#to move on without him and miss him and for him to rest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neonbonded · 2 days ago

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Right Here, but Still Too Far

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: emotional distance, soft angst, quiet longing, domestic disconnect, subtle heartbreak, husband-core devastation ♡ a/n: You live together. You sleep in the same bed. You share meals,kiss each other goodnight. But sometimes? Love gets quiet. And all it takes is one soft, honest “I miss you” to shatter the space between.

Caleb

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter.

The sun’s already gone down, but the lights are still off—just the stove hood casting a soft yellow over the counter, catching on the steam from the pasta pot.

Caleb’s moving like a machine. Quiet. Efficient.

One hand stirs the sauce, the other balances the baby monitor against his shoulder. He hasn’t sat down in hours. The front of his shirt is wrinkled from being used as a napkin. His hair’s a little damp at the edges like he forgot to fully dry it after his three-minute shower.

You’re watching him from the table.

You’re not fighting. There’s no coldness. No tension.

But something’s… distant.

Like you’re living next to each other. Not with each other.

He hums to himself softly—some melody you can’t place. He opens a cabinet with his foot. He says, “You want cheese?” like it’s code for love, but he doesn’t look at you when he asks.

You smile anyway. “Sure.”

He grates it. Sprinkles it. Passes you a bowl.

Then goes right back to moving.

The baby monitor crackles.

A timer goes off.

He starts unloading the dishwasher.

And you just sit there, soup cooling in front of you.

You’re still staring at him when it happens—when the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Soft. Honest.

Like breathing.

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t turn around right away.

His brain doesn’t process it at first. He’s too busy checking the time on the oven clock, flipping dinner, wondering if the laundry’s dry.

Then the words echo back in his chest.

I miss you.

His hand stills on the spatula.

“You…” He turns. “You what?”

You shrug. A little too fast. “Nothing. I mean—you're here. I know. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the pan down—burner still on. Crosses the room in three strides.

“You miss me?” he asks again, slower now. Like he’s scared of the answer.

You nod. “You’re always doing stuff. For the baby. For me. You never sit down anymore.”

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t realize I stopped.”

You smile, just a little. “You didn’t. You just… drifted.”

He sinks to his knees in front of your chair, rests his cheek against your belly like he used to before the baby was born.

“I’ve been right here,” he whispers. “But I’ve been so focused on taking care of everything—I didn’t realize I left the part that mattered.”

Your fingers slide into his hair.

He lets them.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. “So much it hurts.”

You bend down, rest your forehead against his.

And for the first time in weeks?

He breathes.

Really breathes.

Xavier

You don’t even realize how quiet it’s gotten until the microwave beeps.

Xavier is still standing where he’s been for the last five minutes—staring blankly at the digital numbers. Not opening the door. Not speaking. Just… existing.

He’s like that lately.

He’s here, technically. He tucks you in at night. He leaves lights on when you fall asleep on the couch. He still makes tea for you in the morning—even if it’s lukewarm by the time you notice.

But it’s like you’re in the same room, and still a world apart.

You don’t blame him. Not really. He’s always been a little detached, a little distant, like his thoughts are off somewhere else.

But lately?

He doesn’t come back.

Not all the way.

You shift on the couch, blanket pulled up around your knees. “The tea’s cold,” you say, just to say something.

He nods without turning. “I’ll reheat it.”

Silence again.

The microwave keeps beeping.

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not even thinking about saying it.

But then—

“I miss you.”

It comes out soft. Small. A little raw around the edges.

And it lands.

Xavier blinks. Slowly.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just… stands there.

Then the microwave beeps again, louder this time.

He opens the door. Reaches for the mug. Stops halfway.

His hand is shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally. Voice low. Controlled.

You shift on the couch, throat tight. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I thought I was being present.”

You shake your head. “You’ve been nearby. That’s not the same.”

He turns, tea still in hand.

When he sees your face—really sees it—something in his own shifts.

He walks to you. Kneels down in front of the couch.

And offers the mug like a peace offering.

You take it. He doesn’t move.

Then he says—soft, barely audible:

“I didn’t realize I was missing you too.”

And for the first time in days?

He lets himself stay.

Rafayel

It starts with him in the kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, music playing in the background, something herby and over-complicated simmering on the stove.

He’s singing. Loudly. Off-key.

You watch him from the kitchen table, head resting on your hand, eyes half-lidded. You’ve been watching him for twenty minutes—gliding back and forth across the tile like a tragic chef-prince in exile.

He narrates everything he’s doing. Dramatically.

“The rosemary must be coaxed, not crushed!” “Where is the sea salt?” “Oh, my darling olive oil—don’t burn me now—!”

You should be laughing.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because this is the third night this week he’s filled the space with music and dancing and noise. Third night he’s performed affection like a monologue—but hasn’t touched you once.

It’s not cold. Not cruel. Just… hollow.

Like he’s afraid that if he slows down, he’ll feel something he doesn’t want to.

You look down at the pasta cooling in front of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect.

“I miss you.”

He stops mid-stir.

Just stops.

Spoon still hovering in the air. Sauce bubbling behind him. Frank Sinatra cut off mid-note.

He turns around slowly. Frowns. “I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“You just watched me kiss a tomato with more passion than most romance leads.”

“I know.”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

And then you see it—the panic. The way his whole body falters. Like he’s realizing something very, very important too late.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “Oh no.”

“Raf—”

He crosses the room in three fast steps, kneels beside you like you’re about to fade.

“You miss me? I’ve been serenading you with pasta and praise! I told the eggplant it was regal! What have I done?”

You reach for his cheek. “You’ve been everywhere but here.”

He leans into your touch like it hurts.

“I thought I was making things brighter,” he murmurs. “Turns out I was just making them louder.”

You smile, a little sad. “I don’t need louder. I just need you.”

He lets out the softest breath. Presses a kiss to your palm.

Then: “I’m going to burn dinner, aren’t I?”

You glance at the stove. “Probably.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. Then let me hold you while it burns.”

And when he pulls you into his arms on the kitchen floor—flour on his sleeve, sauce on his collar, guilt in his throat—you finally feel him come back.

Zayne

It’s 9:07 p.m.

The kitchen is spotless. The baby monitor is on. The dinner plates are in the dishwasher, stacked in perfect symmetry. Zayne’s at the counter writing something down—something for tomorrow. Groceries, probably. He doesn’t say what.

You’re still sitting at the table, legs pulled up under you. Watching him. Quiet.

He’s been like this for weeks now.

Present. Helpful. Perfect, really. Except you can’t feel him anymore.

You speak without looking at him.

“I miss you.”

His pen stops moving.

The silence hits hard. Sharper than you expect.

“…What?” he says. Not defensive—just confused. Like the words didn’t compute.

You repeat it. “I miss you.”

He turns around slowly, brows drawn. “I… don’t understand. I’m here.”

You offer a soft smile. “I know. But you feel far away.”

He frowns—deep. Like the idea physically bothers him.

“I make dinner,” he says. “I do the morning routine. I check in. I—” He stops.

You don’t interrupt.

Zayne runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like he’s trying to hold in something sharp.

“I thought I was doing everything right.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re doing everything. You’re just not being with me.”

That lands harder than you meant it to.

He grips the counter edge. Shoulders tense. Not angry. Just overwhelmed.

Then, voice quieter:

“I didn’t know how to come back.”

You step up behind him. Wrap your arms around his waist. Feel the tension in his spine.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be enough,” you whisper. “You just have to let me hold you.”

He exhales, shaky. Eyes closed.

“…Okay.”

And for the first time in weeks—he lets go.

Sylus

He’s on the couch with his boots still on.

One arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a glass of something dark, untouched. He hasn’t said much since dinner—just grunted in response to your “long day?” and slipped into his usual, quiet brooding comfort zone.

You’re curled up on the opposite end of the couch. Close enough to touch him if you reached. But you don’t.

Because lately, it feels like when you do, he flinches—emotionally, if not physically.

You glance at him now, the sharp angle of his jaw softened by the warm lamplight. He’s not tense. He’s not closed off.

He’s just… somewhere else.

You turn your head away before he can catch the way your face folds a little.

And you say it.

“I miss you.”

The words hang there. Casual and devastating.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just blinks. Breathes in slow.

Then, softly:

“…I’m right here.”

You nod. “I know. But it still feels like I haven’t had you in a while.”

He sets his drink down.

Stares at the floor for a moment. Then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to clear static out of his head.

“You think I’m pulling away.”

You stay quiet.

He glances over—just once—and when he sees your expression, something shifts in him. Less defensive. More wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, lower now. “I just… get stuck in my head sometimes. And I guess I thought being in the same room counted for something.”

“It does,” you say. “But it’s not the same as being close.”

He leans back, scrubs a hand down his face.

Then mumbles, half to himself:

“God. You’re gonna make me talk about feelings, aren’t you.”

You smile. Barely. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you again—longer this time. Like he’s really seeing you. And that’s what finally gets him to move.

He scoots closer. Wordless. Slow.

Then pulls you gently into his side, your head tucked against his shoulder. One hand over your thigh, grounding. Solid.

You feel him exhale.

“I do miss you too,” he says eventually. “I just didn’t realize it until you said it first.”

You nod.

You don’t need anything else right now.

Just this.

Just him.

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maskedbyghost · 12 hours ago

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this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second—for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

-----------------------------------------

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley smut

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smutmind · 3 days ago

Text

The Wife ft. Chaeyoung

----

FULL CHAPTERS HERE

----

Bedroom lights glowed dim gold, softening the edges of everything but the truth.

Chaeyoung’s knees sank into the memory foam between his thighs. Her ponytail brushed his belly as her small hands braced his hips. Jihun groaned, breath catching when her lips sealed around the head of his cock—soft, teasing pressure at first, then deeper, wetter, purposeful.

He arched slightly, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck, baby… that tongue.”

Her eyes flicked up, playful. “You missed this?”

“You have no idea.”

She bobbed slow, then fast, sucking with shallow grace. Saliva warmed the base of his shaft. The tight hollow of her cheeks made every stroke obscene.

Jihun’s hands threaded into her hair. “You’re so fucking good at this,” he breathed.

She gave a light hum, vibrating around him. Then pulled back with a soft pop. “You get hard just thinking about my mouth, huh?”

“Every time,” he groaned.

She climbed over him next, straddling his stomach, her petite frame naked and flushed. Her breasts were small—tight and firm with dusky nipples that stiffened in the bedroom air.

“Show me how much,” she whispered, dragging her slick core along his length.

Jihun’s hands gripped her thighs. “God, you’re soaked.”

She grinned. “Your fault.”

Then she leaned forward, guiding him inside her inch by inch until he filled her.

“Fuck,” she moaned, hips circling. “That stretch...”

Reverse cowgirl. Her favorite.

Jihun grinned. “You want control tonight, huh?”

“You mind?” she teased, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

“Not one bit.”

She rode him slow at first, rocking her tight ass against his groin, her muscles gripping him in pulsing waves.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just like that. Fuck, Chaeyoung...”

Her rhythm deepened, pace steady. “You gonna come already?”

“Getting close,” he admitted, voice ragged.

“Then flip me. Let me feel you deeper.”

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her waist, rolled them easily, and pulled her onto all fours.

“Doggy it is,” he growled.

She arched her back, ass high, slick and ready. “Come make me beg.”

Jihun slid into her with a groan, buried to the hilt. Her body took him easily, dripping wet and clenched tight.

He thrust deep, fast, every slap of their bodies louder than the last. His fingers dug into her hips, grounding him.

“You feel fucking amazing,” he gasped.

“Harder,” she panted. “Don’t hold back.”

He obeyed, slamming into her with everything he had. Her moans filled the room, high and breathy, urging him on.

“Shit, Chaeyoung, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” she begged. “Come inside me. I want all of it.”

