#Seashell Studios | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollyswishingwell · 14 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Obsessed

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufffff, can you tell i love obsessive men. a very long ramble so get a snack and buckle up. not proof read ( ._. )""

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 5 Things the boys do that reveals how much they adore their wife

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ⁀➷ He Paints you Into Everything. Every canvas in his private studio, landscapes, abstract storms, seashell mosaics, contains you likeness or silhouette, whether in bold strokes or hidden in the texture. He claims he doesn’t mean to. He always means to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You slip into his studio barefoot, the silk hem of your robe whispering around your ankles. The scent of oils and saltwater hangs in the air, heady, familiar, a little intoxicating. Sunlight pours through the high windows, casting glints across half-finished canvases and glass jars filled with crushed shells and pigment powders.

At first glance, you think it’s another seascape. Rafayel only paints landscapes. He’s said it dozens of times, lips curled in that soft, mocking smile: “Humans are too noisy to trap in stillness.”

But as you step closer, your breath catches.

It’s you.

Floating in a dreamy, underwater world, suspended in a swirl of iridescent blues and pearlescent whites. Your figure is draped in silk, hair drifting like sea grass, your eyes gently closed as if in some impossible, peaceful dream. Jellyfish coil in the background like soft lanterns. Coral blooms behind you like a crown.

You blink slowly. “Raffy… is that me?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

But then you feel him, bare feet silent on the floor, arms sliding around your waist. He presses himself to your back, resting his chin on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his breath tickling the side of your throat.

“You know I don’t paint people,” he murmurs.

You nod, still staring.

He exhales, and it’s almost a sigh. “But I can’t stop painting you.”

His fingers, still faintly stained with lilac and sea-glass green, tighten around your waist, slow and protective.

“You’re not for sale,” he adds, so quietly it barely registers. “They ask me what it’s worth. I tell them it’s mine.”

Your heart stutters.

And in the silence, you suddenly notice: every canvas in this room, every abstract tide, every storm, every island, holds the faintest shape of a woman. Of you. Not always clearly. Sometimes only a curve, or a silhouette, or the ghost of your profile in the reef.

He’s never stopped. And he never will.

ೃ⁀➷ He Forgets Everything But You. Rafayel vanishes for a major press event he was supposed to attend, again. When Thomas demands an explanation, he only says, “She made grilled prawns. What did you expect me to do, miss dinner with my wife?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doorbell rings during lunch. You glance up from your plate of crisp prawn tempura, and Rafayel doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy balancing another piece between his chopsticks, lips slightly pouty as he leans over the table.

You sigh and rise to answer, robe fluttering open just enough to remind you how little effort you put into dressing. The moment the door creaks open, you’re face-to-face with a whole delegation, his sponsors, dressed in business formal, holding tablets and tight smiles.

“Is Rafayel here?” one asks.

You hesitate. Behind you, his voice rings out lazily from the kitchen. “Tell them I’ve retired.”

You turn your head, startled. He’s lounging back in his seat now, bare feet on the chair beside him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.

“Tell them my wife made tempura,” he adds, like that explains everything. “I’m very busy being adored.”

There’s silence at the door. The delegation stares. You just smile, gently close it on them, and pad back to your seat.

ೃ⁀➷ He Gets Jealous of Everything. Seashells you picks up? He polishes and stores them in glass boxes labeled with the date and what you were wearing. A stranger who compliments you? He smiles politely, then later throws the guy’s business card into the sea.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re scrolling through your messages on the terrace, legs tucked under you, when Rafayel crawls into the lounge chair beside you like a cat. He’s shirtless, damp from a swim, hair a little tangled. You offer him a bite of your snack. He ignores it.

Instead, he leans over your shoulder.

“Who’s this guy in your comments?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes too sharp. You glance. Just an old acquaintance from when you were a hunter, dropping a harmless “Looking gorgeous as always.”

You shrug. “Just someone I used to work with. It’s nothing.”

Rafayel says nothing for a moment. Then he nuzzles your temple, the scent of sea salt in his hair. “Mm. Nothing, huh?”

You don’t think much of it—until the next day, when you go to reply and realize the account has blocked you. And the comment’s gone. You glance up at Rafayel, who’s lounging in the sun, sunglasses on and humming.

He never admits anything. He doesn’t need to.

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes You Kiss His Paintings. He used to sign his name in paint. Now, every finished canvas is sealed with a kiss—yours, pressed into the corner using the exact lipstick you wore the day you inspired it. Collectors call it iconic. Rafayel just shrugs. “My wife touched it. That’s what made it valuable.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him in the sunroom with the windows cracked open, paint drying slow and fragrant in the humid afternoon air. He’s crouched barefoot over a massive canvas, white shirt riding up his back, sleeves rolled high and streaked with the dreamy colors of ocean light, pearl blue, soft coral, the shimmer of crushed shell.

You approach quietly, knowing he’s in that delicate space between obsession and completion. He doesn’t turn. Not until you say gently, “Is it finished, Raffy?”

Rafayel leans back on his heels, pushing a wavy strand of lavender hair behind his ear. His blue-pink eyes lift to meet yours, and in them: pride. Possession. A hint of something dangerous.

“It was missing one thing,” he murmurs. “But now you’re here.”

You watch as he walks over to the table, picks up a sleek gold lipstick tube, and returns. It’s your favorite shade, sheer cherry, the one he never lets you throw away even when it wears to a nub.

He uncaps it and offers it to you.

You blink. “You want me to…?”

He nods. “Right here.” He taps the corner of the canvas with two fingers. “Your kiss. Just one.”

Your lips part to protest, this is a multimillion-dollar piece. It’ll be in some sealed climate-controlled vault, studied and auctioned and critiqued to death. But Rafayel just tilts his head, smile lazy, voice velvet.

“It’s not real until you touch it.”

So you give in. You always do.

You swipe on the lipstick, lean in close, and press your mouth to the edge of the painting. Soft. Careful. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull back, he doesn’t say a word.

He just steps forward, kisses you slow, slow enough to taste the pigment, and then turns back to the canvas like he’s finished a prayer.

“You know they’d pay triple just for that,” he says absently.

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smiles. “Because you’re iconic, darling.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Things Close. He steals your perfume, your hair clips, even a used teacup you left on the balcony. Says it’s for “inspiration,” but really, he just likes the idea of your scent lingering while he works (or sulks).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re looking for a clean brush in his studio, muttering to yourself as you open one drawer, then another.

Then you pause.

Inside the drawer is a strange little hoard, your old lip balm, a few bobby pins, one of your silk ribbons, even a used teacup you left on the balcony last week. You pick it up slowly, squinting. There’s even a candy wrapper tucked between some pigment jars.

“Rafayel,” you call out, turning to face him.

He’s lounging in the window seat, sketchpad on his knees, not even pretending to look guilty.

“What?” he says innocently.

You hold up the teacup. “This? Seriously?”

He grins. “It still smells like you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re just keeping…trash now?”

He laughs and sets the sketchpad aside, moving toward you.

“It’s not trash,” he whispers as he corners you. “It’s you. I collect you. It makes me feel better when you’re not here.”

And then he plucks the ribbon from your hand and ties it loosely around your wrist, like he’s tagging his favorite possession.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Tracks Your Health Like a Patient File. Zayne keeps a private log of your vitals, moods, and sleep patterns. You think he’s just observant, but he’s cross-referencing it with medical journals at 3 a.m.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find the notebook by accident.

Tucked beneath his copy of Advanced Cardiac Interventions, bound in clean black leather and edged in silver, it looks like one of his clinical logs. You flip it open, expecting complicated sketches of vascular stents or surgical outcomes.

Instead, you see this:

7:42 a.m.

Slept poorly. Rolled to left side more than usual. Possible muscle strain? Check pillow firmness.

8:10 a.m.

Drank only half of tea. Appetite lower than yesterday. Monitor.

8:47 a.m.

Smiled during hair brushing. Slight color return to cheeks. Good.

Your name appears at the top of every page.

You stare at it, stunned. Pages and pages of you, your moods, sleep cycles, appetite, temperature tolerance. Every headache, every restless night. The week you had a sore throat, he recorded it down to the hour. On the morning you cried watching a commercial, he’d written: Stress response? Hormonal? Monitor quietly. Do not press.

You turn another page. This one has no timestamp. Just a scribbled line:

If she ever shows signs of cardiac fatigue, run full scan. No delays. Assume responsibility.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Zaynie—” you start, holding the notebook.

He doesn’t even look surprised. Just walks forward, expression unreadable, loosens his tie. “It’s not a diagnosis log. It’s a care record.”

“You track me like a patient.”

“No.” He takes it gently from your hands, tucks it away without shame. “I track you like someone I can’t afford to lose.”

You go quiet.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes steady behind his silver-framed glasses. “You’re the only case I won’t let worsen. Not even for a moment.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Clears His Schedule Around Your Routine. He’s performed emergency surgeries on four hours of sleep, but will never miss tea time at 4 p.m. with you. His assistants think it’s a personal ritual. It’s not. It’s yours.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re half-asleep on the velvet couch when you hear the front door click open.

It’s early. You glance at the clock: 3:52 p.m.

Zayne shouldn’t be home for another two hours, he had two consultations and a surgical debrief on the calendar. You even teased him about it this morning, telling him to stop looking at the clock during breakfast like he was counting down.

But there he is.

Stoic as ever, undoing his cuffs and shrugging off his coat with that meticulous grace. He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, just places his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves to the elbow, and starts making your tea.

You blink at him from the couch. “Zaynie. Your schedule—”

“Pushed the debrief to next week,” he says calmly. “The consults can wait.”

You sit up. “You left the hospital for tea?”

He glances over his shoulder as he lifts the kettle. “It’s 4 p.m. I always make your tea at 4 p.m.”

You shake your head, a laugh in your throat. “You’re going to get scolded by the board again.”

He hums, unbothered. “They can manage. You can’t be replaced.”

You watch as he takes out the tea set, the one with the delicate gold rims you picked out for no reason except that it made you feel pretty when he poured from it.

He sets your cup down first, always yours first, then his. Sits beside you and taps your wrist softly, like clockwork.

“You haven’t taken your supplements today.”

You scowl, pouting as you reach for the bottle. “What are you, my doctor?”

He raises a brow. “You married a surgeon. What did you expect?”

You expect a lot of things. But not this, Zayne cutting through a lineup of executives, board members, and patients to be here at 4 p.m. sharp. Not this ritual that feels more sacred than professional.

“I’m not a meeting,” you murmur, sipping the tea.

“No,” he says, leaning back with one arm behind you. “You’re a priority.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Hates When You’re Cold.Zayne keeps your home slightly warmer than normal, always brings your coat before you asks, and has custom-heated floors installed in your dressing room without telling you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The mansion is warm.

Not just comfortable, warm. The kind of heat that wraps around your ankles and wrists like a cashmere hug. You never thought twice about it, not until guests started pointing it out.

“Is it always this cozy in here?” someone had asked once, tugging at their collar. “You could grow citrus trees indoors.”

Zayne just adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and said nothing.

