like he’s the version of himself you can believe in. But all he can think about is how wrong you are. How he was supposed to be there—not here. If he says it out loud, the mood will drop, and the hope in your voice will disappear. He can’t take that from you—not when you’ve fought so hard to get here.

So instead, he swallows the words.

You’re still smiling and he lets himself pretend that this is how it’s always been—that you’ve never known anything but moments like this, safe and warm. The corner of his mouth twitches upward as he watches you, but that tightness in his chest refuses to ease.

“You’ve got something...” He gestures vaguely, and when you blink at him in confusion, he reaches for his napkin. “On your lip.”

You laugh, startled, and quickly swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Did I get it?”

“Nah,” he says, smirking as he leans forward slightly. “Other side.”

You try again, this time swiping with your thumb, but it’s no use.

He chuckles low, shaking his head, his heart squeezing as he watches your eyes crinkle at the edges. He’d give anything to go back and rewrite the past, so you’d never know the pain you went through.

“C’mere,” he says softly, his voice warm like the honey he used to sneak into your tea.

Before you can whine in protest, he’s reaching across the table, thumb brushing gently against the corner of your lips. His touch stays a second longer than it should, his eyes locked on yours and he doesn’t pull back.

Instead, his hand moves to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone.

You don’t pull away, and that quiets the voice in his head screaming at him to back off, to give you space. The last thing he wants is to upset you. Your breathing hitches slightly, your attention flickering to his lips, and that’s all it takes to shake whatever restraint he has left.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, feeling a desperate need for your permission. “I’ll stop.”

You shake your head, just barely, the motion subtle but enough, “You don’t have to.”

Five years. Five years of silence, of distance, of trying to live in a world that didn’t feel like home without the other. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to turn away. But you don’t—you couldn’t if you tried, not with the warmth of his palm against your skin, the way his breath ghosts over your lips.

And then, finally, his mouth meets yours.

The kiss is not as gentle as he expected.

It’s desperate like the years apart have snapped every ounce of longing into something unbearable. His lips move against yours with a reckless abandon, the kind that whispers I’m sorry I missed you and I never stopped loving you all at once. It’s messy and clumsy in the best way—you’re both trying to relearn the map of each other, chasing something you thought you’d lost forever.

The kiss deepens, the world falling away until all you can feel is him, and you wonder how you ever survived without this.

But as suddenly as it began, he pulls back.

Rafe’s breathing is uneven, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still brushing over your cheek as if to soothe, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for everything. For not being there. For—”

You cut him off with another kiss, softer this time but no less meaningful. It’s your way of telling him there’s nothing to forgive, that every broken piece led you back here, to this moment.

“You’re awful quiet,” he says, “That’s never a good sign.”

You glance back at the remnants of dinner. “Just thinking,” you reply, deliberately neutral, but it doesn’t fool him.

“About what?”

You hesitate, “About the first time we met.”

That catches him off guard. His eyebrows knit together, and he straightens slightly, “What about it?”

You huff out a chuckle, “I was just remembering how much of an ass you were. You were so mean.”

“You make it sound like I wasn’t justified.”

“You were so angry that day. You had this scowl—like you wanted to scare me off.”

“I did,” he admits, his hand dropping to the table, fingers brushing yours, “Didn’t work, though. You figured me out pretty quick.”

You're studying him like you’re reading the pages of an old, familiar book. Your fingers curl around his, “It’s easy when you find your soulmate.”

Rafe’s breath catches, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for a sign that this is another one of your teasing remarks. But when he sees the sincerity in your face, the way your lips curve into a gentle, knowing smile, he feels a warmth spreading through his body.

“Yeah?”

You nod slowly, your fingers gently brushing his. “Yeah, don’t think I ever really had to figure you out. I just had to see you.”

He’s quiet, a little stunned, he knows you’re not just talking about the past, about that first meeting when he was all bitterness. You’re talking about the now, about who he’s trying to be, who he’s becoming. He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a second, just soaking in the feel of you—real and here and his.

He swallows hard, unsure how to express himself.

“You’re… you’re the love of my life,” he admits. It’s not a grand confession, there’s no dramatic buildup, no orchestrated speech, it’s just a simple truth, spilling from his heart like it’s always belonged there. His heart races under the look you’re giving him, “I know I screwed up. I know I’ve been a fuckin’ mess, but I never stopped loving you, don’t think I ever could.”

Your lips tremble eyes shining with something tender, as you reach out, your hand brushing against his clothed chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

“I’ve always known,” you say, your voice carrying every ounce of emotion you’ve kept buried. “I’ve always known, Rafe, even when we were apart. You’ve always been it for me.”

The words, the honesty in them, he’s suddenly overcome with a flood of emotions so intense, it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in, his lips pecking yours gently, over and over again, until you’re grinning from ear to ear again.

“You’re it for me, too,” he murmurs against your skin, “Always.”

Rafe doesn’t let you move far after dinner, you’re not even halfway to the sink with the plates before he takes them out of your hands, his skin brushing yours, lingering just long enough to make you shiver all over again.

“Don’t,” he scolds.

“You cooked,” you protest.

“I always cook,” he retorts lightheartedly as he sets the plates on the counter. “Doesn’t mean I’m letting you clean up. Sit.”

You fold your arms, leaning back against the counter instead, the stubborn tilt of your chin making him laugh. It’s not mocking—but he still shakes his head, muttering something about “always gotta have the last word”, you still let your elbow bump his every so often.

The simple domesticity of it catches you off guard, you never had it before, so it’s not something you would’ve associated with him back then—but here he is, sleeves pushed up, completely at ease. Five minutes later, he pushes off the counter and takes a step closer,

“C’mere,” he’s guiding you toward the couch with a hand at the small of your back.

Ace follows, tail wagging lazily as he flops onto the rug near Rafe’s feet. He usually doesn’t let him come up here, but you’d begged to prettily earlier, and he couldn’t say no to that face. You settle in first, tucking your legs beneath you, and he sits beside you, his arm draping over the back of the couch.

The night winds down slowly, and by the time you’re both settled, Ace is already sprawled across Rafe’s legs, you’re warm with spaghetti, affection, and a sense of belonging. He moves, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he tugs you closer, his cheek resting against your temple.

“This feels right, doesn’t it?”

You nod, leaning into him, “Yeah, it does.”

418 notes · View notes

alive-gh0st · 1 month ago

Text

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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