He groaned loud, thrust once more, and spilled into her, body convulsing. He collapsed forward, breath heavy, sweat trailing from his chest to her back.

She stayed there a moment, smiling, then gently pulled away, his cum spilling down her thighs.

Chaeyoung padded into the bathroom, humming softly. The faucet ran, a drawer opened, lotion clicked shut.

She returned with a towel, cleaned him with gentle care. Her kiss was soft. Her fingers ran down his chest.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, half-asleep.

She smiled again. “Get some rest.”

She stood over him for a moment, still naked, hair now messy and clinging to her cheek. Her fingers hovered near the nightstand—where pens and scissors lay in a cup beside the lamp. She stared.

Her hand moved slowly, lifting a pen, its tip gleaming faintly in the low light. She held it inches from his sleeping face, close enough that his breath fogged the plastic.

Her fingers trembled.

She stared at his closed eyes. “Not yet,” she whispered, barely audible.

She turned, padded out of the room.

He exhaled slow.

She didn’t hear the rustle under the blanket. Didn’t see his eyes open.

He waited a full minute after the door clicked shut.

His breath slowed. Eyes wide now. Awake, every nerve alert. The room still smelled of her—sweat, sex, the subtle vanilla in her hair—but something under it smelled wrong. Like heat without warmth. Like danger wrapped in silk.

Jihun sat up, slow and silent. The sheets were still warm where she’d tucked him in.

He replayed it: the way she stood at the nightstand. The way her hand hovered over the pen. Not random. Not distracted. Something deliberate—and then restrained. Not love. Not care. Something colder.

He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet pressing to the hardwood floor. It creaked once beneath his heel. He froze. Waited. Nothing.

The hallway was dark, save for the faint spill of moonlight from the living room. No sound of her. No clicks from the bathroom. No water running.

She was gone.

His fingers brushed the top of the dresser until he found his phone. 1:48 AM.

He slipped a hoodie on, skipped the boxers, just tugged sweatpants over his bare skin. No noise. Just the quiet pull of fabric and the dull pound of his pulse.

He cracked the bedroom door wider.

The pen was still in the cup by the lamp. No knife. No weapon. But his gut wouldn’t let go of the image—her knuckles tight, her gaze blank, her body stiff with something unspoken.

The front door stood half open. A breeze moved the paper taped beside it. Her shoes were gone.

Jihun inhaled.

Then stepped out. The hallway’s air felt colder now, as if it knew what the night would reveal.

Jihun eased the door shut behind him, slipping down the apartment stairs barefoot in his sweats. Outside, the street lay quiet under a bruised sky, amber from the flicker of a lone streetlight.

Then he saw it—her silhouette gliding across the sidewalk, fast, decisive.

He followed.

Her stride was too clean, too purposeful. Not someone walking off tension. Someone with a destination. She didn’t look back. Her small frame vanished around a corner.

Jihun closed the distance, heart hammering, air sharp in his lungs. Asphalt cold under his soles.

Then—screech of rubber. A taxi pulled up.

She got in.

“Fuck,” he muttered and raised a hand. Another cab crawled up moments later, driver looking bored.

“Follow that one,” he said, climbing in. “Don’t lose it.”

The driver glanced at him, then nodded, curiosity swallowed by the night.

The ride was a blur of shifting streetlamps and humming tires. Jihun sat forward, tracking her cab ahead like prey.

They stopped near an industrial lot—low buildings, old neon signs long dead. She stepped out.

Two men waited near a side door. Big guys, tall and wide, one with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder, the other bald and broad across the jaw.

“Boss,” one called.

She nodded. Said nothing.

Jihun ducked low in the seat. “What the fuck…”

His wife. Petite, careful, quiet Chaeyoung—being greeted like someone dangerous.

He cracked the door open, stepped out onto the gravel. Stayed low, crouched behind a rusted SUV.

Then a twig snapped.

Too loud.

One of the men turned. “You hear that?”

Shit.

Jihun took a step back. Another. Then sprinted.

Heavy boots hit gravel behind him. A shout. Then pounding footsteps. He ran hard, turned fast around a wall.

Arms wrapped around him mid-stride.

“Got him!”

A sting in his neck—sharp, cold.

The world tilted. His legs folded. The night stretched into black.

He blinked.

White ceiling. Morning light.

The bed. His bed.

Sheets rumpled, body bare. His skin still carried the faint scent of her. Dried sweat clung to his chest. The blanket was pulled halfway down, his arms sprawled wide, exposed to the morning.

No clothes. His phone sat untouched on the nightstand. No missed calls. No messages.

He sat up slowly. Mouth dry. Skin clammy.

Had it happened?

He stared at his hands. They didn’t shake, but his heart pounded like it hadn’t stopped all night.

“Jihun?”

Her voice floated in from the kitchen—light, sweet, sing-song.

“Come on, babe. Breakfast’s getting cold.”

The scent of eggs and soy sauce pulled him down the hall, but something else burned behind his eyes—a pressure, a heat, a warning.

Jihun stepped into the kitchen barefoot. Morning light streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on dust motes and glinting off steel. Chaeyoung stood at the stove, barefoot too, wearing one of his old button-downs. It was half-buttoned, barely skimming her hips. No bra. No panties. Her ass peeked through with every shift of her weight, and her bare legs shimmered in the light.

She turned with a plate in hand, smiling like sunshine. “You look pale. Sit.”

He stared at her, the plate, the eggs.

She raised an eyebrow. “I said sit, baby.”

He sat. The chair felt too solid. The air too still. Something inside him wasn’t right—no tension in his groin, no morning stiffness. Just a hollow weight. Cold.

She leaned in, setting the plate down. Her breasts brushed his cheek, soft and warm and bare beneath the fabric.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “I followed you last night.”

She paused. Not long. Just a fraction. Then laughed—light, airy. “Oh no, baby. Not again.”

“There were two huge guys. They called you boss.”

She tilted her head, eyes amused. “You really didn’t take your pill, did you?”

“I never forget my meds,” he said. “Not once. Since college. I don’t hallucinate.”

She came closer, straddled him on the chair. Her thighs hugged his hips. Her shirt slipped open more, nipples dark against pale skin.

“You told me you do,” she murmured, sliding her hand down into his lap. “First month we dated.”

He twitched under her touch, but nothing stirred. He looked down. Still soft.

She frowned, then smiled again—sweet, reassuring, deadly. “Aw. That’s what stress does to you.”

“I’m not stressed,” he said. “I’m confused.”

“Then let me help.”

She kissed his neck, her hand stroking him slowly, coaxing life back into him. Her breath tickled his ear.

“Just let it go, baby. You’re safe. You’re home.”

He closed his eyes. Her touch was relentless—light at first, then firmer, confident. Her fingers curled just right. His cock responded, heavy and slow, but real. She leaned down, letting one nipple brush his lips.

“You like my tits?” she whispered.

He nodded, mouth warm against her skin.

She lifted his face with both hands, kissed him deep. Then stood, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward the dining table.

“I want you to eat me out like you mean it,” she said, voice low and charged. “Sit. Mouth first.”

He obeyed. She climbed onto the edge of the table, opened her legs wide. The shirt hung off one shoulder. She guided his face between her thighs.

She was wet already—dripping, needy. His tongue slipped between her folds, tasting the salt and slick of her. She moaned, fingers in his hair, hips grinding against his mouth.

“That’s it,” she breathed. “Suck my clit. Right there—yes.”

He obeyed, lips locked around her, tongue flicking fast. Her thighs tightened around his head, her voice rising.

“You always made me come quick,” she gasped. “Still do.”

She trembled, moaned, then came hard against his face, thighs quivering. She held him there through it, shivering.

Then she pulled back, panting, eyes glassy. “Now sit back. I’m going to fuck you.”

She straddled him again, one hand guiding his cock to her soaked slit. No hesitation. She slid down with a long moan.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Still fits perfect.”

She rode him hard. Fast. Her pussy clenched around him with every bounce. His hands found her hips, her ass, gripping her as she slammed down over and over.

“Say it,” she demanded. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” he groaned.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Then come in me. Right now.”

He couldn’t hold it. His body bucked, cock pulsing as he came deep inside her. She moaned, shuddered, clung to him.

They sat there after, tangled, sweat-slick.

She kissed his forehead.

“I’m heading out,” she said sweetly, standing and reaching for a napkin. She wiped herself casually, like it was any other morning.

“And Jihun?” She smiled over her shoulder. “The pen, the taxi, the boss—that was just a dream.”

She left.

He sat there, pants open, chest rising and falling.

Then leaned down to reach for his slippers beneath the table.

There it was.

The pen.

The exact one from last night. Same color. Same bite mark on the cap.

His breath hitched.

He never mentioned the pen.

**to be continued**

#chaeyoung smut #twice smut #chaeyoung #twice #kpop smut #smut #smut stories #female idol smut #girl group smut #male reader smut #kpop idol smut #male reader

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smileycarat · 2 days ago

Text

cozy comforts

your favorite part of the day is coming home to your boyfriend

masterlist

Returning home to an empty house is a luxury. The living room lamp casts a gentle ambient glow, creating tranquility that is nearly impossible to interrupt. Fatigue seeps into your limbs as you walk through your home in silence. When you pass the kitchen you spy a bright yellow sticky note fixed to the microwave sporting neatly written directions on how to reheat your dinner.

You can't help but smile subtly as you picture the faint furrow on his forehead when he discovers later that you disobeyed orders once more. You have to pick your battles for another day and continue your journey to your bedroom.

Behind the slightly open bedroom door, you can hear the TV humming. Warm and steady, the amber glow of your favorite salt lamp seeps into the hall. Mingi used to be the biggest tease about it, referring to it as "your little pink rock." But as your relationship progressed, he started flicking it on for you without even asking, reaching for that small comfort item the same way you did.

He is stretched out over the bed, face down, with one leg thrown over the tangled comforter and his face smashed into your pillow as though it were his.

Slipping into the bathroom, you start your shower. It's enough to lift some of the load of the day but it won't do anything to wake you up fully. By the time you finish, your boyfriend is still wrapped up in blankets and remains blissfully snoozing. He does slightly perk his head up when he hears you enter, barely managing to open his eyes.

Tenderly shutting the bathroom door, you say, “Go on back to bed, honey, I’ll be there in a minute.”

He softly lets out a sigh, rolls over onto his side, his soft, sleepy gaze following you as you put away your jewelry, and pad over to switch the TV off.

“How was your day?” he questions in a low, groggy tone from sleep.

"It was okay," you whispered, trying to match his quiet tone. You near the bed and kick off your slippers. "Long, but I'm so glad to be home."

Rolling onto his side, he automatically starts pulling back the comforter to make space for you as his arms slide under the blanket. The warmth of his body relaxes your back and with it, some of the tightness eases off. You exhale a long, content sigh at the comfort of your body against his.

He pecks the crown of your head, almost as a reflex. "I didn't hear you start the microwave. You know you need to eat."

You let out a soft chuckle at the tone of his voice. Despite having your back to him you can practically see the frown on his face. "I'm more tired than hungry right now, I don't want to risk the tummy ache."

His hand reaches for yours under the cover, long fingers crossing with yours as he rests your joined hands on your chest.

"You worry me sometimes," he says into your hair, his tone almost inaudible.

You press a kiss to your joined hands, "I know, honey. I'm fine, though, you take care of me plenty."

He hums and moves you to lie on your back so you can look up at his eyes. "Still. I just wish I could do more to ease the stress off your shoulders."

You can't help but melt at the pout on his face, his eyes struggling to stay open but fighting against sleep just to look back at you. "You do more than enough, trust me when I say that you are the reason I get through the day."

He smiles gently, eyes fluttering open. "You know, you're not supposed to steal my pick-up lines."

You laugh softly and turn to bury your face in his chest. "I learned from the best."