You only notice now because you’re in the dressing room, barefoot on the plush floors, rifling through your jewelry when you feel it, radiant heat rising from the floorboards. Not the artificial kind, but the quiet, engineered warmth that takes someone weeks to plan and hours to install.

You drop your earrings into the tray and call out, “Zaynie?”

He appears in the doorway like a shadow, black slacks, dress shirt still tucked in from work, silver glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature.

“Yes?”

“Did you… get the floors changed?”

A slow blink. “You’ve been cold lately.”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

“You shivered twice last week. I counted.”

You stare at him. “You installed radiant heating just because I shivered twice?”

He steps forward, gently brushing a lock of hair from your cheek, then taps your nose once with a gloved finger. “Three times, if we’re being honest.”

Your protest is swallowed when he pulls a soft wrap from behind his back, a designer one, neutral-toned and heavy with warmth, and drapes it around your shoulders like a cloak.

“I also replaced the coat hooks by the door. Yours are lower now. So you don’t have to stretch.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, dipping to press a kiss against the top of your head. “And I don’t like it when my wife is uncomfortable. Even a little.”

You want to say something, something sweet or teasing, but his arms slide around your waist, anchoring you there.

And the truth is… you’re not cold anymore.

ೃ⁀➷ He Has a Room No One’s Allowed to Enter. It’s not a secret. Everyone at the hospital knows: third-floor office, east wing, always locked. Inside? Dozens of framed photos of you. Candid shots. your school ID. A painting you made in childhood. Everything.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The east wing of the hospital is always quiet. Too quiet, even for a place filled with polished tile and pressed coats and the sterile smell of antiseptic. You walk past the administrative offices, nod to a few nurses who smile at you knowingly, and stop in front of the door with no label.

Just a number etched into frosted glass: 3-E.

No one else ever enters this room. You know because you’ve asked, and because when you tried to open it once without him, it was locked. Always locked.

Until Zayne’s on shift.

Today, as always, he’s already waiting inside.

He doesn’t say anything when you enter. Just looks up from the chair by the window, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, and gives you that rare, quiet smile that no one else gets. The one he never makes in operating rooms or at board meetings.

“This isn’t your office,” you say, teasing lightly as you close the door behind you.

“No.” He stands, crosses the room, kisses your cheek. “It’s ours.”

You glance around. The room is dimly lit, untouched by hospital whites. The shelves are filled with little things: your high school award ribbon, a clay heart you made when you were kids, framed photos of you asleep on the couch, smiling with a pastry, reading at the garden table.

One wall is just… you.

Dozens of images. Not just posed photos, but candid shots from over the years, captured quietly, some even a little blurred. One from your university entrance ceremony. Another of you holding a stray kitten. One where you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, clearly unaware of the lens.

“They’d say this is unprofessional,” you whisper, half in awe.

Zayne follows your gaze. “They don’t enter this room. They don’t even know what it’s for.”

“Doesn’t the hospital need the space?”

He turns to you, brow slightly raised. “They can build another wing.”

You laugh. But he’s serious. He always is.

You sit on the leather couch, brought in just for this room, and lean into his side when he joins you. It smells like clean books and cologne, like safety.

“They think I’m taking breaks here,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I am. You’re the only thing that resets me.”

You press your hand over his, steady and warm on your thigh. “Even on days when you’re operating for ten hours straight?”

He answers without pause. “Especially then.”

You smile.

Because no one else is allowed in here. Not nurses. Not doctors. Not directors or surgeons or donors. No one.

Only you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Wedding Ring on During Surgery. Strictly against protocol. But Zayne wears a thin chain beneath his scrub top with your ring on it, always close to his heart. He kisses it once before every surgery.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s early.

Too early for visitors, but the surgical wing lets you through anyway. They always do. You’ve become a familiar sight, soft sweater, low heels, a thermos of tea in one hand and a warm roll tucked into foil in the other. Someone even tried calling you “Doctor’s Wife” once in passing.

You didn’t correct them.

You find him in the prep room, silent and steady, already halfway into his scrubs. His surgical coat is neatly folded beside him. Monitors glow soft green and blue around the edges of the room.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but only because he doesn’t need to.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, hands gloved as he ties the final knot at the back of his scrub top.

“I made you tea.”

He finally turns to face you.

For a second, all the tension in his shoulders melts. “You always do.”

You cross the room, careful not to disrupt the sterility, and hand him the thermos. His fingers brush yours, a small, practiced touch, but his gaze lingers longer.

And then you see it.

Around his neck, tucked beneath the high collar of his scrubs, a silver chain glints against his skin. Hanging from it, almost modestly, is the wedding ring.

Your breath catches. “Zayne…”

“It’s safer this way during surgery,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the chain once. “Can’t risk tearing a glove or contaminating the field.”

“You could leave it in a locker.”

“I don’t take it off,” he replies, eyes locking with yours. “It stays on me. Always.”

You stare at him, chest aching.

He steps closer, lifts your hand to his lips, and kisses your knuckles through the gloves. “If something goes wrong in the OR… I want it to be the last thing touching me.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He gently taps the ring where it rests against his heart. “This isn’t for display. It’s a promise. And I don’t break promises.”

The intercom chimes, calling his name.

He gives your hand one last squeeze before slipping past you toward the surgical theater, every step calm, every movement exact. As if the ring resting against his heart is the most sacred tool he’ll carry in with him.

And maybe it is.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Journal Only You’re Allowed to Read. Each night, Xavier writes in a private, leather-bound journal filled only with thoughts of you. His quiet observations, sketches, and memories line the pages, everything from what color you wore that day to how you smelled when you hugged him goodnight. No one else knows it exists.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Xavier has always been quiet, unreadable to nearly everyone. But buried in the locked drawer beside his bed, tucked beneath mission reports and sleek silver weapons, is a worn, soft-covered notebook.

He writes in it every night.

No one else knows it exists. It doesn’t contain mission details or philosophical musings.

It’s about you.

Each entry is a fragment of a day with you: what you wore, what you smiled at, the exact phrasing of something you whispered in your sleep. He documents it with a near-clinical focus, until the margins start to fill with drawings of your earrings, your hand, the way your lashes curl when you cry.

You once caught him writing.

He froze, half-leaning over the desk, hand hovering above the page.

“I’ll stop,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You asked, “Why would you stop?”

He finally looked up. “Because I wouldn’t want it to scare you.”

You took the journal, read the last line he’d written:

She brought me a piece of cake and fell asleep in my lap. The frosting was on her cheek. I hope she does it again.

You kissed his temple and handed it back.

Now, when he finishes writing for the night, he sets it beside your pillow.

No lock anymore.

Because only you are allowed to read it.

ೃ⁀➷ He Memorizes the Sound of Your Footsteps. Xavier claims it’s for safety reasons, but he can tell it’s you coming from down the hall before anyone else, no matter how quiet. If someone else walks like you? He’ll tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not her,” he murmurs.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doors of the Deepspace hunter association HQ hiss open behind him.

Xavier doesn’t turn.

His fingers glide over the interface of the tactical screen, scanning alerts from Sector 9. Silence, for a moment. Then he pauses, his body still, attention snapping to the faint echo of steps approaching.

He listens.

One beat. Two. Click. Tap. Click. Tap.

Too fast. Too light.

“Wrong rhythm,” he murmurs to no one in particular.

The new hunter at the entrance freezes. “Sir?”

Xavier finally turns. His blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You walk like someone trying to be unnoticed. My wife doesn’t.”

The hunter stammers something about relaying a message.

“Leave it on the console,” Xavier says, returning to the screen. But the data means nothing now. Not until he hears the right steps.

Twenty minutes later, he hears them, high heels, soft, wrapped in the familiar click of your star anklet charm, and for the first time that day, he breathes properly.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Falling Asleep in Your Lap, No Matter Where. Floor of the observatory? Mid tea time? Wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop terrace? If you’re there, he’s instantly more relaxed, and unconscious. Only you can wake him. Gently. With a kiss.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him curled up on the reading room floor, halfway under the desk, using your folded cardigan as a pillow.

Again.

You huff softly and crouch beside him, brushing a bit of silver hair from his cheek. “Xavi…”

“Shhh,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You make good shadows.”

“You’re not even on me this time.”

He shifts, arms snaking out lazily until he finds your lap. Without a second thought, he lays his head there and sighs. “Better.”

You blink. “This is the sixth time this week you’ve passed out in a random room.”

“I don’t pass out,” he says sleepily. “I regenerate. You’re my recharge station.”

You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already stroking through his hair, and he’s already asleep

ೃ⁀➷ He Wears Your Hairpin in missions. He found it on the bathroom counter once, small, simple, glinting with a faint lavender shine. Now he tucks it into his uniform, inside his coat, just over his chest. No one else sees it. But it’s always there. And he always comes back alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The black undershirt of his uniform is half-unzipped, hung up beside his jacket after a long mission. You notice it only when helping him undress, right there, tucked just inside the lining near his chest.

Your lavender hairpin.

“Xavier.” You hold it up. “What is this doing in here?”

He looks at it, expression unreadable. “It was on the bathroom counter.”

“Yes, last week.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You left it. It looked like protection.”

“You wore it into the no hunt zone?”

He meets your eyes and finally says, softer, “I always come back when I wear it.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask for it back. You tuck it into the pocket of his coat yourself the next morning.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Jar of Your Perfume in His Jacket Pocket. He claims it’s to mask foreign pheromone readings during missions. But when he thinks you’re not looking, he opens the jar just to breathe you in. Even mid-fight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He’s supposed to be on a stealth mission.

But you find him crouched on the balcony at 3AM, jacket over his shoulders, gloved fingers toying with the tiny glass jar he keeps in his pocket.

You know what it is. Your perfume, mixed into a custom oil he once bottled by hand. Just enough to carry your scent with him.

He doesn’t see you approach until you sit beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

“No.” He doesn’t look at you—but his fingers still on the jar. “This is the part of the mission where I start wondering if I’ll get back.”

You press a hand to his thigh. “You always do.”

He finally turns to you, eyes darker in the moonlight. “Because you’re waiting.”

He opens the jar and breathes in. Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your neck, just under your ear.

“You smell like home,” he says quietly.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

ೃ⁀➷ He Brands His Territory. With Elegance. Every dress, every pair of heels, every piece of jewelry you wear at public events is custom-designed and crafted with a hidden signature: a red crow seal pressed somewhere only he knows to look. You belong to him, and everyone important knows it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The gala hall is filled with powerful men and women, each dressed like royalty. Your gown glimmers, slit high, heels sharper than your stare. Still, you fidget. You feel them watching.

Then Sylus appears.

He leans close, voice low against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You feel them staring, don’t you?”

You nod, uneasy.

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t growl.

He smirks. “Let them. None of them are brave enough to ask what the red crow seal means.”

You blink. “Seal?”

He runs a gloved finger along the back of your dress—stopping just above the zipper. You feel it now: a faint embossed sigil, stitched in blood-red silk.

“They’ll see it eventually,” he hums. “And they’ll know: you’re already taken. Stamped. Sealed. Mine.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Secretly Monitors Every Room You Walk Into. His tech teams set up discreet surveillance in every public space you frequent, not to spy, but to react instantly if you’re ever in trouble. He doesn’t trust the world with you. Only himself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had thought it was coincidence, the same man, twice in the café, once again outside the plaza. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t approached. Just… lingered.

When you mention it offhandedly during dinner, Sylus stills mid-sip of his wine.

His eyes glow faint red.

“Describe him.”

You do.

He doesn’t ask for clarification.

The next morning, the man is gone. Not dead. Not harmed. But scrubbed from every system, persona, and file. As if he’d never existed.

You ask Sylus about it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I built surveillance in your world for decoration? I see what you don’t, darling. And I remove it before it gets close enough to blink.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes Enemies Disappear, Before You Know They Were a Threat. You never hear about the journalist who tried to dig into your private life. Or the petty business who made a backhanded comment about you in an executive room. But Sylus heard, and their influence vanished overnight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You never hear about them.

The journalist who asked one too many questions. The analyst who muttered something sharp under their breath during a conference. The rival heiress who dared to imply that you were just a pretty face on Sylus’s arm.

You don’t notice it, but Sylus does.

He always does.

And he acts before the insult ever reaches your ears.

One week later, the journalist’s platform is gone, shut down by a legal landslide no one saw coming. The analyst? “Transferred” to a silent post on the moon’s edge. The heiress? Her fortune crumbles overnight, and no one dares mention why. It all happens so quietly, so cleanly, like they simply… ceased to matter.

You ask, once.

“What happened to her?”

Sylus hums, unbothered, sipping his wine as he fingers the red brooch on your chest. “Nothing important.”

You lean into him, the warmth of his blazer draped over your shoulders. He kisses your temple without taking his eyes off the skyline.

You never ask again.

Because when you walk into a room now, people look twice, and then bow. Not out of fear of you, but of what moves behind you. What watches. What whispers your name like a silent, invisible crown.

They never see it coming.

But Sylus does.

And he never misses.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Private Gallery, Of Only You. Tucked deep in his base is a red-lit room that no one enters but him. Inside: holograms, still photos, sketches, images of you in every expression, mood, and angle. He never brings it up. But when he’s gone for too long, that’s where he disappears to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen the room.

No one has.

Tucked beneath biometric locks and red-lit corridors in one of Sylus’s most secure bases, it’s not listed on any blueprint. Not even his most loyal lieutenants know it exists. But it does.

A space carved out of shadows and silence. The walls? Floor-to-ceiling screens and sketch-strewn tables. Dozens of holoframes flickering in dim light, each holding you.

You, smiling in the garden of your villa. You, asleep with a book slipping from your fingers. You, storm-eyed and laughing, lips painted in defiance. Moments you don’t even remember, captured and preserved like relics of devotion. Holograms move in slow loops, and still sketches, hand-drawn in crimson ink, rest beneath protective glass.

He doesn’t speak about it. Never tells you.

But when he’s gone too long, deep in enemy territory, cut off by war, surrounded by silence and blood—that’s where he goes. Sits in the dark. Watches you.

Not the public versions of you, no.

The real ones.

He doesn’t look at maps. Doesn’t check reports. He stands with his hands in his pockets and eyes on your smile like it’s the only light left in the universe.

And when he finally returns, smelling of steel and victory, he always cups your face like it’s been centuries.

You don’t know why.

But he does.

Because even the coldest man in the world needs warmth to come back to.

And for Sylus?

That warmth is always, only, you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Carries a Locket, A Crimson One. Worn under his shirt, never seen by anyone else. Inside it? A delicate photo of you, smiling, hair windblown, wearing the crow brooch he gave you. You’ve never seen it. He never takes it off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen it, not once.

But you’ve felt it.

The faint weight beneath his shirt when he leans over you. The way his fingers brush against it when he’s deep in thought, lounging with that maddening, crooked smile. It’s small, oval, and warm with his body heat, and he never lets anyone touch it.

He’d never even mentioned it until one evening, when you reached for the top button of his shirt, teasing, playful.

His hand closed gently over yours, not stopping, just… slowing.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice lilting as you tugged the fabric aside.

His eyes flicked down to the blood-red glint at his chest, half-concealed by shadows. You expected a smirk. A sly remark.

But instead, something quieter.

“A locket.”

You blinked. “With what inside?”

A pause. Then:

“You.”

You laughed softly, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

Worn beneath his clothes, closer to his heart than even the blade strapped to his side, was a crimson locket, deep as garnet, smooth as glass. Inside, a photo he’d taken himself. You didn’t even remember when. You, laughing. Wind in your hair. His crow brooch pinned proudly on your coat.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t warned you.

He just kept it.

You reach for it again, slower this time. His fingers don’t stop you.

“I didn’t know you carried this,” you whisper.

His voice is low, rough with a rare honesty. “They can burn my armories. Wipe my networks. Hunt me across star systems. But no one touches this.”

You press a kiss to the spot just above the locket, over the soft beat of his heart.

No words needed.

Because you know now.

That long before he wore crowns of weaponry,

He crowned you the only thing worth carrying.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Locked You in Paradise. After his last mission, Caleb used his authority to retire you from your job and install you in the Skyhaven penthouse, top floor, panoramic view, full staff, and only one keycard. His. You never asked for a cage. But now? You never want to leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with a mission. A long one. Too long.

You didn’t even hear the shuttle land that night, just the hiss of the pressure seal releasing and the sound of Caleb’s boots crossing the penthouse marble like thunder.

“Where’s your comm?” he asked you before even setting down his cap, eyes sharp, voice too calm.

You’d left it in the bathroom. Just for a moment. But it didn’t matter.

The next day, he filed the retirement papers. Without discussion. Without permission. The same afternoon, he upgraded the locks, biometric. One keycard. His. The others, including yours, were deactivated with clinical efficiency.

You had no job. No schedule. No exit.

Just the view from the top of Skyhaven. And him.

At first, you resented it. You tried sulking. Tried pacing. Tried threatening to “go back out there.”

Caleb didn’t flinch.

He just poured you wine, removed your comm privileges from the Farspace network, and told the staff to prepare your bath. “You’re not a hunter,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”

But somewhere between the soft silks he ordered in your exact size and the new vanity fully stocked with all your old favorite products, between the morning massages, the hand-delivered breakfasts, and the scent of him clinging to your sheets, you stopped trying the door.

Now? You wait for him at the window every night, curled in the armchair in one of his stolen shirts. The sky glows violet with the shimmer of passing ships. Your comm is still offline. The outside world doesn’t reach you here.

But Caleb does.

He always does.

The door opens with a soft hiss, and you don’t even have to turn your head.

Gloved hands slip beneath your knees as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “I told you I’d be back before sunset.”

“You’re late,” you murmur against his collar.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

And he does, every night.

Because the penthouse may be a cage, but the view?

The view is everything.

And you’ve never been more adored, more protected, or more kept than you are here, locked in paradise, where you belong.

ೃ⁀➷ He Runs, While Carrying You. Every morning, he runs laps around the private garden district of Skyhaven, where only the richest officials live. And every morning, you’re in his arms, giggling in your robe while he jogs with your full weight cradled like treasure. You hate cardio. He makes sure you never have to do it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Every morning, at exactly 0600, Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet runs his required laps around the gated Skyhaven residential sector. It’s part of his personal discipline, regulation fitness, stamina drills, mental clarity.

But ever since you became his wife, the routine changed.

Because you wanted to be with him, always, but you hated exercise. Hated the way it made your limbs sore, hated sweating, hated the sheer effort of cardio.

You pouted once, half-wrapped in a throw blanket on the penthouse balcony, saying, “I wanna come, but I’m not doing all that running.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

The next morning, he scooped you into his arms, like it was a drill, and took off at full pace, jogging smoothly with your full weight held against his chest.

And now?

It’s ritual. His boots pound the stone path as sunrise lights the clouds, your laughter curling around his ear as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You’re wrapped in one of his jackets, and you hum softly while he breathes in time with his stride.

Guards salute him. Other officials glance and look away. No one dares comment.

It’s not just a run. It’s his workout with you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle.

Caleb smirks, lips brushing your temple as he exhales, “And you’re my favorite dumbbell.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Dresses You Like a Trophy. You don’t just attend his banquets, you dominate them. He reserves exclusive boutiques just for you, takes leave just to sit back in uniform while you model silks and satin, and buys anything you so much as glance at. You don’t even carry your own bags. That’s what aides are for.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t even know how many gowns you’ve tried on at this point, but from your place in the boutique’s mirrored lounge, you can hear Caleb’s answer before you ask.

“Get it, Pipsqueak” he says smoothly, voice low with that self-satisfied purr he only gets when you’re dressed to kill. He hasn’t even looked up from where he sits, one leg crossed over the other, black gloves still on from his uniform, Farspace insignia glinting at his collarbone.

You arch a brow in the mirror, turning to examine the open back of the navy silk gown. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw you step out in it. That was enough.”

The stylist freezes. The aides freeze. Even the boutique manager, who only takes appointments from Skyhaven’s highest elite, keeps her eyes low. This isn’t just any Farspace officer treating his girl. This is Colonel Caleb. And you? You’re his. Everyone knows it.

You shift toward him. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leans back on the velvet sofa, eyes dragging up your body with slow, deliberate appreciation. “I’m dressing my victory. You think I’m walking into my own banquet without showing them exactly what I come home to every night?”

A flush rises in your cheeks, but Caleb just gestures lazily with a gloved hand toward the boutique racks. “Try the white one next. I want them to suffer.”

You do. And when you step out in it, spun moonlight over your skin, slit high enough to tease his attention, you catch the twitch of his jaw. That little shift in posture. The faintest smile tugging at his lips.

He doesn’t say “get it” this time.

He just pulls out his comm and says, “Wrap the collection. She’s taking everything.”

You don’t carry a single box. Caleb’s aides handle it all, silent, efficient, practiced. You only hear him again when he’s behind you, coat brushing your back as he leans in to whisper against your neck:

“Next time, we’ll have the whole atelier flown in. I don’t want you lifting a finger. You’re mine to admire, not to work.”

And when you strut into his banquet hours later, his arm tight around your waist, his voice low as he murmurs sweet praises against your temple, you realize something:

You’re not just his wife.

You’re his masterpiece on display.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps All Your Stuff, Everywhere. Caleb spreads pieces of you in all his outposts. A lipstick-stained mug on his office desk. A perfume bottle by his cockpit window. A hairbrush tucked in his warship quarters. His subordinates know better than to ask. It’s not for them. It’s for him. Always.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Skyhaven airstrip bakes under the sun as Caleb descends from the sleek body of his warship, black coat catching the breeze like wings. Officers stand at attention. Engines wind down. But his mind isn’t on them.

It’s on you.

More specifically, on the soft pink lip print still visible on the mug stationed by his cockpit window.

He doesn’t bother wiping it off.

Inside his private wing at Command, the same pattern repeats: a perfume bottle resting beside a case of classified datapads, a velvet scrunchie on the corner of his comms console, a pair of slippers you once kicked off after sitting in his lap during a mission briefing. They’re still there. No one dares move them.

Because everyone in the Fleet knows: those aren’t forgotten things.

They’re claimed.

“Sir,” one bold officer says as he walks past. “You want us to clear the desk before Admiral Talyn arrives?”

Caleb looks up from the mug.