"True," he laughs gently, the movement from his chest slightly jostling you. A few seconds go by before he whispers, "I missed you today."

"I missed you too, I wish I were just here all day."

He kisses your hair again, his breathing starting to even out again. "Just quit your job and stay here with me then."

You can't help but snort. "Sure, I'll tell my manager that I've found my true calling, cuddling with my boyfriend."

Mingi smiles, his eyes already shut. "I could always write a strongly worded email."

"I know you would."

It's quiet for a moment before he whispers again, "I really love you, you know?"

Your heart does a dangerous flutter at the soft tone in his voice. "I know. I really love you, too."

By the time you finish speaking, there's already a soft snore escaping from Mingi's chest. You lightly shake your head, a soft smile on your lips as you press a kiss to his chest. It doesn't take you long to join him in slumber.

let me know what you think! life would be a whole lot easier if i had mingi by my side ngl

#song mingi #ateez mingi #mingi x reader #mingi #song mingi x reader #song mingi ateez #song mingi x you #song mingi x y/n #mingi x y/n #mingi x you #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #mingi fanfic #mingi fluff #mingi ateez

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sharieb · 16 hours ago

Note

hello! just wanted to say I LOVEEE the way you do non-mc content. that being said could i request a headcanon on: lets say non-mc and the LI’s broke up because the dudes were still hung up on MC (they end up regretting it lol). then later on see non-mc in public who has moved on to someone else who is doing everything they guys failed to do.

The One Who Never Got It Right

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc reader Genre: Angst (Breakup regrets) Writer's notes: Thought I could be getting more fluffs to do, but instead I got slapped in the face with this one, welp, no rest for the wicked, I guess 😅

He sees you across the bustling Skyhaven terminal—laughing, radiant, clinging to the arm of someone who isn’t him.

The man by your side is kind-eyed, attentive. He holds your bag, listens intently, and actually smiles when you talk. He doesn’t look distracted or distant—he’s there. Present.

Caleb halts mid-stride, fingers curling around the edge of his datapad. For a moment, it’s like the mission debrief in his hand doesn’t even exist.

He remembers every time he cut conversations short, gave you half his presence, let you walk beside him in silence because his mind was always elsewhere—on MC.

He thought you didn’t notice. That you’d wait. That maybe you’d always be around until he figured himself out.

Now you’re smiling in ways he never earned.

The worst part? You glance his way. See him. Then look away just as easily, returning to your conversation without missing a beat.

He used to be the safe place. Now, he's just a distant name in your past.

Later that night, he types a message to you. Deletes it. Writes it again.

In the end, he just stares at your contact photo for hours, then shuts off the holoscreen. And for the first time in a long time, Caleb can’t strategise his way out of the ache in his chest.

Mission Log 6.14.3A — Deleted Draft I saw her today. Not MC. Her. The one who asked me to be present. To try. To stop living like the past was all I had left. I thought letting her go would make me noble. Thought I was sparing her the weight of being second to a ghost. But maybe she wasn’t second. Maybe I just never gave her the space to be first. And someone else did. I hope he keeps holding her the way I never learned how to. I hope he never makes her feel like a placeholder. …I hope she never looks back.

He saw you at a gallery opening.

You're dressed in something elegant, arm-in-arm with a gentle-faced man who looks at you like you're art incarnate.

The moment hits him like a palette knife to the ribs.

You’re glowing—not in a spotlight way, but in a quiet, contented kind of joy he never could give.

He flashes his usual grin to the crowd, but his fingers twitch at his side.

Because of that new guy? He’s whispering something in your ear. And you’re laughing. That laugh used to belong to Rafayel, once.

But he made jokes about still missing MC. Let you hear silence when you needed security. Let you fade beside someone else’s memory.

Now?

Someone else painting you with attention. Frames you with love.

He downs his champagne and pretends to care about the next exhibit, but he draws you three times from memory that night.

None of them capture your smile the way he just did.

He doesn’t stop drawing until dawn. Each page is more desperate than the last.

Sketchbook Entry — Page Torn Out She asked me once what I thought love looked like. I told her it was impossible to capture - always shifting, always out of reach. But she caught it. She was it. And I? I framed her in glass and called it finished. She wanted a mess. Partnership. Splattered hands and stained shirts. I gave her monologues and empty wine glasses. I thought she was a phase. A warm red before I returned to ash. But she was permanent. I saw her smile today. It wasn’t for me. And for once, I couldn’t paint a damn thing.

He was leaning on the railing of a shadowed walkway, scanning the crowd below on a recon run, when he spotted you.

You're tucked into the side of someone unfamiliar—someone laughing with you, their hand laced with yours, feeding you a bite of something sweet.

The softness on your face is devastating. It used to be his. It was once the only softness he’d let himself keep.

He stays hidden, watching.

That guy kisses your knuckles. And you smile like you trust him completely.

His chest tightens, fingers twitching. He almost drops the comms unit in his hand.

You’d begged him once to try, to stop comparing you to MC. To see you. He hadn’t known how to let go back then. Now?

He’s thinking about how that man just wiped whipped cream from your lip without flinching—and how he never even learned your coffee order.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, pushing off the railing.

But he doesn’t go down there. He’s already done enough damage.

And this time… someone else didn’t waste the chance. He hates it. He admires it.

Mostly, he regrets that it wasn’t him who made you stay.

Encrypted Voice Log – Never Sent SYLUS.ENTRY_097.BURNOUT Timestamp: Corrupted “She looks better without me. You’d think that’d piss me off, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t.” “Not really.” “He holds her like he’s not afraid she’ll disappear. Like he’s not too busy sharpening knives to hold her with both hands.” “I didn’t know how to do that. Couldn’t stop chasing shadows.” “I told myself she was a game. A way to forget.” “But she was never small. Never temporary. She waited for me to look up. I never did.” “He did.” [long pause] “She’s not coming back. Good. Let her stay gone. Let her stay whole.”

It’s late in the museum observatory, and Xavier’s here to recalibrate a projection model—until he looks down from the upper dome and sees you.

You're walking hand-in-hand with someone else through the starlit halls. Laughing. Calm.

The person beside you spins you under their arm, and you twirl without hesitation, radiant under the artificial cosmos.

He stands frozen in the upper dome, unseen.

You once asked Xavier to dance. He hesitated, too quiet and too caught up in thoughts of MC to say yes.

But that stranger below? He didn’t hesitate at all.

And you look so light in his arms. So free.

Xavier leans his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

His star map reboots beside him, scattering constellations. But for the first time, he doesn’t reach out to correct them.

Because he knows now, you weren’t meant to orbit him forever.

And you didn’t. You became your own universe. One that he was never brave enough to explore.

Private Memoir Entry – Unpublished I was always afraid I’d look at her and see someone else. So I never truly looked. Not the way she deserved. She asked me once if I was choosing to heal with her or without her. I said, “Without.” She nodded. Didn’t cry. Just left. And now I’ve healed. Or so I pretend. But sometimes I think healing isn’t a choice. Sometimes it’s a cost. I gave up the one person who saw me in the shadows and stayed. And someone else saw her light and danced into it.

You’re seated in a corner café with a man Zayne doesn’t recognise—easy smiles, shared laughter, his coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Zayne was on his way to deliver lab files to the main district med unit but now… he can’t move.

His gaze locks on the way the man leans in to tuck your hair behind your ear. How your eyes crinkle with joy.

It’s the kind of comfort Zayne never offered you—not because he didn’t care, but because he was too distracted chasing clarity with MC.

You once told him you felt like his second choice. He never answered that. And now, someone else treats you like you're the only choice.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach.

But that image burns in his mind for weeks. It replays in the sterile quiet of his clinic, on late nights when no one needs stitching up.

And when he returns home, he finds one of your old letters still tucked inside his medical textbook.

He rereads it, fingers trembling, and realises too late—he could’ve loved you right, if only he’d let himself try.

His next patient finds him staring into nothing, stethoscope in hand, utterly elsewhere.

Medical Log – Never Filed Patient: N/A Status: Unreachable Treatment note: Emotional detachment leads to unintentional abandonment. Prognosis: Permanent loss. Notes: She used to come into my clinic with little things. Fake injuries. Paper cuts. Just to be near me. I knew. And I let her pretend. I let myself believe I had time. That once I stopped thinking about MC, I could finally give this girl the pieces I hadn’t sealed away. But healing is slow. And people… they don’t always wait for your hands to stop trembling. She’s warm now. She’s whole. And I still wear gloves to hold my regrets.

#love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #caleb x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #sylus x non! mc reader #xavier x non mc! reader #zayne x non mc! reader #non mc reader #lads angst

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meiplays · 2 days ago

Text

🧨 “Whipped & Wrecked”

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader

Rating: 💥 SFW (but spicy, lap grinding, thigh riding, hickeys, hair pulling, worship, possessive & feral Ben energy)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: Intense lap grinding, thigh riding, hair pulling, whimpering, kissing, marking/neck kisses/hickeys, teasing, possessive behavior, begging Ben (softly), whipped energy, reader in Ben’s shirt, praise, mutual obsession, canon Ben attitude

Summary:

All Ben wanted was to hold you in his lap. Just cuddle you for a while. But you knew exactly what you were doing the second you started grinding your hips over his thigh. Turns out, Soldier Boy isn’t as in control as he likes to act—especially not when you’ve got your fingers in his hair and your lips on his throat.

A/N: this is probably the spicest thing I've written (as what I'm comfortable with) first time writing soldier boy! Hope you enjoy xo

“C’mere, baby. Just wanna hold you for a while.”

That’s how it started.

You were curled up in bed, wearing nothing but one of Ben’s old shirts—soft, worn-in, and way too big. He was leaning against the headboard, dog tags still hanging against his chest, arms open, eyes soft in a way no one else ever got to see.

And you melted for it. Always did.

You crawled into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thick thighs, resting your body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms came around you instantly, solid and warm and possessive. He let out a quiet breath, one of those rare, content ones, like just having you there grounded him.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck. “Been thinkin’ about this all week.”

His voice was lower than usual, warm against your skin, and it made you shiver in his arms. You could feel his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles on your lower back, fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of the shirt. Nothing urgent—just comfort.

But you weren’t exactly behaving.

You shifted in his lap. Just a little. Enough to feel the way his muscles tightened beneath you. Enough to make him pause mid-breath.

“Careful,” he warned, but his grip on your hips got firmer. “You’re in dangerous territory, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his throat. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

Another shift. This time, you let your thighs tighten around his. The hem of the shirt slid higher as your body naturally moved over his lap, creating friction that neither of you could ignore.

Ben groaned, deep and low. His hands flew from gentle to gripping, fingers digging into your hips as his jaw clenched hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough now, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, playful. “What if I am?”

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t play with me, doll,” he rasped, rocking his hips just barely upward. “You know exactly what you’re doin’. You sit here, all sweet in my shirt, like you’re just here for cuddles—and then you start ridin’ my thigh like it’s an accident.”

“Maybe it is,” you whispered, grinding slow against the thick muscle beneath you. You could feel how hard he was breathing, how tense his hands had gotten. “Maybe I just like being close to you.”

“Bullshit,” Ben growled, dragging you closer. “You know how goddamn sensitive I am to you. You start movin’ like that, and I forget how to breathe.”

You rolled your hips again, this time firmer—grinding right against the curve of his thigh, where his muscles flexed under your heat. Ben’s head fell back against the headboard with a guttural sound.

“F**k, baby…”

His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movement before he even realized what he was doing.

“Keep goin’,” he muttered. “You’re gonna ruin me. Might as well finish the job.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw, whispering sweet and sinful things in his ear as you rolled your hips over and over again, using the thick, strong muscle of his thigh like a toy built for you. His dog tags jangled softly between your chests as he tried to hold himself back.