The lipstick kiss stares back at him, barely faded, still perfect.

“No,” he replies coldly. “She can learn to keep her hands to herself.”

The officer goes silent. Caleb continues typing a report with one hand while gently straightening your brush with the other, aligning it so the strands you left behind remain untouched. His expression never softens in public, but if they look closely, they’ll see the way his thumb drifts over the place where your fingers last held the handle.

Later that night, when he’s back at the penthouse and you’re curled in his lap like always, drowsy, spoiled, his, you ask him why he brings your things everywhere.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss beneath your ear, “even when I’m flying over war zones or buried in Fleet intel… I need a piece of you to breathe.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Answers to No One But You. Military brass demand his time. Parliament wants answers. But the moment your call pings his comms, he’s gone. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-meeting, mid-strategy, or mid-battle. He always answers your voice with one word: “Yes, sweetheart?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The command deck of the Farspace Fleet flagship is locked in tension, holographic maps flickering, lieutenants barking coordinates, and Caleb standing at the helm, arms folded behind his back. His black military coat billows slightly from the ship’s internal draft, the purple and red of his insignia gleaming beneath sterile light.

“Colonel, the intercept window closes in three minutes. We need your—”

A soft chime pings in his earpiece.

Caleb stiffens.

One breath. Then another.

The officer beside him squints. “Colonel?”

Caleb lifts a gloved hand, silencing the room with a single motion. Without explanation, he turns on his heel and walks out of the war room, no hesitation, no urgency, like none of this matters compared to the name flashing across his comms.

By the time the blast doors seal behind him, his voice softens into something nearly boyish. He taps the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

There’s a moment of silence, then your warm, sleep-softened voice: “Hi. I couldn’t sleep… Are you busy?”

He exhales through his nose, slow and fond, already pulling off one glove. “Not anymore.”

“Caleb—wait, aren’t you in the middle of something—?”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m in the hallway. Alone. And I’d rather talk to my wife.”

Your breath catches. He can hear the tiny creak of the penthouse sheets when you curl deeper into them. He imagines you in that oversized shirt you stole from his closet, blinking at the ceiling like you always do when he’s away too long.

“I just missed you,” you murmur.

“I’m flying back after this,” he replies instantly. “Banquet be damned. They’ll reschedule.”

You laugh quietly, like you don’t quite believe him. He’s already opening a classified channel with his off-hand, rerouting half a fleet to cover his absence.

They’ll survive.

They always do.

But only one person gets his everything.

And she’s already in bed, waiting.

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whosashan · 4 months ago

Text

AFTER THE STORM

Part 2 of "Who do you love?"

PAIRING: Rafayel & Sylus x reader

SYNOPSIS: As the sting of hurt and betrayal begins to soften, a quiet longing stirs—you find yourself wanting to seek them out.

A/N: Some people wanted a resolution, so here it is!

Rafayel

You didn’t know how much time had passed since you last spoke to Rafayel.

But the feeling of betrayal hadn’t faded. Not even a little.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try.

Your phone had been flooded with calls, texts, voice messages—some pleading, some poetic, others just plain ridiculous. Then came the flowers, bouquets upon bouquets piling up at your doorstep until your apartment smelled like an entire garden.

And then, of course, the billboard.

"Talk to me, cutie. I'm so sorry :("

It sat right outside your building, massive and utterly impossible to ignore.

You weren’t sure if you were amused or infuriated.

And yet, through all of that, he hadn’t shown up at your door. Not once. Rafayel, for all his dramatics, knew you. Knew that no amount of begging or extravagant gestures would work if you weren’t ready.

But he was waiting.

And maybe, deep down, you had been waiting too.

Then came the call from Thomas.

At first, you assumed Rafayel had bribed him into getting you to talk. Wouldn’t have been the first time. But there was something in Thomas’s voice—something that unsettled you.

"I don’t want to get involved in whatever mess this is, but I’m afraid it’s starting to affect my job."

That caught your attention.

"How?"

There was a pause. Then, a sigh.

"Just come here and see for yourself."

And then the call ended.

You scoffed. Classic.

And yet, despite your irritation, concern gnawed at you. Because no matter what had happened—no matter how much Rafayel had hurt you—you loved him. That much, at least, was certain.

Even if sometimes, you weren’t sure if his heart was truly yours.

—

The moment you stepped into the studio, you were hit with one immediate thought.

What the actual hell?

The place looked like it had been ransacked.

Not the usual artistic chaos Rafayel thrived in—no, this was different.

There was sand. Everywhere.

The paint on the walls had cracked, the curtains were ripped, and for some ungodly reason, seashells were scattered across the floor.

You weren’t even near a beach.

Your eyes finally landed on him.

Rafayel was seated in front of a massive, untouched canvas. His usual effortless grace was gone—his shoulders hunched slightly, his hands limp against his lap. The ever-present glint of mischief in his blue-pink eyes had dulled.

And yet, when you spoke, his name slipping past your lips softer than you intended—

"Rafayel."

—he didn’t look at you right away.

You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you or just too lost in his own world to register your presence.

So, you moved closer, crouching beside him.

Finally, his gaze shifted to yours.

It was subtle, but you saw it—the flicker of relief. The weight of exhaustion. The quiet kind of hurt that he rarely let anyone see.

But he stayed silent.

You sighed, reaching for his hand, fingers brushing against his knuckles.

"You're a big, big dummy, fishie."

His lips quirked—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

"Are you here to scold me, or finally confess that you can’t live without me?" His voice was light, teasing, but you heard the tension beneath it. The attempt to mask his uncertainty.

"How about we go to the beach?"

That made him pause.

His brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face—until realization hit.

The beach. Your place. Where everything had begun. Where words always came easier, where wounds found ways to heal.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were offering him this. Like he knew he didn’t deserve it.

And yet, he still took your hand.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers laced through yours before he pulled you forward—abruptly, effortlessly, entirely into his embrace.

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, possessive, as though making sure you were real. That you were here.

Then, lips brushing against your temple, voice barely above a whisper—

"Don’t leave me alone again… please."

You inhaled sharply.

Rafayel was a lot of things—dramatic, infuriating.

But right now, he wasn’t playing.

You hesitated for only a second before resting your forehead against his shoulder.

"Don’t give me a reason to."

Sylus

It had been a week—a full week without contacting your lover.

Guilt gnawed at you, weaving itself between regret and hurt, settling heavy in your chest.

This was the longest you had ever been apart since the beginning of your relationship. It felt unnatural, wrong. Life without him was something you didn’t want to adjust to.

And yet, your pride held you back.

You paced your room, phone clutched in your hand, staring at the messages you had typed out but never sent.

"I miss you.""Can we talk?""Why did you have to hurt me this badly?""Are you still waiting for me?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Sylus had reached out, but only in the quiet, thoughtful way that was so distinctly him.

A small, carefully folded letter, delivered by Mephisto.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll always be here for you. My heart is yours, darling. —Sylus"

Your grip on the letter tightened. It made your heart ache, made doubt creep in.

Had you overreacted?

Before you could dwell on it further, a sudden knock on the door shattered your thoughts.

You hesitated before moving toward it, unsure what you were hoping for.

And then, you opened it.

There he was—your lover, standing before you, looking slightly disheveled, not quite himself. In his hands, a bouquet of your favorite flowers, petals trembling slightly from his grip.

His confidence, usually unwavering, was laced with hesitation.

"I know I said I’d wait for you," he murmured, voice softer than usual. "I just... missed you. I needed to see you."

Your heart pounded.

For a moment, you only stared at him, absorbing the sight of the man you had longed for. And then—

You launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.

He let out a startled breath, arms instinctively locking around you, steadying you against him.

Then, you grinned against his skin, voice muffled but certain.

"Let’s never fight again, okay?"

#love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace headcanons #lads rafayel #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier x reader #loveanddeepspace #lads x reader #lads x you #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lads sylus #lads #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #lnds

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redcherrykook · 1 year ago

Text

🐰 oneshots

─𐙚───🩶── smut drabbles 💭

♡ pink and pretty

-> Jungkook doesn't appreciate being teased like that, so he decides to give you a good punishment.

tags: sir!kink, spanking, dom&sub dynamics, oral (m), degredation, praise, doggy, creampie, slight size kink

♡ knuckles deep

-> your boyfriend fingers you, very well

tags: hand kink, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, slight dom JK, begging

♡ safeword

-> daddy!jungkook comforts you after you use your safeword

tags: ddlg dynamics, comfort, rough sex, spanking, size kink, crying, praise, doggy

♡ midnight snack

-> jungkook spend too much time in his studio- only to be greeted by his naked princess in his bed

tags: somnophilia, oral (f), praise, dirty talk, doggy

♡ delicate seashell

-> a friend trip to the beach ends in jungkooks sheets

tags: beachy hotel sex, whiny koo, penetration, sweet koo

─𐙚───🩶── smut full-length shots 💭

♡ teach me daddy

-> daddy!jungkook teaches his virgin girlfriend all about pleasure

tags: ddlg dynamics, oral (m), fingering, tit play, praise, cumming on stomach, dumbification, size kink, dirty talk

♡ think i need someone older

-> your older, manly boyfriend guides you through your first time

tags: ddlg, cowgirl, thigh humping, praise, tit play, clit play, lowkey insecure reader, size kink, hickies

♡ bad boy, good girl

-> highschool sweethearts get high and fuck, but the cops aren´t blind

tags: badboy!Jk x nerd!oc, weed consumption, car chase, big dick!Jk, creampie, praise, dirty talk, doggy, oral (m)

♡ romance novel

-> your rich biker BF discovers the smut inside your beloved bookworm fantasy novels, the ones he bought for you

tags: smut scene reanactment, guided, fingering, clit play, tit play, praise

♡ (tent)ative enemies

-> banter and fight until... enemies 2 lovers in a group camping trip

tags: tension, backshots, spanking, big dick jk, hair pulling, tent sex

♡ brothers best friend

-> both of you yearned for one another, dreamed until they reached the point of snapping

tags: teasing, humping, tit play, f2l, fluff

♡ spot me instead

-> when a stranger at the gym takea a chance with you, jungkook reminds you who you belong to

tags: gymrat!couple, jelaous public sex, bend over, mirror sex, choking, creampie, spanking

♡ JK BIRTHDAY SPECIAL!

-> It's your boyfriends birthday and lucky you, there is a gift for you too

tags: lingerie, body worship, fluff, vibrator usage, oral, so much passion, penetrative sex

─𐙚───🩶── safe oneshots 💭

♡ maybe next time

-> there's a handsome stranger in your usual cafe, you dont dare talk to him, wonder if maybe, your eyes will meet in a predestined wonder.

tags: mutual secret pining and yearning, very artistic and poetic

♡ working on love

-> jungkook meets you at a business party- he thinks he's seen an angel

tags: tension, insta love (sorry), lots of soulmate energy

♡ flower pot

-> pure comfort, when you feel broken

tags: comfort, sad reader, healer jungkook , poetic

♡ bound to a second chance

-> exes aren't always meant to be exes

tags: metaphores of blood, soulmates that find back together, angst, poetic

♡ inevitable transition

-> you notice your boyfriend transitioning into something , a cheater.

tags: no one scene cheating, brief dialouge, very poetic

・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・

visit my kinktober masterlist!

... or my series masterlist!

#jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #masterlist #redcherrykook

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strwbrychffoncke · 5 months ago

Text

"—baby take off my clothes cause i got somethin' to show ya,, 1.9k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: your plan to make rafayel stay with you a little longer before his newest art exhibition works a little too well.... contains: nsfw! lnds rafayel x afab!reader ,mc!reader ,reader is wearing a dress ,teasing (giving) ,u get carried ,kissing ,making out ,marking ,biting ,missionary(?) ,needy!raf ,kinda whiny!raf ,overstimulation (brief) ,creampie ,some cute fluff afterglow ,implied cunnilingus ,thomas cameo at the end lmao ,think thats it note: (mostly edited pls standby....) released much later than i intended but i had sm trouble writing but we somehow prevailed..........

"do you really have to go, raf?"

he lets out a long sigh, strokes from the paintbrush light and airy on the canvas in front of him.

"i already told you that you should come with me."

"but i want you to stay here with me," you almost whine, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and leaning forward, pressing you body against his.

his breath stutters ever so slightly at your clinginess, heart picking up its speed in his chest.

"and besides...."

you rest your head on his shoulder, lips just centimeters away from his ear.

"isn't this a little much for an art exhibition?"

your voice is a hushed whisper, the sheer sound and feeling of it sending sparks through rafayel's entire body.

he's long since lost interest in his current piece, vouching to save it for later as he feels you unravel your arms and step back to give him room to turn around.

and rafayel feels his breath hitch at the sight before him.

its nothing extravagant, but maybe the simplicity of it is what stirs something up inside of him: you're wearing a silk pink slip dress, the color resembling a seashell you once found on the beach and gifted to rafayel, for good luck you'd said with a smile— and he feels like he was feeling that look right this moment, being able to look at you like this).

the neckline is just low enough for some cleavage to peek through, the top part hugging your breasts so nicely, simple crystal-like ornaments embellishing the outline (reminding him of the way light reflects off of the ocean's surface) while the bottom accentuates your waist and falls perfectly around your hips, ending just above your ass— if you so much as bent over slightly, you'd easily flash someone.

"'too much?'" rafayel mumbles your words back to you, hands reaching out to grab a hold of your hips.

"if you ask me, this is too little."

you can't help but let a laugh slip as he pulls you closer, hands pinching and caressing the silk of the fabric hugging your hips, gaze roaming up your body before making eye contact with you.

"no way am i letting anyone else see you in this."

his eyes are narrowed but his expression resembles a pout as he holds you close against him.

ah, there was that possessive side of him.

you laugh again in amusement, short and sweet, hands moving up to cover his momentarily before slowly trailing up his arms then up to hold his face, one of his hands shooting up to wrap around your wrist, turning his head towards it and planting a kiss directly onto the pulse point.

you pull him closer towards you, leaning down just slightly as if you had some special secret reserved for his ears only (despite the studio being occupied by only you both).

"then take it off."

in the next second, you capture his lips with yours, and as rafayel kisses back with equal and slowly growing fervor, the last thing on his mind is the art exhibition he's supposed to be attending in a little under an hour.

rafayel thinks you must've cast some sort of spell on him

since the very first time he met you to this life, you've had him wrapped around your finger without even trying— the sea god, folding to your every will.

sometimes, he thinks you forget the sheer amount of power you hold over him.

you don't know when exactly he's carried you to his bedroom, but you feel the soft mattress beneath you as he continues devouring your lips, legs wrapped around his waist to keep him close as his hands roam over your body and slowly begin sliding the silk straps of your cute dress down, eager to free your breasts. he doesn't waste a second in leaning down to kiss and mark one, sucking hard on the nipple while squeezing and prodding the other in his warm hand.

"hah, raf—ah—"

your hands bury themselves in his unkempt hair, tugging at his lavender locks, pleasured sounds filling the room as rafayel switches to the neglected one, swirling his tongue around the bud, taking his time marking your tits in pretty bruises and bites.

after a couple of minutes he releases the mound with a pop, pulling back slightly, hair a mess and panting, taking in the sight of you.

he leans up towards your face once more. "you're terrible, y'know?" he mumbles against your lips before stealing kiss after kiss from them. "invading my mind like this... look what you do to me, princess."

he pins your wrists against the mattress, swallowing your whines when he bucks his hips between your thighs— against your dampening panties.

patience wearing thin, he leans back to his full height, ridding himself of his pants and freeing his hard, leaking length from their confines.

you feel your mouth water at the sight, wanting nothing more than to be filled of him completely.

rafayel smirks at the sight, stroking himself a few times before grabbing you by the ankles and pulling you impossibly closer, groaning at your choice of panties— a thong-shaped one with lace, color matching your dress— sliding them down your legs and tossing them to the floor. he grabs hold of your thighs, spreading you open, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder and holding it there with one hand, other aligning himself with your leaking entrance.

"ready, princess?"

he doesn't wait for your answer.

with a single thrust, he buries himself completely inside of you, immediately moaning at the feeling of your walls hugging him tight at the sudden intrusion and growing more aroused at the moan you let out, back arching off the bed and gripping the sheets tight.

already impatient, his hips quickly form a rhythm, throwing his head back and panting into the air of the room, pleasure heightened by hearing your sweet whines and groans.

"sl-slow, slow down, raf—"

"can't— you can take it, can't you? the way you're— ahh— squeezing me tells me en-ough—"

his voice is strained and god he sounds so needy despite being the one on top, and he is— he can never get enough of you; no matter how much time you spend together, its never enough.

he's been patient, so patient, and every day with you is a blessing and a curse because he always wants more.

and you can feel it in the way he's thrusting into you, beads of sweat forming on his body, hotly panting and whining as you squeeze his cock because he always felt too good to imagine.

you think he's a bad influence. his neediness has rubbed off on you.

but he's more than willing to give every part of himself to you in every way you desire.

"ah—!"

"that feel good, princess? there?"

he pries the leg against the mattress wider, granting him more space between you as he continues hitting the same spot within you that seemed to make you flutter around him.

at this point, he knew your body and mind exceptionally well, making his mark on you in every way that he could.

"you feel too good, too good— hah, ahh— should buy you more of those pretty dresses, yeah?"

you huff out a laugh that's quickly cut off by a moan, throwing your head back deeper into the mattress, hands flying up to grip his strong arms hard as you feel yourself coming undone.

"close— so close, rafa-yel, please—"

"gonna— hah— cum inside, ah—"

your arms reach up around his neck again, pulling him closer to kiss him.

your tongues dance to their own tune as his hips slam into yours, and with some final particularly hard thrusts you gush around his cock, breaking the kiss as you cry out in pleasure.

rafayel lets your thigh down in favor of leaning his body against yours, keeping you in place as his lips trail down your jawline towards your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin as he chases his own orgasm.

"too— much, too much, raf—"

you're whining into his ear, sensitive from your orgasm, overstimulation intense, legs wrapping around his waist and tugging him impossibly closer against you to try to ground yourself in any way.

"so good, so good, princess, i'm gonna cum—"

with a couple more thrusts and a harsh bite to your shoulder, he spills himself inside of you, cry escaping your lips at the sensation of his teeth as his warmth fills you.

he rides out his high with a few more languid thrusts, planting soft kisses against his marks on your neck and shoulder before his movements completely cease.

neither of you speaks for a long moment, only holding each other close as you both catch your breath.

you rake your hands through his messy hair (courtesy of you), giggling as he pushes into your touch, eyes flitting up to you.

"so needy," you jest with a little smile.

rafayel lets out a scoff, lifting his head to look at you properly.

"says the cutie that was vying for my attention," a teasing smile tugs at his lips. "it seems i'm rubbing off on you," he proclaims, all too smugly.

"you're a bad influence," you huff, pinching his cheek.

"your bad influence," he winks and you roll your eyes, reaching to peck the same cheek you pinched.

you both stare at each other for another long moment before the artist moves to get off of you, standing at his full height, holding your thighs as he slowly pulls out, rubbing them in an act of comfort when you let out a small whimper at the loss.

"hey," you breathe out, lifting yourself up onto your elbows. "aren't you going to be late?" you tilt your head, remembering the reasoning behind this passionate night in the first place.

he lowers himself to the ground, face level with your heat, watching the globs of cum drip and stain the sheets below. he can feel himself get hard again at the sight as his hands give your thighs a gentle squeeze, planting a kiss on the inside of one before his dark gaze meets yours.

"who says i'm still going?"

epilogue:

thomas called the familiar number for what felt like the upteenth time that evening, trying not to lose his mind outside of the venue where more and more guests began showing up.

"where the hell is he???"

by the time and hour had passed since the designated time of arrival, thomas had already baked up some half-assed excuse as to why rafayel wouldn't be showing his face at yet another exhibition.

thomas lets out a frustrated sigh once he gets the chance to take another breather.

"at least i have the paintings," he mumbles to himself, swirling the glass of champagne in his glass as he fishes out his phone from his pocket to check for any update.

1 new message.

he unlocks his phone to check it out, and in the next second, he's gripping it so hard he thinks he might crack the screen.

"oops left my phone off thx for covering for me"

the animated sticker that accompanies the message does nothing to quell his frustrations as he shoves his phone back into his pocket without bothering to answer and downing the champagne in one go.

he makes his way back inside, deciding he'll need a lot more than just one glass tonight.

a/n: why is rafayel so hard to write for i have to scroll through art to get inspo but i love him very much :x

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vitaminseetarot · 29 days ago

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Mermay 2025 Pick a Card: Your Summer in a Seashell 🐚🧜‍♀️

*･ﾟ✧Masterlist | *･ﾟ✧Ko-Fi

Hey y'all, I'm back in time for the New Moon and the end of May with another pick a card reading! This time we're combining Mermay with my current nostalgia theme going and -- vóilà -- we got Mermaid Melody PichiPichi Pitch today! We'll be taking a quick glance into the general energies surrounding your summer. As always, take what works and our current energies are always subject to change with the right intentions.

Please choose your pile:

Pile 1 - Coral 💗 Pile 2 - Scallop 💙 Pile 3 - Whelk 💚

Pile 1 - Coral 💗

Person (2nd); Everything is Temporary; Spiritual Guide; 39. Back on Task; Opportunity, Wild, Ambition; 2 of Pentacles, 8 of Pentacles, 2 of Cups, XI Justice, Queen of Wands

Hey pile 1! It looks like a busy part of your year is happening in the summer. I'm hearing "firing on all cylinders" so it can feel like you're juggling like a mad hare to get things done, especially before the end of spring. Something will come up which will ask for more of your energy and time, but I don't see this opportunity as a negative. In fact, I feel like this busyness is stabilizing a part of your life that may have been stuck crawling rather than walking, so for a while you may be having sprints of intense days, but it will even out over the season into smoother waters. Not to fret, though, because with the 2 of Pentacles and the Justice card, it's not all drudgery. There could be an occasional rendezvous where you give yourself the license to let loose for a day or two. This is a "work hard play hard" pile for sure!