“Takin’ my f***in’ breath away,” he groaned. “Look at you—makin’ a mess on my leg, actin’ all innocent. You know you’re the only one I’d ever let do this, right?”

You nodded, panting now, clutching his shoulders for leverage. “I know.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, up your spine, pulling you flush against him. His thigh tensed again—harder—and your body shivered in his lap.

Ben kissed you rough, possessive, like he was trying to remind you exactly who had you. When he pulled back, his eyes were blown wide with heat.

“You ride me like that again,” he muttered, “and I swear to God, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

You grinned, grinding once more. “That the plan.”

Ben let out a strangled noise—something between a growl and a prayer—and pulled you tighter against him, burying his face in your neck.

“Whipped,” he mumbled. “I’m f***in’ whipped for you.”

You stroked the back of his neck softly, kissing his cheek as you moved with him. “I know, baby. And I love it.”

You didn’t even realize how far you were pushing him.

Not until you tugged on his hair—and he whimpered.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a soft, helpless sound that slipped from his lips the second your fingers tangled into that thick mess of his hair and gave it a firm pull.

Ben froze. His breath caught. Then his eyes rolled back just a little like he’d just been sucker-punched straight in the nerves.

You stilled in his lap, straddling his thigh in nothing but his shirt, lips parted in surprise. “Wait… you like that?”

Ben groaned—deep and rough like he hated how much he loved it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice barely holding together. “You’re gonna break me.”

You tugged again, slower this time, watching his reaction.

Ben shivered. You felt it under your hands. He dropped his head back, his lips parted, a low sound catching in his throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “you really do like your hair pulled.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, his hands snapped up to your hips and dragged you harder against his thigh—his grip bruising, jaw clenched, eyes wild with hunger.

“Baby…” His voice was gravel. “You keep doin’ that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You rolled your hips slow, dragging the heat of your core over the thick muscle of his thigh again and again, your thighs clenching as he flexed beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Let go.”

That was it. That was the match to gasoline.

Ben’s mouth crashed against yours, hot and heavy, hands gripping like he needed you to stay there—like you’d disappear if he wasn’t touching every inch of you. His kisses were everywhere: your lips, your jaw, your neck—worshipping.

“You drive me f***in’ insane,” he growled between kisses. “You—this—this sweet little thing sittin’ in my lap like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I do,” you whispered, fingers in his hair again, pulling hard.

Ben gasped against your skin—and then whimpered again. Raw. Real. The kind of sound he’d never make for anyone else.

“You like that?” you asked, teasing against his ear. “You like being pulled around like a good boy?”

“F***,” he choked out, rutting his thigh upward under you so hard it nearly made you moan. “I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He started kissing down your neck again, slower now. Not rough—needy. His tongue flicked over your pulse, his lips suckling a spot just under your jaw until you gasped. Then he did it again. And again.

“Gonna mark you up,” he mumbled, dazed. “All over. So you never forget who you belong to.”

“You’re the one who’s whipped,” you panted, grinding shamelessly against his thigh. “You’re the one who begs when I pull your hair—”

“I do not beg—”

You yanked again. Harder.

Ben whimpered. Louder this time. His eyes squeezed shut. His hips jerked upward under you like he couldn’t stop.

“Okay,” he gasped. “Maybe I do.”

You laughed breathlessly, but he wasn’t done with you.

He flipped you gently—fast but controlled—until you were on your back and he was hovering over you, his thigh still wedged perfectly between yours. You tried to protest, but his lips were already on your neck again, his hands sliding under your shirt, skin on skin.

“You make me weak,” he whispered. “You hear me? You ruin me every time you climb into my lap like that, grind on me like you own me.”

“I do own you,” you teased, breathless.

Ben grinned against your collarbone, and you felt his teeth graze your skin right before he sucked another mark into you, just beneath the line of your throat.

“Damn right, you do,” he muttered. “So let me show you what being yours means.”

He trailed kisses down your chest, slow and heavy, tongue flicking, lips sucking, worshiping every inch of skin he could reach without going too far. You tugged his hair again just to feel him twitch. Just to hear that sound again—the little gasp he couldn’t hide.

“You’re evil,” he muttered against your ribs.

“You love it.”

“Damn right, I do.”

He came back up, kissing you breathless, tasting every inch of your lips like he needed them to live. His hands never stopped roaming—your waist, your thighs, your hips—everywhere he could hold you down and pull you close.

When he finally slowed, both of you were panting, chests heaving, still tangled together on the bed. Your shirt had ridden up high. His sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. But neither of you had crossed the line—yet.

“Ben?” you murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead.

His eyes cracked open, and for once, he looked… soft.

“Yeah, baby?”

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You know I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else. You’re not just mine. I’m yours, too.”

His throat worked like he was trying to swallow the lump in it. One of his hands slid up, curling around your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he rasped.

You kissed him again, slow and lingering. “Too late. You’ve got me.”

He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping protectively around your waist as he held you like he was afraid the world would take you away.

And you laid there like that—on top of him, tangled, flushed, and ruined—while his fingers idly stroked your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses into your temple.

Every few seconds, you tugged his hair just to hear that helpless little whimper again.

And Ben?

He let you.

Because he was yours. Whipped, marked, and happy about it.

#soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #ben x reader #the boys #the boys smut #sfw smut #sfw spicy #smut sfw #ben x female reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles imagine #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles x female!reader #jensen x reader #jensackles

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trippinsorrows · 2 days ago

Text

grief

authors note: if you not tryna cry or be mad at me, just go on and skip this.

no tags at all, cause i ain't tryna traumatize anyone.

words: 800

warnings: angst

Their arrival is something felt more than anything.

The way the guards who keep a good but safe distance suddenly stand at attention, shoulders straight, chin jutted in the air, mouths set into perfect lines.

Acknowledgement.

Solana uses the pencil in hand as a makeshift bookmark, closing the the sketchbook. Usually, she has no qualms about her children seeing her artwork. Never has. She’s always welcomed the sharing, but this….this is different.

Personal.

Hers.

Using her hand to shield from the sun, she makes out the three bodies that walk towards her. Each wear white, Leya’s long dress floating and waving with the wind. Lina’s is short and more form-fitting. It’s Tama’s matching white shirt and shorts, however, that make her take pause. From the moment she held Tamasa after giving birth, she saw him. Something that’s continued over the years. When he was just a toddler, then a boy, but now as a man, it’s all she sees.

Roman.

She sees Roman.

She has to ignore that weight in her chest that’s been present for now exactly a year to the day but even heavier this day.

She focuses on the items in hand of her children. Flowers for Leya and Tama, the ula fala for Lina. Hers.

Roman’s.

“Mama.” Her eldest son calling for her pulls Solana from yet another memory. Tama moves to one knee, hand gently resting on her shoulder. “You alright?” She can see it, the way he closes his eyes and looks down.

The way he mentally answers his own question.

Of course you’re not.

Solana offers a warm smile, offering reassurance, even when today, of all her grief riddled days, she's struggled the most. “As long as I have you all, I’ll always be okay.”

The same thing she’s repeated to herself every day that’s passed where she wakes up to the other side of the bed being cold, untouched, and empty.

That she’s woken up without her best friend.

Kisses to her temple from her three eldest children who then redirect their focus to the reason all of the children, grandchildren, and in-laws have gathered here at various points in the day.

Leya is the first to speak, stepping forward and carefully laying down the flowers. “Hi, daddy...”

Tama follows, clearing his throat. “Hope this wasn’t too much socialization for you today, old man.” He also lays down his flowers, stuffing his hands in his shorts afterwards. “Though something tells me you wouldn’t have mind.”

“No,” Lina speaks up, voice soft as she moves towards the headstone, hesitating slightly before gingerly laying the ula fala across, fingers glossing over his name. “He wouldn’t have.”

Solana says nothing, and neither do her children. Together, they sit in this shared grief, a first of many, an anniversary no one ever wanted to think about but a time that’s finally come.

The first anniversary of Roman’s passing.

“What do you think he’s doing up there today?”

Leya’s question is quiet, hesitant almost.

Tama scoffs, reaching over and taking his sister’s hand. “What he does everyday probably.”

“Acting a damn fool.”

A smile breaks across Solana’s face at Lina’s answer. Same with Leya.

“Him, Uncle Dwayne, Uncle Matteo. I can only imagine the trouble they cause.”

Tama shakes his head, also smiling, running his hand over his bearded face. “Man, if there was ever a case of people getting kicked out of heaven, it would be those three.”

“Especially daddy,” Leya joins in, the small smile previously on her face settling into something unspoken but also felt by everyone. “I—I miss him.”

At that, Solana looks over at her daughter, sees the way her irises expand and minimize, the slight tremble of her bottom lip, the way she turns her head, lifting her hand to her mouth. While Lina and Tama move to comfort her, Solana moves to stand, Tama, naturally, senses her movement and offers his arm, helping her to her feet.

Tama keeps his arm around her, Lina turning and angling her body as well as Leya’s, who cries quietly.

She shakes her head, offering unnecessary apologies for showing what everyone else is feeling. “I’m sorry, mommy….”

Solana eases towards her, lifting her hands to her daughter’s face, never once missing the way Tama and Lina, so alike, so much like him, work to hide the unshed tears in both of their eyes.

Unlike their sister.

Unlike Solana.

The mother of nine shakes her head, pulling her little girl into a hug, holding her the same way she did so many years ago.

“I know, baby.” Her voice breaks, eyes shutting, emotions cascading. “I miss him, too.”

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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sualette · 1 day ago

Note

hi!!! i just found ur page and I AM IN LOVE.

I don't know if ur taking reqs or not but I'd love to see u write something like a second chance thing with exhusband!jake with like angst and smut. THANKS

HI WHAT THANK YOU SM !! + my comeback

warnings : smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), second chance ??

you didn’t mean to end up at his door.

but the city felt too cold, your chest felt too tight, and the only number you could dial when your hands were shaking was his.

he looked surprised when he opened the door. hair messy. shirtless. gray sweatpants slung dangerously low.

“...you okay?”

your throat clenched. “no.”

he stepped aside without a word.

and you walked back into the place you used to call home.

same scent. same hallway.

same picture frame on the shelf — your wedding photo. still dusty. still facing out.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said after a beat, voice low. careful.

you laughed—bitter. broken. “i know.”

he stared at you. like you were a ghost. like he’d been haunted by you every night since the divorce.

“i tried to move on.” you whispered it like a secret.

his jaw tensed. “did you?”

you shook your head.

silence. thick. heavy. painful.

and then he crossed the room and kissed you like he hated you for showing up, hated you for leaving, hated himself for not stopping you.

your back hit the wall. his hands slid into your hair, gripping tight, tilting your head back so he could bite at your bottom lip, steal every gasp.

“you don’t get to show up like this and look at me like that,” he muttered against your mouth, breath hot, voice sharp.

“like what?”

“like you miss me.”

you whimpered when his hands dragged down your waist. “i do.”

he growled low in his throat—a sound of frustration. grief. want.

“take it off,” he ordered. fingers already yanking at your shirt. “everything.”

you didn’t argue. just stripped. and he watched you like it hurt.

"fuck," he breathed when you stood bare in front of him. “still so fucking pretty. still mine.”

“jake…” your voice cracked.

he kissed you again, hard, and this time he didn’t stop.

you ended up half-dressed in his sheets, legs spread for him, his mouth between your thighs like he’d been starving.

he sucked your clit with slow pressure, two fingers deep inside you, curling until you were panting his name like a prayer.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “god, i missed how you sound.”

you tugged at his hair. “please.”

he came up, mouth shiny, eyes dark. “you want me to fuck you?”

you nodded. desperate. “please, jake.”

he slid in without teasing—one slow, thick thrust that made your back arch and your mouth drop open.