This pile may be going to school or doing summer jobs over the next few months. There may even be an extracurricular like sports or some college prep program. Some of you may be catching up with things that were left on the backburner for a little too long. I feel you will have the steady energy to accomplish whatever you're setting out to do. Just be sure to keep an even pace and don't feel like it all has to be done at once. It can be tempting to go all in just because you're trying to pick up speed, but that kind of outburst can't be sustained for very long. If you struggle with procrastination, then there will be tools and guides to help you nudge along little by little.

You have one of the two 'Person' cards in my Lenormand (there's actually 4 in total), and this Person card has to do with someone other than the querent. That combined with Spiritual Guide above the 2 of Cups. There is a major connection for you that will happen over summer. This could be a literal spirit guide, you could be feeling more in tune with your spirituality. This could also be a kind, supportive tutor or friend who's able to help you out with your projects and work. As a boss, this person will be fair to you and will embrace your quirks. I think this person is familiar with what you're doing and may provide some very helpful advice as you navigate your progress. For romantic relationships, I'm getting that you may date someone who is supportive and encouraging. They may drag you away from the computer for some time at the boardwalk or art studio.

Whatever opportunity is coming up for you this summer will rectify the parts of your life that felt stuck and out of place. This will likely have to do with work, but it depends on where you're exerting yourself more. Earlier this year, you may not have had as much on your plate, but things have gradually veered towards being productive. Now, it's a matter of leaning it back in the other direction. The more shifts you fill and overtime you do, the more you will find friends sending you notifications asking when to hang out. The universe is helping you sort it out. It's okay to step aside and spend quality time with the ones you care about, it's not necessary to block out everything to show gratitude for this opportunity. Seize it, but seize the sunshine too!

By the end of summer, you'll be stepping into a greater sense of confidence and self-assurance in what you're good at doing. If you stay on task when you need to be, and you pace yourself in between, you'll find that the hardest parts will pass by quickly while the ending will feel so rewarding. It's like after everything you do this season, interestingly you'll be more fired up than you were before. If winter and spring felt slow and awkward, then these months may feel a lot more stable and easy flowing in comparison. It'll be busy, but a good kind of busy, and you have good people there to back you up. I'm seeing great things as far where work-life balanced are concerned. All the best, pile 1!

Pile 2 - Scallop 💙

Person (1st); You Belong Here; Nurture; 33. Let Your Personality Shine; Patience, Guidance, Listen; King of Pentacles, 8 of Pentacles, 5 of Pentacles, XV The Devil, IV The Emperor

How's it going, pile 2? You come off to me as a very hard worker, the one person on the team who does the crummy errand everyone wants to forget about because you know it's necessary to keep the systems running. You've been grinding for months and this summer season is showing its bounty to you. There may be a lot more spending money to use for your everyday life; I'm seeing you pampering yourself with soothing lotions and silky pillows, things that make you feel soft and comfortable. The money you spend on self-care will be proportionate to the energy you've given in your position. Sore feet? Time for a foot bath. Bad back? Perfect chance to try out a new chair support.

It's funny, this pile's vibe is similar to pile 1's, except you're ending where they're beginning in this case. You both got 8 of Pentacles in the same spot, so this summer is gonna involve a lot of working or studying. You could be deeply getting into expressive hobbies in between the work. But what needs to be considered is the rate at which you work. I don't know if this is one huge thing you're working on, but it feels continuous like a day job, and there is a little risk for exhaustion near the end of the summer. It's not just a lot of work, it's a sense of being frantic about finishing it. There's also a sense of "needing" to fulfill hobbies at breakneck efficiency. But this exhaustion isn't guaranteed, it's simply a side effect from pushing oneself too hard. So when you get the resources to buy a nice bath bomb, consider doing so if it brings your mind at peace.

In more personal areas, I'm seeing a little bit of FOMO when it comes to summer events coming up. When I drew these cards, I first heard someone saying, "I can't, sorry, I have to work that day." With Guidance up above it, I'm hearing to not give up entirely on making plans with your friends. "You belong here." You deserve to enjoy the sunny weather, so don't pressure yourself into doing what can be done later if it means having a unique night to spend with friends. I've known plenty of folks who accrue PTO and don't use it, so if this is you, then get some time away from work to chill at the pier. I know "making time" doesn't always sound easy or possible, but I'm getting that you will have a chance to do something or go somewhere fun if you're willing to look for it. Be open to fun!

You have an opportunity to break away from some kind of monotonous routine that hasn't been feeding your soul. Listen, I once worked in an office that was so dark because it was in a basement (creepy right?). Those were 12 hour shifts, sunrise to sundown. The lack of sun affected me mentally and physically. Ask if the position you're in is nourishing you, lighting you up, and letting you feel free to enjoy life. If not, if it's draining like a sun-loathing basement job, it's okay to reconsider what you're doing even if it means letting go of old attachments. Having good pay is not the only requisite for a good job; having high-paying career prospects does not guarantee that the college major will be right for you. Like pile 1, you have the other Person card, and this one refers to the querent. This will take trusting your gut alone, no one else's.

Whatever choice you end up making, it will lead to a growth in your intuition and self-compassion. With two Kings framing your tarot cards, you're gonna start strong and end strong, but in a whole new way. You'll learn how prioritizing your needs and giving yourself time and space to think things through will lead to so much positive change that you can bring into the autumn season. It's not just the ability to listen to others that's being finessed, but also the ability to listen to your own inner wisdom. The patience you give yourself today will be the patience another receives in turn, so remember that being kind to yourself helps you as a hard worker far more than it hinders. Summer is about fun in all shapes and sizes, go find a way to build fun for yourself and make a "mini-vacation" whenever you can. Take care, pile 2, you're doing great!

Pile 3 - Whelk 💚

Ring; Springtime Renewal; Positive Intention; 44. Unexplained Wonder; Direction, Reflect, Empathy; 0 Fool, Queen of Pentacles, 9 of Wands, 3 of Swords, Ace of Swords

Hi, pile 3! Summer is gonna pop like fireworks for you guys! It'll be like walking into a new year's celebration. This season is when 2025 really begins for y'all. I see you charting your map, plotting your course, and receiving the treasure at the end of it. The Ring stands for promises, so this is an intention that will last for the entirety of the season, like new year's resolutions except somehow whatever you plan will be much easier to carry out. For a tiny number of you, the Ring could indicate a proposal or offer to deepen a relationship in your life, and you'll be the one to make the final decision, whatever you choose.

Despite this explosive energy of new beginnings and adventure, I also see you being homebodies for a stint. I get not everyone is a fanatic for going out and doing the usual summer activies like barbeques and beach visits, but this pile seems keen on doing things a little different. For you this summer will involve staying in your zone of comfort and relaxation, as a result of needing to deal with many changes going on at once. You may be deciding to renovate your room or home, bringing in brighter or bolder decorations to the scene. Familiar local sites of water or parks will also be sources of feeling safe and tended to. There could even be a house party you're invited for, or summer events that happen at someone's (or your own) house.

I feel you've been spending some quality time in hermit mode over the past months, calculating the next moves that would effect the coming summer. This new moon is already an excellent time for it, but for your whole season, you may be reviewing your goals and desires to find out what's best aligned with you. Things are about to change for the faster, though, so buckle your seatbelts. Manifestations may fall into place so quickly that it shocks you at first, but this is a result of your summer blooming like it's spring. The unicorn fish does look funny but this is one of the best cards in this oracle deck as it's basically saying YES! It will manifest and will do so sooner than you realize!

With Empathy above the 3 of Swords, not everyone in your life may have it so fun. An issue may come up with a loved one for which they will greatly benefit from your presence. There's a lesson here when it comes to gratitude and compassion. We're not always going to be in the same place or state of mind our whole lives. When your life situations are straightened out, there may come a point at which you will need to hone your interpersonal skills. An example: you got into your dream school through an acceptance letter, while your friend may get a rejection letter from the same school, or their health may be bad while yours is improving. This will be a sign for you to step up and support others with the blessings you've been given. You could end up being a person's miracle by being there in a critical time of need. You don't need a lot of expertise to be caring to others, but either way this skill will develop over the next three or four months.

Your mind is being sharpened both by insight into what path you'd like to take next, while also pausing along the way to lend a kind hand when needed. The 3 of Swords, at first, appears to be a hunting expedition, but upon closer look shows merpeople mourning the whale after an accident. You're can stay clear headed when it comes to perceiving people's motives and natures, and you may find it easier than before to forgive people for certain faults. You're taking a huge leap ahead overall, which will adjust how you see folks around you and vise versa. They may be initially nervous of you, but you can see that they're on a path of their own like everyone else, so little nuisances will just slip by and not matter as much. You're moving to higher ground and separating yourself from the noise altogether because your intentions are fused with a stronger self-concept and motivation to make them happen. So much peace and newness for you, pile 3, wishing you good luck!

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2025, @VitaminseeTarot ™

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i2rizz · 2 months ago

Note

so— like your “how did he pull that” perhaps it’s too self indulgent to ask for mayhaps a chubby cottagecore reader who is like a sweetheart with sae 🫣🫣 like, just a short chubby girl who is a sweetie with her nonchalant bf

No problem dear :>

No Way He Pulled That Pt.4

Sae Itoshi x Chubby Cottagecore!Reader

When Ego announced a mandatory “team bonding beach day” half the Blue Lock boys groaned, the other half immediately turned it into a competition. Sae? He was somehow roped into it last minute by some string-pulling from a sponsor. He didn’t even bring swimwear. Just grey joggers, sunglasses, and an expression that said "I could be doing literally anything else"

He was already regretting showing up.

That is… until you arrived.

Not in the middle of a dramatic entrance—nope. Just peacefully walking down the shore, a soft picnic basket in one hand and a parasol in the other. Your floral sundress clung delicately to your curves, moving gently with the sea breeze. A chubby, warm kind of beauty, like something out of a countryside romance movie. Every step was soft and delicate.

Your cheeks were pink from the sun, your arms swaying as you walked barefoot on the sand, collecting seashells and humming some old folk tune. You looked like a dream. Peaceful, earthy, glowing. A sunflower in a human form.

And then you spotted him.

Sae was sitting off to the side of the chaos. Alone. Miserable. His brows furrowed behind his sunglasses, pretending to scroll through his phone while the other guys argued over volleyball teams.

You smiled. Not shyly, not hesitantly—just… warmly.

And then, to everyone’s utter disbelief, you walked straight to him. Set your basket beside him. Sat yourself comfortably at his side and leaned your head on his shoulder like it was your rightful place.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll his eyes or push you away like he usually did with people.

Instead? He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. His hand slid around your waist, fingers brushing gently over your hip. And then—then—he said, quietly, like it was no big deal:

“You’re late”

You laughed, pulling out a napkin and offering him a cookie shaped like a heart. “The muffins took longer to bake. You like lemon, right?”

Bro..." Karasu said under his breath.

"There's no way he pulled that"

"No. Freakin'. Way," added Reo, sunglasses slipping down his nose

Lemon muffins. Homemade. In a checked picnic basket. What was this, a Studio Ghibli beach day?

From a distance, Nagi was squinting, half-lidded eyes adjusting to the bizarre sight. “Yo… is that Itoshi Sae’s girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” Otoya repeated, mouth hanging open. “No, no—he doesn’t have a girlfriend”

“She kissed his cheek,” Bachira whispered, horrified and amazed. “She just kissed his cheek. And he didn’t threaten her”

Chigiri blinked. “He just took a bite of her muffin. He’s chewing”

“Guys,” Isagi said slowly, “I think she ain't real”

They all stood frozen, watching as you knelt down to open a thermos of lemonade and offered a glass to Isagi with a big, beaming smile.

"Thirsty, lovebug?" you asked. But it wasn't for Isagi.

Sae had sat himself behind you, tugging you down gently to sit between his legs. "Yeah," he mumbled, taking the glass from you. He didn't even look at the others.

You rested your head back on his chest, humming something while you opened a tupperware of strawberry muffins. When Bachira came over asking if he could have one, you winked and said, "Only if you tell me what flowers are blooming near the dunes"

The silence was deafening.

This was not the girl they expected Sae to pull. You looked like you belonged in a fairytale, or maybe running a lavender farm. And Sae? Stoic, blunt, emotionally unavailable Sae? Was currently hand-feeding you a slice of watermelon like it was his full-time job.

Chigiri blinked. "He's letting her touch his hair"

"The fuck" Rin muttered. "He's smiling."

Meanwhile, you were happily adjusting your sunhat and whispering something that made Sae huff out a breath that-if you squinted-could almost be called a laugh.

He looked like he'd never known peace until you walked onto that beach.

And everyone else?

Still reeling,definitely still not over it, and probably still convinced the universe was lying to them.

Because no WAY he pulled that.

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itsgivingmami · 2 months ago

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Sea Salted Honey

Rhea Ripley x reader

The Woman by the Water

The town is small enough that you can hear the waves from your bedroom at night.

Not just in the distance—in you.

Like the ocean has pressed its mouth against the windowsill and breathes in rhythm with your sleep. Seagulls start before sunrise, calling across the sky like they’re waking the sea itself. By afternoon, you hear bike tires over gravel, sandals slapping pavement, wind pushing through tall grasses near the dunes.

And after sunset—

The sound of bonfire crackle, low guitars, laughter muffled under the hush of tide.

Even the quiet here is textured.

Alive.

Like something always waiting. Windows are always cracked open. Salt clings to the wooden frame like it’s trying to get in. The air smells like sunscreen and seafoam, like damp wood and lemon rinds, like you stepped into a postcard and decided not to leave.

The cottage is old.

Painted in someone’s idea of style from fifty years ago. The bathroom tile is sage green and cracked. The kitchen backsplash is a honeycomb of amber and brown. The walls are a warm, burnt orange that somehow feels deliberate in candlelight, like they know how to glow on cue.

You swore you’d change everything when you moved in.

You haven’t touched a thing.

It’s a little dated. A little unkempt.

But it’s yours.

The floors are streaked with scratches from generations of furniture dragging across them. The ceiling fan wobbles. The back screen door creaks like it’s telling a ghost story every time you pass through.

There are glass jars along your windowsill—some filled with brushes, some with seashells, some with nothing but light. Your desk is a mess: smudged sketchbooks, crumpled paper towels, open tubes of paint leaking blues and ochres like bruises blooming too wide.

A mug of tea sits beside a brush still soaking in it.

You don’t remember making the tea.

You never remember until the brush turns the water gray and bitter.

There’s a dish towel, stained beyond saving, half-draped over the edge of the desk like a flag surrendered to chaos. Charcoal flecks the windowsill, the floor, your skin. The scent of linseed oil lingers even when nothing’s drying.

You live with the quiet like it’s a roommate.

One who takes up no space, but leaves you full of feeling.

You came here to disappear. To vanish into the hush of a place that doesn’t ask. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t care where you came from or why you stay inside so long.

No one asks questions here.

Not really.

Everyone’s either hiding or healing.

Or both.

So you paint. You paint the way some people pray. Like there’s no right language, only rhythm. Only color and surrender. Canvases stack up in the hallway, leaning against one another like tired bodies on a train. The sink in your studio is permanently stained violet and green.

Your fingertips are never clean.

You don’t talk much.

There’s the barista at the café near the dunes—Jay, who always asks if you want your coffee “like last time” and knows when not to ask anything else. Pearl, a woman in her sixties who wears wide sunhats and calls everyone “darlin’” with a voice like smooth stones.

You see her every morning. She smiles like she’s lived here forever.

And then there’s her.

Rhea.

You don’t know how to explain her without using your hands. Without tracing her name into your thigh like a sketch you keep coming back to.

She owns the surf shop two doors down.

You know because you’ve watched her unload boards from the back of her truck—sunlight striking the wet curve of her shoulders, black tank top cut to show the ink that wraps her arms like armor.

There’s a tattoo on her thigh. A long black line of something—maybe a snake, maybe a flower, maybe a secret. She wears cutoff shorts, sandals, and sunglasses she pushes to the top of her head when she’s focused.

She’s tall.

The kind of tall that shifts a room’s center of gravity.

She walks like the beach built itself around her.

Like the tide came first, and then Rhea.

—

You met her two weeks after moving in.

You were coming back from the café—paper bag of pastries under one arm, your hair twisted up with half-dry waves falling loose, paint smudged at your temple like a thumbprint someone forgot to wipe off.

She was outside, sanding down a longboard. Your flip-flops made that too-sharp clack on the pavement, and she looked up.

Eyes already squinting from the sun.

Skin golden.

Knuckles rough with salt.

“You’re the new one,” she said.

Her voice was low.

Even.

Like she already knew you’d be worth remembering.

You nodded. Unsure if that was a greeting or a warning.

She just smirked.

Like she’d just won something you didn’t know was up for grabs.

—

Since then, you’ve caught her watching.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a flirtatious one.

Just… steady. Curious. Like she’s tracking you. She stands outside her shop sometimes, leaning back against the railing, one ankle crossed over the other, coffee in one hand, sunglasses low on her nose.

When you pass, she lifts two fingers. When you wave, she sometimes tilts her head—just a little. Like she’s measuring something invisible. Like she’s studying the line of your mouth or the way your breath hitches when her gaze lingers.

Once—just once, after what must have been a long day—she looked you over, slow and soft and without apology, and said:

“You always smell like turpentine and honey.”

—

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not just what she said, but how she said it. Low, like she wasn’t trying to impress you. Like she meant it. Like she’d been paying attention.

You think about the way her eyes flicked down your neck, then back up. The rasp in her voice. The taste those words left in your mouth. You think about her a lot more than you should. When your hands are busy. When your mind is quiet. When the breeze pulls at the edge of your robe and makes you feel like something’s about to begin.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

But you’ve painted someone with her shoulders twice now. And yesterday, you bought sandalwood candles without realizing why.

You don’t know what she wants from you.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe just to be seen, like you do—like all the strange and lovely women who come here to breathe again. But every time you catch her looking, your stomach does this slow, traitorous pull. Like your body’s already agreed to something you haven’t said out loud.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re tired of silence.

Maybe you’re ready for someone to ruin the quiet.

Not with noise.

But with presence.

—

You See Her Again on a Thursday

You’re barefoot again.

Always barefoot lately.

The sand’s still clinging to your ankles, salt drying on your calves, hem of your linen pants soaked from walking too close to the tide. You like the way the fabric clings when it’s wet—cool against your thighs, a little revealing. You’d never admit it, but you wonder if she notices.

The air smells like sun-warmed cedar and sea brine, like distant woodsmoke and something sweet blooming along the dunes. You hold your sketchbook tight against your chest, one arm wrapped around it like a shield, though the real danger is the way your skin still remembers how her eyes felt the last time they touched you.

The sun’s low and heavy now, coating the world in honey. Your skin’s pink from it. Your shoulders kissed red, your cheeks flushed in a way you hope looks deliberate. You’re loose from the heat. Open.

You round the corner and there she is.

Rhea.

Sitting on the hood of an old, dusty truck, black tank top clinging to her ribs, legs spread like she owns the damn planet. One foot planted, the other swinging lazily. A glass bottle in one hand—something fizzy with a slice of lime floating at the top. She lifts it to her mouth. Her throat moves as she drinks. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

She sees you. Of course she does.

And when she does, her whole face changes.

That easy smirk. That almost-laugh behind her eyes.

“You always look like you’re coming from a dream,” she says, voice low and warm like the air.

You blink, squinting slightly from the sun and from her.

“Mine or yours, charmer?”

She chuckles—slow, deep, like the ocean breaking against the sand. “Wasn’t trying to flirt.”

You stop a few feet from her, one eyebrow lifting.

“You’re not doing a very good job of not flirting, then.”

That makes her pause. Her grin tips, just slightly, like you’ve surprised her—and she likes that. She slides off the hood, all long lines and loose limbs, moving like she’s half-lioness, half-riptide. The bottle dangles from one hand as she steps toward you.

She’s close enough now that you can smell her: sunscreen and salt, maybe a hint of sandalwood and citrus. Her skin is warm. Her presence is warmer. Her eyes drop to your sketchbook, then rise again—slow. Measured.

“What are you drawing?”

You hesitate. Just for a beat.

“Nothing I’d show anyone,” you murmur.

Rhea’s smile softens, but her gaze sharpens. “You afraid of being seen?”

You open your mouth to answer—but there’s no clean response to that.

So you say nothing. Which says everything. She steps in, just one more inch. Close enough that the edge of her voice slips right past your collarbone. Close enough that you have to work not to look at her mouth.

“I’ve seen a lot of people run to this town,” she says.

“Most of them keep hiding even after they get here.”

You feel the words in your ribs. Like they weren’t meant as judgment. Just truth.

You try to swallow around the knot in your throat. “And you?”

“I don’t run.”

A pause.

“Not away, only towards.”

The way she says it makes you feel like you’ve already been chosen. Like the part of her that runs has already started moving toward you. You want to say something clever. Something light. But your tongue is thick in your mouth and your fingers have gone slack around the sketchbook.

Then she breaks the spell.

“Tomorrow,” she says, leaning back slightly, letting her fingers tap once against the bottle.

“Bonfire on the beach. Music. Drinks. You should come.”

You nod before you even mean to.

Of course you do. And then—just as you’re about to say something back—she leans in again. Just enough to tilt the balance.

“Wear something you don’t mind getting sandy.”

Her voice is velvet-wrapped, teasing but controlled. She doesn’t reach for you. She doesn’t touch. But the idea of her touching is enough to send your heart stumbling into your throat.

You tilt your head, pulse quickening.

“Should I be worried about how sandy I’ll get?” you ask, tone low, eyes locked. She smiles like sin and summer and everything in between.

“That depends.”

A beat.

Then:

“On whether you want me to be the one to shake it out of your clothes after.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Your skin’s too hot. Your mouth too dry.

Rhea just lifts the bottle back to her lips, takes another sip, and then—like she hasn’t just left your insides burning—she turns and walks back toward the truck, hips loose, hair catching the last stretch of light. You stand there until she’s seated again, legs swinging.

You don’t turn your back to her when you leave.

You walk away slow. Let her watch. And she does. You feel her eyes like fingerprints.