“still fit me so good,” he groaned into your neck. “like your body never forgot.”

you clung to him—nails down his back, thighs locked around his waist, heart shattered all over again.

he thrust into you like he had something to prove. rough. deep. his hand wrapped around your throat just enough to hold your gaze.

“tell me you didn’t stop thinking about me,” he whispered.

“i didn’t,” you choked out.

“tell me you still love me.”

you cried. nodded. whimpered, “i love you, jake.”

his hips stuttered. his hand slid down to your stomach, pressing where he was deepest inside you.

“feel that?” he panted. “i’m right here. i always was.”

you pulled him in for a kiss—sloppy, teary, needy —as he fucked you harder. your orgasm hit like a wave, legs trembling, fingers gripping the sheets.

he didn’t stop. kept thrusting through it. chasing his own high with a raw, ruined look on his face.

“can i?” he breathed. “inside?”

you nodded. too overwhelmed to speak.

and he came with a broken moan—buried deep, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

when it was over, he didn’t move. just stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you sweaty and quiet and exhausted.

“you never stopped being mine,” he whispered.

and you didn’t dare argue.

#♡ 𝓈ua 𝓁ette 。#enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #sim jaeyun smut #sim jake smut #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jake x reader #enha smut

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vxnillabxn · 1 day ago

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𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ suggestive fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ nsfw, mdni, mention of naked bodies! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚the things i'd do for this man. he could cover me in paint and force me to roll around a canvas for all i care lmao ♡ ꒰ˆ◞⸝⸝◟ˆ ꒱੭ﾞ

rafayel had tons of empty canvases lying around his studio.

he paced, brows slightly furrowed, one hand on his chin and the other resting on his hip.

he'd been like this for three hours now; pacing restlessly, not even texting you, despite being the first to complain when you take more than five minutes to reply.

when you enter his studio, you tilt your head.

oh. it's one of those moments.

he looks up, and when he sees you, he stops. you're wearing one of his white, loose shirts and nothing more.

he approaches.

he's quiet, eerily so, considering it's your expressive boyfriend.

and then, without a word, he takes the shirt off your body. it isn't aggressive. it isn't harsh. you frown, about to ask what's wrong with him, but he turns away, walking over to the abandoned brushes and paint palette on the floor. he starts mixing paints, not once letting you move.

you open your mouth to speak again, confused and very much naked, when he finally steps back in front of you.

“now this is worth painting on.”

he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“huh? raf—”

but your breath catches when the cool, paint-coated brush touches your skin. it feels cold. foreign. new.

but he suddenly relaxes. his gaze sharpens with focus as he dabs the brush against your skin; not with desire, but with devotion. like he's found his missing inspiration.

an hour later, you're lying on your stomach, spread over a blanket he laid out on the studio floor. he sits beside you, still painting. he traces the curve of your spine, the angles of your shoulder blades, your soft and exposed nape.

shapes. refractions of light. pearls. marine trinkets. fragments of memory.

everything he can think of, he paints.

his brush glides lower. first, your lower back… then the backs of your thighs, your calves, your ankles.

and while he paints, he talks.

he describes what he's doing. he speaks of the sea, of the waves, of the textures of seashells worn smooth by centuries.

he talks of feelings. longing. love. passion.

he tells you stories of an ancient civilization, or at least, what he remembers. and the way he speaks makes it feel real. like he lived those memories. like he held those seashells in his palm. like he swam beneath the same full moon that now lingers in the stories falling from his lips.

when he finishes painting, he still isn't done with you.

painting on you wasn't enough. he knows the paint will wash off. and he knows a canvas like your body won't always be there when inspiration strikes.

so he sketches you.

he picks up his favorite pencil, —the one he reserved just for you— and begins to draw. your body. the artwork on your skin. the way you're laying there, relaxed and trusting. your expression is soft, glowing, full of quiet contentment.

because you love this part of him. this passionate version of rafayel, lost in his art, his thoughts, his feelings.

and as long as you're his muse, you'll let him immortalize his visions on your skin again and again. until the ocean itself envies the way he looks at you.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x mc #lads #lads x y/n #lads x you #lads x reader #qi yu lads #qi yu love and deepspace #qi yu x reader #qi yu

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kangaracha · 19 hours ago

Text

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 36

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

previous | masterlist | next

---

Below the stage, a microphone white-knuckled in the grip of your hand, you bounce on your toes and peer up from the bottom of the lift that will eject you onto the stage.

The boys stand to either side of you, an arm's length to Changbin and then Chan on the other side. They've put you in the middle for some reason. You're not even sure who made the decision - the company, or the boys, or the network employees that buzz around you in tense anticipation, their eyes turned more towards their camera angles and the production of their show than the image of your group, the dynamics between each member.

Set lists flash through your mind at the final countdown, the start of the music - stagings and marks and lights to avoid looking directly into on your way across the stage. You know it all by heart, you promise yourself, despite the flip of your stomach at the thought of all the time and preparation so many people have put into this moment only for it all to rest on the strength of your memory. How many times will you have to do this before you can trust yourself? How many times before the nerves stop climbing up your throat every time you think about stepping out in front of a crowd, worse than they ever have in your life?

At least one more time. And the platform beneath your feet starts to rise.

The lights are blinding up on the stage, the crowd reduced to the pinpricks of lightsticks waving all the way up into the sky, as if you've stepped out into some unmapped galaxy. The music is so loud that the stage shudders under your feet in time to the baseline, but you don't have time to let it take your breath away - as a line, you are supposed to walk, and stand, and sing-

The song slips away from you in the blink of an eye, choruses following the natural flow of the verses, choreography moving your limbs before you even have to think about it. The next track slides by without an issue, and another, and the crowd roar at the opening bars of the fourth, surprising you so much that you almost miss your mark, even though all you are doing is walking from one side of the stage to the other. You wave back to them even though you know the cheer is not for you, and you're sure you see smiles and waving hands in the audience that are looking at you.

By the time you get to Miroh, your troubles have faded away.

The music is infectious without the anxiety to perform attached to it, the heady beat and the energy that drives at you from all the people around you. You're lost in the euphoria of it, your body moving not to a choregraphy that you've engraved on your bones, but along with the crowd instead. You're having fun; so much, that you're not sure you've ever actually had fun singing before. The crowd, the music, the people you share the stage with-

You turn a bar before your part, your microphone lifting to your mouth, and find Chan right behind you, close enough that you walk right into him.

You steady yourself with the hand that hits his chest, using his solid weight to push yourself back on your heels. In your surprise, your voice falters at the beginning of your part, but his microphone is already there at his mouth, anticipating the stumble, his harmony subtly covering the weakness in your own note.

He finishes it out with you, complimenting but not outstaging. His eyes never leave yours, the joy in them begging for you to see it. You don't know know how he has the breath to sing like that; your chest is too tight to really put the words out, your heart thundering over the music in your ears. The beats stretch like rubber bands, counting down until-

All at once, they snao with the sound of I.N's voice somewhere upstage. Your chest fills and your eyes turn away, caught by something to the side, or maybe just driven by the primal urge to escape. You feel kind of dizzy as you part, lost on stage, your feet wandering a few steps and then stopping to look back at him, crouching on the edge of the stage. You have to force yourself to look away again. You don't know what's gotten into you.

It doesn't matter, you decide on your way to join Seungmin in some obscure corner of the stage. It fits the song anyway, this feeling; bubbles up and spills out into an ear-splitting grin when the beat drops. I ran into this jungle and I'm okay, you sing again, and you find, in that moment, that you really believe it.

It's only when you get off stage, until you sip water and rub at the deep ache in your shoulder and let the music leech from your veins, that you realise how completely and utterly screwed you are.

---

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids

@hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts

@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

@d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk

@minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification

@starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002

@hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff

@splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

@jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @hynjinswrld @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

@keepswingin

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orellazalonia · 16 hours ago

Text

His Dangerous Love

Summary: You and Bucky fall into a tender, growing love. However, cracks began to show through bruises, vague truths, and more. You slowly realize the man who made you feel safest is hiding a dangerous world behind him. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

A week later, everything had changed and yet, nothing had.

You were still the same sunshine-soft girl who spilled hot chocolate on your apron and tucked notes into customers’ to-go bags. You still wore your heart too close to the surface and smiled at stray cats like you’d known them forever.

But now?

Now Bucky came in every morning, not just for coffee but for you.

He’d stand by the counter while you tied your hair back, watching you like you were something rare. He never interrupted, just offered a quiet hum of acknowledgment or a gloved hand to help steady the tray you nearly dropped. And when you laughed, he looked like he didn’t know how to breathe.

You didn’t talk about what this was. You didn’t need to.

He brought you a cinnamon bun one morning, unprompted. “From that bakery you mentioned,” He muttered. “Said the center’s the best part.”

You gave him a wide smile, tearing into the soft middle and offering him the bigger half.

He didn’t take it though. He just brushed a crumb from the corner of your lip, shaking his head, “You first.”

Another morning before opening, you found a small package on the back doorstep addressed to your name, a simple knit hat in your favorite color. No note but you knew. You always knew.

Because it was never grand gestures, it was quiet things.

Like the way he always stood on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. The way he leaned just a little closer when you talked, like your voice was something sacred. Or how his touch, which could be cold and ruthless when dealing with the rest of the world, was careful with you. Reverent, even.

You’d started seeing him outside the shop more too. Sometimes for late walks, quiet dinners, or slow evenings sitting on your couch with mismatched socks and a shared blanket.

One night, he found a polaroid on your fridge. You as a kid, face sticky with frosting and missing a tooth. He stared at it longer than he meant to.

“What?” You asked, looking at him curiously.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

He was thinking how someone like him who had broken bones, made enemies, carved fear into men’s names, somehow got to be the one beside you. Got to hear your sleepy giggles and your off-key humming and witness the way you still believed the world was good.

You were dangerous in a way no rival family ever was, because you made him soft. And he didn’t mind bleeding for that kind of danger.

And when the time came when he confessed his love for you through those three special words, it slipped out.

You were in the middle of a ramble explaining the difference between flaky pastries and rough puffy pastries like it was a high-stakes debate. He wasn’t even following. He just kept watching your hands as they moved, animated and warm, as you explained butter preparation like you were giving a TED talk.

And then you paused, cheeks flushed from your own excitement.

“I’m sorry, I’m talking too much–“

“I love you.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His eyes dropped to your hands. “I–“ He almost swallowed the words, but they were already out there. “I love you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Then quietly without hesitation, you said, “I love you too.”

He kissed you like he needed to remember what softness tasted like. His hands were rough, but his movements were careful, and when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

No one had ever told him he was worthy of being loved back. Not until you.

As you both bloomed in your love for one another, there have been some things that you noticed to be odd. Things that didn’t quite add up. It wasn’t one big moment. Instead, it was the little things. Quiet and forgettable if you weren’t looking but you were. Because you were in love. And love made you notice.

The first time you caught something off, it was with his hand.

You had reached for his hand when he arrived at your apartment, your thumb brushing over his knuckles and he flinched. Just for a second. And when you looked down, his fingers were swollen and mottled with faint bruises, his skin scraped raw in patches.

“James,” You said softly, faintly touching his skin. “What happened?”

He looked down like he’d forgotten it was there. “Nothing. Walked into something.”

You frowned. “Walked into what, a brick wall?”

He gave you a crooked grin, the one that always got him off the hook, and kissed your temple instead of answering.

So, you let it go. You didn’t want to pry. You told yourself he’d tell you when he was ready. He just wasn’t the kind of man who opened easily.

But it didn’t stop there.

Sometimes you called him, and the line would ring and ring until it clicked over into voicemail. He’d text back an hour later: Sorry sweetheart, got pulled into something, but wouldn’t say what.

Sometimes he’d come over with a fresh cut on his cheek, stitched up but not healed. You’d ask in a gentle tone, “Are you okay?” and he’d pull you into his arms instead of answering.