Like permission you haven’t asked for yet, but already know will be granted.

—

The Woman in the Paint

The studio smells like linseed oil and overripe fruit.

That specific sweetness—the kind that’s about to turn, soft to the point of collapse, splitting open in your palm.

It clings to the walls, to your hair, to the inside of your lungs.

The windows are wide open to invite the breeze, but the heat doesn’t leave.

It just lingers more gracefully.

Somewhere outside, the waves are breaking.

You paint to their rhythm. Slow. Repetitive.

Steady like breath.

Etta James hums low from the stereo, bleeding into Frankie Valli, one melting into the other like watercolors left too long in the sun. The herbs on your windowsill lean toward the light—basil, lavender, mint. The mint you cut this morning floats in your glass with lime, condensation soaking the coaster beneath it.

You’d meant to paint the coastline. Simple. Soft. A quiet thing. Safe.

But the sea turned to skin.

The cliff edge to muscle.

The shadows to shape.

And the brush followed where your hands already knew to go—even if your mind hadn’t given permission.

You don’t realize it’s her until you do.

Not a perfect likeness. Not a portrait. But the outline. The weight. The memory of her. Strong shoulders. Tattooed arms. The curve of her jaw.

The hollows just beneath her collarbone where you pressed too much blue and then pressed again and again like a bruise you wanted to make permanent.

She’s laughing in your mind. Eyes half-lidded, mouth parted. Teeth dragging across her lip. You flush. Step back.

Breathe.

The canvas looks like want. Too much of it.

Your brush falls from your fingers, lands with a soft splat in the palette. You wipe your hands on a rag that was already too stained to save. Still, your fingertips twitch—like they aren’t finished with her. Like they might keep drawing her even if you close your eyes.

You try to distract yourself.

You pace.

You open a can of seltzer. You press the cold to your chest for a moment and try not to think about the heat crawling lower.

But it’s no use.

She’s there.

You told yourself it was nothing.

A casual flirtation. A stranger with good shoulders and a mouth made for trouble.

But you’ve sketched her three times since she said your name.

Now she’s taken over a canvas like she owns the space. Like she owns you.

—

You give in.

You sink to the floor, back against the wall beneath the window. The light falls golden across your knees. You open your sketchbook and draw her again—softer this time. Not the flirt. Not the force.

Just Rhea.

A single strand of hair stuck to her temple. The quiet weight under her eyes. Her fingers curled loosely around a bottle, ringed and rough, perfect in profile. You draw her mouth last. You don’t mean to linger. But you do.

The page is warm under your hand.

The lines grow darker the longer you trace them.

There’s charcoal on your wrist now.

Between your fingers.

Under your nails.

You don’t remember how long it’s been since you started.

But your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

—

You think about tomorrow. About the bonfire.

About the way she said wear something you don’t mind getting sandy like she was already planning to get her hands on you. About the way your name sounded in her mouth.

Like a secret she liked keeping.

Like a dare.

You think about her stepping off that truck—long legs, lazy hips, lip quirking like she already knew how this would end.

You close your eyes.

Let your head fall back against the wall.

The breeze flutters the curtain beside you. Carries the scent of brine and crushed mint and something floral you can’t quite place. Your skin still feels sun-warmed.

Still feels watched.

Still feels wanted.

You look back at the painting, at the shape you conjured from memory.You stare into it like you’re asking it to move. And without meaning to, your voice slips out—quiet and reverent.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

—

The Woman Who’s Distracted

She sees you before you see her. That’s how it always is.You move like you don’t know what you’re doing.Like your limbs belong to someone soft. Someone untouched. Someone who doesn’t realize they’re a storm wearing the skin of a quiet girl.

And Rhea—

Rhea can’t stop watching.

It’s not just the way you walk. It’s the mess of it. The undone quality. Like you woke up inside someone else’s dream and never bothered to fix your hair. You’re curled in the corner of your porch—knees drawn to your chest, hoodie swallowing your frame, sketchpad tilted across one thigh. Headphones in. You don’t see her.

But she sees you.

From the windows of her workshop, arms folded tight across her chest, hip cocked against the frame.You’ve been sitting there for over an hour. She’s known that because she hasn’t gotten anything done since you came outside.

You haven’t noticed the way her eyes keep coming back. The way she leans closer every time you shift. The way she wants to bite her own tongue just to stop from saying your name out loud.

You don’t know.

And it’s killing her.

—

She should be working. There are boards in the back that need sanding. Emails she’s ignored. Orders to fill.

But every time she turns from the window, her chest tightens.

Like you’re a magnet.

Like you pull.

You’re sketching again—charcoal smudged along your palm.

A streak across your cheek. Your knee keeps bouncing and your lip is caught between your teeth.

It takes everything in her not to walk over and pull it free with her thumb.

You’ve got no idea, do you?

No idea what you look like from here. What kind of picture you make. What you’re doing to her.

And that—that is the part that undoes her.

—

You stretched ten minutes ago.

Arched your back like a cat. Arms overhead, shirt rising just enough to show a sliver of warm skin where your ribs meet the waist of your shorts. And Rhea nearly fucking growled.

She backed up from the window.

Ran a hand over her face.

Told herself to get a grip.

But the truth?

She’s not built for this kind of want.

Not when it creeps in slowly.

Not when it sits with her.

She likes control. Structure. She likes knowing who she is in a room. But you make her forget. You make her think in verses. Make her feel.

She doesn’t want to just watch you.

She wants to press her mouth to your forehead and say let me keep you.

She wants to watch you paint. Press her thumb into the stain on your palm.

Wants to wipe your tears on hard days. Wants to make you cry on soft ones.

She wants to see you barefoot in the middle of tourist season, wearing her chain and letting every dumb man in this town wonder how they missed their chance.

She wants to see you arch your back when she says your name.

She wants to be worthy of you.

And that—

That’s what scares her most.

—

She hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Just standing there. Watching.

Clenching and unclenching her fists like it might shake you out of her head. You’re just being. And it’s ruining her. Rhea closes her eyes. Exhales through her nose. Tries to shake it off. But you’ve already got your hands around her pulse.

She should stay away.

She should let this fade.

But when you said her name the other day—quiet, kind, like it meant something—it tattooed itself into her chest. And now?

Now she’s rewriting every version of the future she thought she wanted.

All of them have you in them.

Even if you never find out.

Even if she never touches you.

Even if all she gets is this—watching from a window, pretending not to ache.

She turns before she does something reckless.

Before she lets the hunger in her chest climb all the way to her mouth.

She walks away.

Boots heavy on the floor.

But not before she says it, quiet and low and only for herself:

“You don’t even know you’ve already got me.”

—

The Woman Across the Fire

The night smells like smoke and sugar. The kind that sticks to your hair, clings to the inside of your hoodie, and lingers on your skin long after you’ve left the shore. The kind of smell that always reminds you something real happened.

The beach is alive with music—half-folk, half-dream—blending with the hiss of the fire and the hush of the tide. There are strings of lights hung from driftwood, jars full of tea candles half-buried in the sand, and laughter floating in and out like a tide of its own. It smells like vanilla, clove, and sea spray. Like cheap beer and warm skin and summer never ending.

You arrive just after dusk. Barefoot, again.

Oversized button-up fluttering open over a cropped tank. Loose cotton shorts hit high on your thighs. Your legs still smell like sunscreen and ocean. Your lips taste faintly like salt.

You’re radiant in the firelight and you don’t know it.

Or maybe you do.

But either way, you’re not looking for attention.

You hold your sketchbook like a habit. Like protection. Like truth. Rhea sees you before you see her.

Of course she does.

She’s been leaning against a driftwood log at the edge of the circle for almost an hour now, bottle in hand, one boot heel dug into the sand. Distant, half-in shadow. She’s not talking. Not smiling. Just watching the flames, letting them reflect off the dark ink on her forearms like smoke has started living inside her.

Then she sees you—bare legs, hair tousled, sketchbook clutched tight—and it all stops.

You’re talking to someone. Laughing.

Some guy from the bike shop. Harmless, sure. But standing too close. Smiling too wide. His gaze dips when you turn your head. It lingers.

Rhea’s jaw tightens.

This isn’t hers. You aren’t hers. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. But the want lives hot and hungry under her skin. She can’t help it. She watches you tilt your head, brush your hair off your shoulder, say something that makes the guy grin. She takes a slow sip of her beer. It’s warm. She doesn’t taste it.

And then—your eyes find hers.

You freeze. Just for a second. Smile falters. Then tilts, softer. Realer.

And Rhea—

Rhea lifts her bottle in a slow greeting, subtle but sure. The shadows shift across her face. Her smirk curves into something quieter. Something waiting. You excuse yourself from the conversation without hesitating.

And she nearly forgets how to breathe.

You cross the sand barefoot, stepping through firelight like a secret.You smell like heat and salt and something slightly citrus. She wants to lean in and breathe you down.

“Hey,” you say, smiling like it’s just for her. “You’re here. I thought I was going to have to sneak off without seeing you.”

She tips her head toward the fire.

“You seemed like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit. “But I kept wondering if you were here. And Mr. Grease Hands wouldn’t stop chatting long enough for me to ask.”

That makes her huff out a breath—close to a laugh, but softer.

You sit beside her on the log. Not touching, but close. Closer than before.

Your knees brush once, then again when you shift.

She feels the heat of you against her thigh, and every nerve in her body lights up.

The fire crackles. Music drifts. Someone passes around a bottle of something strong. You both wave it off.

“You looked like you were in your element earlier,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, tilting your head. “I was trying to look like I belonged.”

“You do.” Her voice is low. Honest.

You blink. The compliment hits something tender.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

The firelight flickers across your cheeks. Your mouth parts just slightly. You look away.

She watches the line of your jaw, the soft rise of your chest as you breathe in.

You turn back to her.

“You always look like you’re waiting for something,” you say, voice soft.

“I am.”

“What for?”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then—

“Do I look that way when you leave?”

It knocks the air out of you. The words land low, like a bruise you didn’t know was forming.

You turn to her.

“You notice when I leave?”

Rhea doesn’t answer.

She just takes a sip from her bottle.

Watches your mouth part.

Watches your breath catch.

You shift closer. Your shoulder brushes hers. You don’t move away.

“I thought maybe I was imagining this,” you say, voice a whisper now. “The way you look at me. I thought maybe I was just lonely.”

Her voice stays steady. But her hand tightens around the bottle.

“You’re not imagining it.”

You exhale, slow and shaky. “Good.”

And for a long time, neither of you speak.

There’s no rush.

No demand.

But there’s a question hanging between you. Unspoken, burning.

Rhea turns slightly, her thigh pressing into yours.

“I don’t want to rush you,” she murmurs. “And I don’t want to fuck this up by moving too fast.”

You don’t look away.

“Then just stay close.”

So she does.

—

All night, Rhea stays beside you.

She doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t touch too much. But she stays. And it feels like an answer.

When the fire burns low and the others drift toward the tide or back to their cottages, she walks you home. Shoulder to shoulder. Hands in her pockets. Her jacket tucked around your frame.

You don’t say much.

You don’t have to.

Because you already turned toward her.

And she’s never been more afraid of wanting something

or more willing to wait for it.

—

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