And then there were the things he didn’t realize you noticed:

The way his eyes flicked to every exit when you went to dinner. The way he kept his back to the wall, even in your apartment. The way some men on the street stepped back when they saw him, their eyes full of recognition, and sometimes… fear.

You didn’t know how to name it.

But you knew the man sitting on your couch with a sleepy smile and a cup of your hot cocoa wasn’t just the man you were falling in love with.

He was something else, too.

One night, you got home before him and went to grab his coat from where he left it draped over your chair. It was heavier than you expected. You didn’t mean to look, but you did.

You found a black leather glove stained darker at the knuckles. A burner phone in the inner pocket. A wad of cash held together with a thin rubber band. Too much cash.

You stood there for a long minute, frozen, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

And then the lock turned.

You barely had time to drop the coat back where it was before he walked in. Tired, damp from the rain, his jaw tense and eyes unreadable.

“Hey,” You said, too quickly. “You’re back.”

He walked straight to you, kissed your forehead, and murmured, “You okay?”

You nodded. He didn’t know your hands were still shaking.

Other times, it was late arrivals.

You were used to Bucky being vague with details such as “meetings,” “errands,” or “things to handle.” But he was never careless with time. Not with you. If he said 8 o’clock, he was knocking at your door at 7:59.

But one night, 8 passed.

Then 8:30.

By 9:15, your tea had gone cold, and you were pacing by the window with your phone in your hand. You didn’t want to seem clingy. You didn’t want to worry but your gut twisted anyway.

You were halfway through typing “Just checking in, everything okay?” when your door finally buzzed.

He was there, coat dusted in ash, lip split, and one eye faintly swollen.

You froze in the doorway.

“James,” You breathed.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you for a moment like he was trying to remember how to breathe. And then without asking, he pulled you into him, one arm tight around your back, the other cradling your head like something fragile.

You held him, but your heart pounded. You felt the tension in him, a coil of violence and adrenaline that hadn’t left yet.

“Are you okay?” You whispered.

“I am now.”

Later, while you dabbed gently at the cut on his brow, you tried to ask.

“Was it… work?”

He hesitated just long enough.

“Something like that.”

The lie stung more than the truth would have.

After that night, things didn’t go back to normal, not fully.

You began to see him less. A few nights would pass, then he’d show up at your door again like nothing had happened. He never told you what he’d been doing but you saw it on him more often. The bruised knuckles, the twitch in his jaw, and the way he’d go still when a car backfired on the street.

You didn’t ask where he went. You were scared of the answer. But you noticed things.

The black SUV that always seemed to be parked a block from your building with different plates. The man who tipped his cap to you outside the shop, only once, but who was never really looking at you. He was watching the street behind you. Or the time you picked up Bucky’s coat by mistake and found a bloodstain on the lining this time. Not fresh, but not old either.

Yet he still smiled for you, still kissed your cheek, still called you sweetheart like the word was sacred.

But something between you and him had shifted, like you were both playing pretend in a world that wasn’t built for softness.

One evening, you cooked dinner for him, lit candles, even wore that sweater he liked that always made him touch your wrist a little longer, like he wanted to remember how warm you were.

But he didn’t show. No call. No text. You had sat at the table alone, fork scraping against untouched pasta, heart slow and heavy in your chest.

You stared at the flickering candle for a long time. And for the first time, you wondered what would happen if you finally asked:

“James, what are you really running?”

Because you were starting to think it wasn’t a business. It was something more, something dangerous. And love, no matter how soft and warm, doesn’t always survive through danger.

You wanted answers. You told yourself you wouldn’t go looking, but you did anyway.

You started with the calling his number only to find it was disconnected.

So you went out and walked. Down blocks you didn’t usually go alone. Past the shop that always had the lights off, past a deli with cameras pointed in every direction. The kind of street that felt like it was watching you back. The kind of street Bucky always steered you away from.

You didn’t have a destination, just instinct. And that’s when you saw it.

A car you recognized. One that belonged to him parked outside a narrow building with dark windows and no sign. Two men leaned by the door with dark coats and darker eyes. Not police or regulars, but the way they looked at you careful, tense told you everything you needed to know.

You weren’t supposed to be here. So you went home again.

You baked something to distract yourself. Brown sugar and cinnamon. Something soft. Something warm. You were halfway through washing the mixing bowl when the knock came.

You didn’t run. You didn’t call out. You simply opened the door and there he was. He looked tense again. You noticed his knuckles were wrapped in gauze.

“James,” You said quietly. “Where have you been?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you held up a hand.

“No,” You said. “Don’t lie. Don’t kiss my cheek. Don’t give me another night of not knowing if the man I’m in love with is going to come here covered in someone else’s blood.”

His eyes flinched, just for a second. Like you’d struck a nerve he didn’t know was still raw.

“I told you,” He said softly. “This isn’t a world you need to know.”

You stepped forward. “Then why did you bring me into it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You watched him, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to hold you, but didn’t trust himself to. The way his breath stilled in his throat.

“I thought I could keep you separate,” He finally said. “That I could have one thing in my life that didn’t come with blood on it.”

“You can’t.” Your voice cracked. “Because when I love you, I’m loving the man who disappears for days. Who lies to me. Who shows up with bruises and guards and burner phones and thinks I won’t notice. I’m not stupid, James.”

“I never said you were.”

“No, you just hoped I’d stay blind.”

He looked down.

And then with his voice low, like it cost him something to say, “I run everything south of the bridge. I’ve put men in the ground for touching what’s mine. I’ve stolen, threatened, ruined things, and I’ve protected every block around your home.”

You didn’t move.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” He said. “Because I know once you do… you might leave.”

You stared at him. You hardly noticed you were shaking. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He never would. But he looked at you like a man who’d give anything for you to stay even if he didn’t deserve it.

Yet the hardest part was that you still loved him.

#his sweetheart #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #mafia au #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #mob bucky x reader #mob bucky barnes #Mafia!bucky #sweetheart!reader

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muiitoloko · 2 days ago

Text

Stranded with the Lion

Summary: A trophy wife and her billionaire husband are left shipwrecked after a storm. What begins in resentment slowly transforms into survival, vulnerability, and unexpected love.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Hunger, shipwreck.

Author's Notes: I’ve been working on this for days, and today I finally felt satisfied enough to post it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Also read on Ao3

You hugged your legs to your chest, chin resting on your knees, trying to keep your breathing quiet—trying not to sob out loud. The deck creaked beneath you with each gentle sway of the boat, but there was no comfort in the rhythm anymore. It had been a week.

Seven days since the storm hit.

Seven days since Lionel’s grand idea of a “simple coastal escape” turned into a salt-stained nightmare.

You remembered the first few hours—posing for pictures near the cliffs, wind catching your hair just right, Lionel lounging like some smug Mediterranean king at the helm, champagne in hand. You had been excited. Laughing. God, you were even wearing heels. And then, as if the universe had grown tired of your vanity, the sky turned black and the water rose up to swallow everything.

Now here you were: sunburned, sore, scared, with the sail torn to ribbons, the radio fried, the food nearly gone—and you couldn’t even fucking swim.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and glanced over your shoulder. Lionel stood at the rear of the boat, shirtless now, sleeves of his button-up tied around his waist. He was crouched awkwardly with a makeshift fishing rod in his hands, the line dangling uselessly over the edge. His pale back glistened with sweat, his white hair plastered against his forehead in a way that made him look older—less like a lion, more like a tired, hungry man trying not to die at sea.

Your quiet sob must have reached him, because he exhaled sharply, the sound carrying over the stillness.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, not turning around. “If I had a fish for every time you’ve cried this week, I’d have a fucking buffet.”

You stiffened, glaring at his back. “Go to hell, Lionel.”

“Bit late for that,” he called without missing a beat, voice dry and baritone-deep. “We’re already here. Sea’s just blue fire instead of red.”

You stood abruptly, the movement rocking the boat just enough to make your stomach twist. “I hate you,” you spat, voice hoarse from days without rest. “I swear to God, if I survive this, I’m leaving you the minute we hit land.”

He finally turned to face you. Hazel eyes shadowed under furrowed brows, nose hooked with disdain, mouth curled into that maddening smirk you used to find sexy in magazine spreads. “Darling,” he said, resting the rod across his knee, “if we survive this, I’ll personally pay for your divorce lawyer, the moving truck, and a bottle of Veuve to celebrate your freedom.”

Your eyes stung again. You turned and stomped down into the tiny cabin, slamming the trapdoor behind you. The heat inside was suffocating—no breeze, just stale salt air and the overwhelming scent of sweat and mildew. You collapsed onto the small bench in the corner, arms folded tight around yourself, staring at the wall.

You didn’t love Lionel.

You never had.

You married him for the lifestyle, the press, the yacht. You married him for the closet in Milan and the apartment in Dubai. For the way people stared when you walked into a room on his arm. And Lionel—he hadn’t cared. He married you for your legs. For the way your voice dropped when you said his name in bed. For the thrill of buying a trophy wife young enough to be his daughter and flexible enough to sit on his lap through board meetings.

Now? None of that mattered.

You were hungry. You were scared. You were stuck in a 32-foot coffin with a man who thought tuna came from a can and that GPS was a suggestion. And every time you looked at him, you wanted to scream.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, arms wrapped around yourself, tears drying sticky on your face, wondering if this was how you’d die. Stranded with the lion. Hungry. Salty. And still wearing that ridiculous gold bracelet he gave you for your anniversary.

Up on the deck, you heard Lionel curse.

Then the rod snapped.

Then, louder: “Fucking brilliant.”

You closed your eyes and tried not to cry again.

Lionel came down a few minutes later, sweat-slick and flushed, carrying the broken remains of the makeshift fishing rod in both hands like the carcass of something he'd accidentally killed. His face was tight with frustration, jaw clenched, the curve of his mouth drawn into a thin, angry line. He didn’t say anything at first—just set the splintered rod down on the bench with a loud clatter and stared at it like it had betrayed him.

You watched him from your corner, silent.

He ran a hand through his damp white hair and bent over the pieces, as if willing them to become whole again. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not until you couldn’t take the tense silence anymore.

“How’d you manage to break the only thing keeping us fed?” you asked softly, more weary than cruel.

Lionel didn’t look up. “I was trying to make it reach deeper. I thought I saw something moving further out. Pulled too hard. Snapped.”

You arched a brow. “Isn’t that your specialty? Overreaching and breaking things?”

That earned a quick glare—sharp, tired. Then he sat down, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.

“I was trying to help,” he muttered, voice muffled but still carrying that unmistakable baritone weight. “There’s barely any food left, and I thought maybe… maybe I could catch something. Maybe for once in this gods-forsaken mess I could do something useful.”

You blinked.

It wasn’t the words that got you—it was the way he said them. Like someone ashamed. Like someone who knew he had failed.

“I don’t want to leave you hungry,” he added, quieter now.

That silenced you. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. But it was honest.

You studied him—this man who had once chartered private jets to pick up pastries in Paris, who had once lectured you about fabric textures while you tried not to fall asleep, who used to wear linen suits so crisp they looked like they could cut glass—and now he was hunched, shirtless, sunburned, and clutching a snapped stick like it was the only thing anchoring him to purpose.

Without thinking, you slid across the bench and put your arms around him.

He stiffened.

Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—his hands rose to rest on your back. One of them splayed wide, the other trembling slightly, like he hadn’t touched someone for comfort in years and wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“We’ll figure it out,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Okay? We’ll work together this time.”

This time.

It didn’t fix the radio. It didn’t bring back the fish. But it changed something.

The days passed slowly, painfully, like the sea itself was testing your resolve.You rationed the remaining food, counting crackers like they were diamonds. Lionel tried to fish without a rod—using scraps of cloth and half-bent wire, sometimes even his bare hands. You worked on the sail, clumsy with knots but stubborn enough to keep trying. He pulled apart the broken radio, muttering to himself while you searched the boat for anything conductive.

When the nights got cold, you curled together without protest. You’d once paid extra to avoid economy class because you couldn’t stand “being touched by strangers,” and now you were curled into Lionel’s chest, his arms like a shield around you, his chest rising steady and warm against your back.

You talked.

Not polite society talk, not curated stories meant to impress. Real talk.

It was nearing dusk again, the sky bleeding soft streaks of pink across the sea like bruises on fading skin. You were lying across Lionel’s chest, his body warm and solid beneath you as the gentle creak of the boat filled the silence. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, more out of habit than intimacy. Your head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and for once… things didn’t feel quite as hopeless.

You’d just finished telling him a story about a miserable internship you once did for a fashion magazine—how they made you steam linen suits in five-inch heels and screamed if your eyeliner smudged.

“…And the lunch breaks were just dry lettuce with half an avocado,” you finished with a theatrical shudder. “Like, ‘oh, this is what the rich eat? Despair salad?’”

Lionel snorted, voice rumbling deep beneath your ear. “Despair salad sounds like something I’d buy for a model and never touch.”

You smiled against his skin. Then, for some reason, the words just slipped out: “I hate olives.”

Lionel blinked. “You hate olives?”

“Despise them,” you groaned, burying your face in the hollow of his shoulder. “They taste like spoiled wine and regret.”

He barked a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“You ate one. In your martini. The night we met.”

You groaned louder, hiding your face entirely in his chest now. “I know.”

Lionel laughed even harder, full-bodied now, baritone echoing against the wooden hull. “You actually ate it. Swallowed it. Didn’t even flinch.”

“I practiced,” you confessed, muffled. “In the mirror. Twice.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he grinned. “Was that part of the seduction strategy? Impress the old billionaire with your tolerance for bitter fruit?”

You poked his side, heat flooding your cheeks. “I thought it looked sexy.”

“It did,” Lionel admitted, still chuckling. “I just assumed you had terrible taste. Turns out, you were just… determined.”

You groaned again. “Ugh. I thought you’d be into it. You know, the sultry, ‘I’ll have what he’s having’ type of thing. And I wanted to seem… adult.”

He shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to toy with a strand of your hair. “You already were adult. That dress alone could’ve shut down parliament. I’m fairly sure three waiters dropped their trays.”

You peeked up at him through your lashes. “And you?”

“I nearly dropped my jaw,” he said, completely unashamed. “Though it might’ve been the heels. Or the legs. Or the total lack of a bra.”

You laughed softly, letting your head fall back to his chest. Silence stretched, warm and comfortable.

Then it was your turn. “Tell me something embarrassing about you.”

Lionel exhaled dramatically. “Where do I start?”

“Anywhere.”

He hummed. “Alright. I… had a nanny until I was seventeen.”

You blinked. “What?”

“She was Swiss. Her name was Marguerite. She made me porridge and slapped my wrist every time I tried to put sugar in it.”

You sat up, incredulous. “Seventeen?!”

“I wasn’t in diapers, darling. By then she was more of a… house warden. But yes. I was very—” he sniffed, mock dignified, “—very precious to my mother.”

You tried not to laugh. Failed. “What the hell?”

“She was overprotective. Insufferably so. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone until university.”

“Was that your first time unsupervised?”

He smirked. “I made up for lost time.”

You raised a brow. “Is that when the womanizing began?”

“I call it ‘intensive charm deployment.’” His grin was mischievous now. “But yes. And my cousin Sinclair never let me forget the Marguerite years.”

You tilted your head. “Sinclair? You’ve mentioned him before.”

“We were raised almost like brothers,” Lionel said, stretching his arm behind his head. “He’s the sweet one. Always the talker. Always ready to hug someone or offer a biscuit. Bit naïve at times. But loyal.”

“Do you think…” you hesitated, eyes on the fading horizon, “he’s looking for you now?”

Lionel didn’t even blink. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice.

“I know him,” he added. “He’s probably got every helicopter between here and Gibraltar on standby. He doesn’t give up. Especially not on family.”

You swallowed, heart twisting at the conviction in his tone.

Lionel turned his head slightly to study you. “What about you?” he asked quietly. “Anyone out there searching?”

You hesitated. Then, quietly: “No. Of course not.”

He frowned. “Surely—”

“My mom died when I was twenty,” you interrupted. “Cancer. Fast. Brutal. My dad left when I was little. Walked out on her. On me.”

Lionel stayed quiet, gaze fixed.

“The last time I heard from him,” you continued, voice dull, “was the day after we got married. He called. Not to congratulate me. He wanted money. Said he ‘always knew I’d marry rich.’ Said I owed him.”

Lionel’s jaw clenched.

“I hung up on him,” you whispered. “Haven’t spoken since.”

Silence fell.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“…Was that why you were so awful the day after the wedding?” he asked, his voice careful. Baritone low. Rougher than usual. “I thought you regretted it. Marrying me. Like the money had been worth it, but I hadn’t.”

You blinked. Lifted your head slowly to look at him.

His hazel eyes met yours, tired but open. “You were cold,” he continued, “snapping at everyone, barely speaking to me. I remember thinking: ‘She got what she wanted, and now she’s done playing nice.’” He huffed softly, not unkindly. “It made me… a little angry.”

You stared at him, brows drawing in. “Is that why you spent the rest of the week sulking around Monaco, dragging me to meetings, canceling the rest of the honeymoon?”

Lionel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You saw it in his face. You sat up just enough to really see him. Your chest hurt—tight, full of too many things you didn’t have words for yet. All this time you’d thought he was bored with you. Disappointed. Regretting the marriage already. But now, sitting here in the wreckage of everything, it was suddenly so clear.

There had been so many goddamn misunderstandings.

You’d been grieving your mother, your sense of identity—desperate to prove that marrying him hadn’t made you weak or shallow. And Lionel… Lionel had assumed the worst, because he’d always expected to be used. He thought you’d gotten what you wanted and discarded him like a receipt.

You thought he didn’t care.

He thought you didn’t.

And in the silence that had followed, your marriage had folded in on itself like a paper crown—shiny, fragile, hollow.

You looked at him now—the lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he watched you like he wasn’t sure if he’d made things better or worse.

You lay back down, placing your cheek against his chest again. Slid one hand over his heart.

“We were idiots,” you whispered.

Lionel let out a soft breath—maybe a laugh, maybe not.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you continued, voice muffled slightly by his skin. “You threw money at me like it was your only language. And I—God, Lionel, I acted like a brat. Bought everything I could. Let you spoil me. Let you fuck me like you owned me, and I thought… maybe that was all we were ever going to be.”

His arm tightened around your waist.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to anymore.

“I think we both hid behind it,” you said softly. “You gave me your credit card, and I gave you my body. Neither of us asked for more.”

Lionel didn’t speak for a long time. His thumb just stroked the bare skin at your hip, slow, steady.

Then you said it.

“I’m going to die out here.”

Lionel flinched beneath you, but you kept going.

“I know it. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but I can feel it. And I need you to know something.”

He stilled completely.

You pressed your face tighter against his chest, your voice barely a whisper. “The only thing I regret now is not letting myself fall in love with you.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, his arms came around you fully. Tight. Anchoring.

His voice, when it finally came, was raw—scraped down to the bone. “You always had my fucking heart, you insufferable woman,” Lionel whispered, his lips in your hair. “Even when you were stealing my champagne and hogging the duvet.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a long, long while—

You didn’t feel alone.

Two days later, just before dawn, Lionel’s voice sliced through your dream like the edge of a wine glass.

“Darling,” he murmured, and you felt a finger trace a warm line down your spine. “Get up.”

You groaned into the folds of his chest, where your face had apparently ended up sometime during the night. “No,” you muttered. “Dead. I’ve died. Tell Sinclair.”

Lionel chuckled, low and rough, still heavy with sleep. “If you’ve died, you’re a very affectionate corpse. Now come on.”

You groaned louder, curling further into the blanket that barely smelled like anything anymore. Just sun and sea and Lionel’s skin. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, sitting up with a rustle of old sheets and stiff limbs, “there’s something I want you to see.”

“Let me guess. Another storm cloud shaped like your profile?”

“No,” he said patiently. “Though I’m flattered you think the heavens themselves resemble me. But no. It’s something better. Come.”

You peeked one eye open and glared at him.

He was shirtless again, of course. Skin slightly peeling at the shoulders from sun exposure, his white hair wild from the pillow, salt-dried and sticking up like a mad professor. His cheeks were leaner now—sharpened by hunger—but his hazel eyes still sparkled with something annoyingly smug.

“Lionel,” you groaned. “I’m tired. I have enough energy to blink and insult you, and barely in that order.”

“I’ll carry you if I must,” he offered.

You blinked slowly. “You can’t even carry the fishing rod without breaking it.”

He grinned. “Touché.”

Despite yourself, you sat up. Bones creaked. Muscles protested. You were lightheaded and sore and so goddamn tired you could cry. But something in Lionel’s face—some stubborn brightness—pulled at you like a thread you didn’t want to break.

You wrapped the thin sheet around your shoulders and followed him up the ladder.

The morning air hit you like a kiss: cool, fresh, kissed with salt. The sky was the color of diluted ink, the first pale gold of dawn beginning to bleed across the water like soft fire. Lionel moved ahead of you, bare feet soundless on the damp deck, his silhouette dark against the horizon.

Then—

“Look,” he said softly, pointing.

You squinted, and your breath caught.

Dolphins.

At least five of them, maybe more—breaking the surface in smooth arcs, their backs gleaming like wet onyx in the morning light. One leapt, twisting mid-air, landing with a soft splash that sent ripples shimmering toward the boat. Another swam parallel to the hull, close enough that you could see the shape of its eyes, the grace of its body cutting through the sea.

You stood in stunned silence, the sheet slipping down your arms.

Lionel glanced back at you, his grin quiet now, gentler. “They came about an hour ago. I watched them circle once. Thought they were gone. But then…”

He shrugged. “They came back.”

You stepped forward, barefoot, heart thudding. The sight was surreal. Gentle. Almost sacred.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered.

Lionel nodded. “They are.”

You turned your face toward him—and saw something you hadn’t expected.

He wasn’t looking at the dolphins anymore.

He was looking at you.

“You should see your face,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“That look,” he said, his voice soft, baritone still rough with sleep. “Peace. You look… peaceful.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. The dolphins dove again, sleek backs disappearing beneath the surface, only to rise seconds later on the other side.

You looked back at them, your throat tight. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, watching something wild and free remind you that the world was still out there. That there was more than just hunger and storms and salt and cracked wood.

Lionel reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

His palm was calloused now, rough from rope and days of makeshift labor, but his grip was steady. Warm. Real.

After a long silence, he leaned in and murmured, “Told you it was better than a cloud shaped like me.”

You laughed, quiet and real.

“You’re still smug,” you said.

“I’m still me,” he replied.

And then, after a pause:

“But I think I’m also yours. If you want me.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just squeezed his hand. The dolphins leapt again.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel stranded.

You felt saved.

Of course, the peace didn’t last.

Not with the sea. Not with you.

That night, the clouds rolled in without warning—again—and the calm that had settled like silk across the deck was ripped away by the roar of thunder and the bite of a wind that felt like it wanted to skin you alive.

You both knew the signs now. The sharp shift in the air, the way the gulls vanished, the low, metallic scent that slid into your mouth like the taste of blood. Lionel was at the helm before the first drop of rain hit, baritone already snapping commands over the wind.

“Get below, now!”

You were barefoot, wrapped in that old sheet still damp from your shoulders at dawn, and you didn’t move.

Lionel’s eyes darted to you. “I said get in the cabin!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

He snarled—yes, actually snarled—like a lion cornered in the dark. “You can’t swim! I’m not going to let you fall overboard just so you can feel useful!”

“I’m not feeling useful!” you snapped, gripping the hatch rope with both hands. “I am useful! And I’m not hiding in that coffin while you get thrown around up here like a fucking ragdoll!”

Lightning cracked across the sky.

“God damn it, woman, for once in your life, stop being so bloody stubborn!”

But you didn’t. You were already moving, trying to secure the canvas with fraying rope, your palms raw from the salt and wind, your heart thundering with more than just fear—it was defiance. Desperation. Something deeper than survival.

The storm hit full-force.

Waves crashed like fists against the hull. Rain pelted the deck in sheets, and wind howled through the broken sail with a voice like a thousand ghosts. Lionel was soaked, white hair plastered to his forehead, lips drawn into a snarl of concentration as he gripped the wheel with both hands, bracing his whole body against the current.

And then it happened.

The wave didn’t rise—it rose.

It came from the side like a goddamn wall. You didn’t even see it until it was too late. Lionel turned just in time to see you thrown backward, rope still in your hands, your feet skidding out from under you on the slick deck.

“No—!”

You hit the railing, and then you were gone.

Over.

Into the dark.

Lionel screamed.

“NO! NO—FUCK—BABY!”

He abandoned the helm, boat veering hard to port as the wheel spun free. He lunged to the edge, gripping the slick railing, scanning the inky black water as it surged around the hull.

“Where are you—?! GODDAMN IT—! NO!”

Lightning flashed—no sign of you.

He was shaking, trembling, braced against the rain like a madman, baritone voice hoarse as he shouted your name into the wind, over and over.

“Come back—come the fuck back! I didn’t mean it—anything I said, all of it, take it—take the ring, the bank account, the car, fuck it—fuck it all! You hear me?!”

He slammed a fist against the deck, slipping, frantic.

“I’ll sell the house in Provence!” he screamed, wild now. “That stupid fucking villa! I’ll burn the paintings! Just come back—!”

The next flash of lightning revealed your fingers—clutching the edge of the railing. Then your soaked head appeared, eyes wide, wild, and furious as your elbow hooked the edge of the boat.

“There’s no fucking way,” you screamed over the wind, “that you’re giving up that house!”

Lionel froze, mid-crawl toward the life ring. You hauled yourself over the side with a groan, drenched and shaking, hair in your eyes, salt water dripping from your mouth as you collapsed onto the deck, coughing violently.

Lionel was there in an instant, slipping on the wet wood as he scrambled toward you.

“You—fucking—insane—woman,” he gasped, grabbing your arms. “What the hell were you—?!”

“You—idiot!” you wheezed, jabbing your finger into his chest. “That house has a wine cellar, you selfish bastard!”

He gaped at you.

You both looked ridiculous—soaked, trembling, screaming over the rain like you were in a Shakespearean disaster.

And then he laughed.

It wasn’t elegant. It was ugly. Choked. Wild.

You stared at him, blinking, still heaving seawater out of your lungs.

“I just—” he coughed, dragging you into his arms, wet and shaking. “I just promised to burn my inheritance for you.”

You laughed, hoarse and exhausted. “And I nearly drowned for a fucking wine cellar.”

You both sat there, wrapped around each other, clinging like castaways—because that’s what you were. Bruised and battered. Idiots.

But alive.

He kissed you then. Salt and desperation and trembling fingers in your hair. And when he pulled back, his baritone rough and ragged, all he said was:

“Next time, you’re going below.”

You raised a brow. “You sure? I seem to be quite buoyant.”

He groaned, cradling your face like it would shatter. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

The sun was merciless that morning—bleached white and sharp as bone. The water had gone still again, deceptively calm, as if the sea itself was holding its breath. You sat on the deck, legs stretched out, Lionel’s head resting heavily in your lap, your fingers carding gently through the damp white strands clinging to his scalp. He was burning. His skin was flushed with heat, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes fluttering open only to squint painfully against the light.

You were scared.

Not that lingering, exhausted fear you’d lived with since the storm. This was worse. Immediate. Closer. Lionel was slipping. The cheeky bastard who used to monologue about the curvature of Roman statues while sipping champagne now barely had the strength to curse. He’d spent the night mumbling nonsense—half dreams, half memories—mostly about contracts, missing cufflinks, and Marguerite telling him not to eat figs before dinner.

“Lionel,” you murmured, brushing the sweat from his temple. “Stay with me.”

He blinked slowly, mouth dry, tongue sluggish against cracked lips. “Mmm. Thought I told you not to wear white to a funeral…”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, you whispered, “This isn’t a funeral.”

He smiled weakly. “Then why… does it feel like one?”

You bit your lip, adjusting his head in your lap as gently as you could. His skin was radiating heat—too much. You’d done what you could. Made a little shade with what was left of the canvas, kept a wet cloth pressed to his forehead, whispered stories into his ear even when he didn’t answer.

But it wasn’t enough.

And then—you heard it.

A low hum, distant at first, barely registering. Then louder.

Rotor blades.

You stiffened, eyes snapping to the sky. There—far off, cutting across the sky like a black insect against the pale blue—a helicopter.

Your heart stuttered. “Lionel,” you breathed. “Lionel, there’s—there’s a helicopter—”

He groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Tell them to bring Scotch.”

You moved. Quickly. Carefully. You shifted his head from your lap, lowering it onto a bundle of what used to be your jacket. He grunted in protest, weakly reaching for your hand.

“Don’t…” he rasped. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going far,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I promise.”

But he didn’t hear you. You scrambled down into the cabin, heart pounding like a war drum. Where—where was the flare gun? You’d seen it. Days ago. Somewhere near the emergency radio, back when you still had the energy to hope.

You tore open drawers. Ripped through bags. Shoved aside tangled wires, cracked plastic, anything that wasn’t red and metal and life-saving.

The sound of the helicopter grew louder.

Outside, Lionel was trying to sit up.

“Darling…” he muttered, voice hoarse, “there’s a… noise. Sounds like... tax season.”

You found it.

Jammed behind a cracked tackle box and a rusted pair of scissors. The flare gun.

Loaded.

You bolted up the ladder, bare feet slamming against the scorched deck. The helicopter was almost overhead now, circling. You screamed—waved both arms—held the gun high and fired.

A sharp hiss.

A streak of red against the blue sky. The flare exploded in a bright, desperate arc.

You waved again, jumping, screaming until your throat burned. “Here! Down here! Please—God, please—here!”

You didn’t stop waving until the helicopter dipped lower, until the downdraft of the blades buffeted your body and sent Lionel’s hair whipping across his cheeks like sea-threaded silk.

He blinked blearily up at the sky, shielding his eyes with a trembling hand. Lionel heard it faintly at first—just a sharp cry muffled by the whipping blades of the helicopter. Then louder. Clearer. A voice that didn’t belong to the rescue crew. A voice that pierced through the roar of the engine and the groaning of the sea.

“LEO!”

He froze.

No one had called him that in years.

“LEO, YOU STUBBORN, GLORIOUS BASTARD! I CAME TO SAVE YOU!”

His head jerked toward the sound, sunburned brows furrowed in disbelief. Then, slowly—like a man emerging from a fever dream—Lionel stood, swaying slightly, one hand gripping the scorched railing of the boat.

He knew that voice.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, blinking hard against the sting of wind and salt. “Sinclair?”

Your hand was already on his back, steadying him as he leaned forward—and then you both saw him.

The helicopter was descending, blades cutting the air in violent arcs, and clinging to the open door with a windbreaker half-flapping off his shoulder, a headset crooked over his ear and a ridiculous grin stretched across his face, was a man who looked… exactly like Lionel.

Well, almost.

His hair was a faded blond, not white, windswept and unruly like it had once been tamed and forgotten how. He had the same nose, the same cheekbones, the same hazel eyes—though Sinclair’s eyes seemed almost green in the harsh morning light, wide with excitement and tear-pricked relief.

His mouth moved constantly—words spilling out, mostly drowned by the rotor, but his joy was unmistakable. He waved like a man greeting old friends at a school reunion, already trying to unclip his harness midair.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, staring at him in stunned awe. “That’s Sinclair?”

Lionel didn’t answer right away. He was leaning forward like his knees might give out, blinking hard, his throat bobbing.

You’d never seen him look like that.

Not stunned. Not undone.

Not like this.

“He came,” Lionel murmured. “He actually—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted into the wind, baritone rasping with hoarse glee:

“DID YOU BRING WHISKEY?”

There was a beat of laughter from above.

Then Sinclair reached into his vest—of course he had a vest—and triumphantly produced a small silver flask. He held it aloft like a torch, grinning like he’d just cracked the code to eternal life.

“I NEVER TRAVEL WITHOUT IT!” he bellowed.

And Lionel… nearly cried.

He laughed instead, a strangled sound—half sob, half bark of joy—and slumped back against you, his sun-scorched head resting on your shoulder, his chest shaking with the weight of a week’s worth of despair finally cracking.

“God, I love that idiot,” he muttered, voice thick. “Bloody sunshine-wrapped nightmare.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, steadying him as he sagged with emotion, your own eyes burning.

Sinclair was being helped down onto the deck now, feet hitting the wood with a surprising amount of grace for a man waving a flask and talking at full speed.

He reached Lionel in three long strides and immediately grabbed his face in both hands like he might never see it again.

“Jesus, Leo—look at you,” he said, blinking rapidly. “You look like one of those salted cods we used to trade for ice cream in Saint-Tropez.”

Lionel choked on a laugh, grabbing Sinclair’s wrists. “You’ve looked better yourself. What is this shirt? Are those birds?”

“They’re cranes,” Sinclair sniffed. “Symbol of longevity.”

“Of course they are,” Lionel groaned, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “God, you ridiculous, brilliant bastard.”

You stepped back slightly to give them space—and watched, stunned, as the man who once refused to share a couch cushion with you clung to his cousin like he hadn’t touched another human in years.

Sinclair stepped back after a beat, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know,” he said, flicking imaginary dust from Lionel’s shoulder, “I think I’ve finally done it.”

“Done what?”

“Become the most handsome in the family.”

Lionel rolled his eyes, still smiling. “I’ve nearly died, and you’re already measuring your jawline.”

Sinclair turned to you suddenly, as if remembering you were real. “And you must be the woman who somehow convinced this marble statue of a man to marry her.”

You blinked. “You know about me?”

“Of course I do. He wouldn’t shut up about you—sent me messages for weeks. 'She has a laugh like thunder.' 'She wears heels like weapons.' 'She smells like death and jasmine.' It was very poetic, if slightly concerning.”

Lionel groaned. “I did not say that.”

“You did,” Sinclair grinned, then leaned in, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “He even practiced your name when he thought no one was listening.”

You smiled despite yourself, heart thudding.

Lionel groaned again. “Can we throw him back in the sea?”

Sinclair clapped him on the shoulder, hard. “Not until you drink this,” he said, unscrewing the flask and shoving it into Lionel’s hand. “Rescue protocol. One gulp for health. Two for morale.”

Lionel took it, downed a swallow, and sighed so deep it rattled through his chest.

You stepped forward again, lacing your fingers through his.

And Sinclair—chatty, sun-kissed Sinclair—gave you both one long look. The kind that said he was smarter than he let on. The kind that saw past salt and sweat and broken sails. He smiled, softer now.

“You’ll be alright,” he said.

You didn’t know if he meant the ride, or the future, or the two of you together. But as the rescue crew began lowering supplies and preparing the stretcher for Lionel, as Sinclair pulled out a paperback from his pocket and started explaining, unprompted, how dolphins often guided lost ships to shore in Greek myths, as Lionel pressed your hand to his chest and whispered “home,” like it was a promise—

You believed it.

You were saved.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #lionel shabandar x reader #lionel shabandar

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