#Swing and Slide Set | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 3 months ago

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You had an argument, and in the heat of the moment, you took on a secret mission—disappearing without a trace or warning for six days. He won’t let that slide, will he?

(⚠️ Warning: Slightly angsty and dramatic) 🔥 UPD: Guys, I hear you loud and clear about Xavier, and I'm already working on his full story. Let me know if you want more about the others (or any specific one).

🖐️💥😈 Sylus

You don’t even make it home.

One second—you’re stepping toward your door. The next—you're grabbed.

A sharp yelp leaves your lips, but it’s already too late.

One hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other hooks around your legs, and suddenly—you're airborne.

"Cargo secured."

A second voice. Muffled. Hollow.

You twist wildly.

Two figures in black masks, sharp beaked visors, curved horns on their hoods.

Luke and Kieran.

You thrash. “Put me down—”

"No can do, Miss," Kieran hums, flipping you upside down just slightly.

"Our Boss gave very strict orders," Luke murmurs.

Your stomach sinks. The car door swings open—

And you’re shoved inside.

Kieran and Luke plop down beside you, silent as shadows.

Then—

Luke sighs. Long and exaggerated.

"Such a shame," he muses. "She was so pretty."

Kieran hums. "So full of life."

Your eyes narrow. “What.”

They tilt their heads in unison. Luke’s fingers drum against the seat.

"He was so worried."

Kieran exhales. "On the first day, he simply waited."

Luke nods. "Second day, he sent people out. Checked hospitals. Crime scenes."

Kieran’s head tilts. "By day three… well, we all knew something had to bleed."

Your stomach drops.

Luke stretches, relaxed. "Four syndicates fell in one night. Just in case one of them had you."

Kieran sighs. "On the fourth day, he realized that wasn’t enough."

Luke hums. "So he started getting creative."

Your breath hitches. "Creative?"

Kieran taps his chin. "That warehouse in N109 Zone? The one that burned to the ground?"

Luke leans closer. "Day five. Still no sign of you. He collapsed an entire district."

Kieran shrugs. "Nothing personal. Just a message."

Luke tilts his head. "And then day six came."

A beat of silence.

Kieran chuckles. "You know, Miss… If you hadn’t shown up today, N109 Zone would’ve been repainted in blood by sundown."

Luke sighs dreamily. "It still might be."

Your blood turns to ice.

And then—Luke’s head tilts toward you.

"Now…?"

Kieran completes it, a beat later.

"Now he has you."

The car slows. Your chest tightens. And then—you realize where you are.

N109 Zone. His estate.

The car door swings open—

And you’re hauled out like luggage.

"Handle with care," Luke hums.

“I am handling with care," Kieran murmurs.

They carry you inside. Set you down with eerie gentleness. Smooth out your jacket. Brush imaginary dust off your shoulders.

Then—they step back. Bow, deep and slow.

“Welcome home, Miss.”

And then—they’re gone.

You whirl after them. “HEY—”

A quiet sound.

Fabric rustling. A slow, deliberate exhale.

You freeze.

And then—you turn.

Sylus is standing across the room. Calm. Collected. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes. They burn.

You swallow.

“What the fuck was that?” you snap, motioning toward the door.

Silence.

He just… watches you.

Then—slowly, smoothly—

He shrugs off his jacket. Lets it fall onto the chair. His fingers move to his cuffs. Undoing them.

One. Then the other.

Rolling his sleeves up, inch by inch.

Your stomach twists.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands move to his belt. He unbuckles it. Pulls it free.

And you—

You fucking run.

You BOLT.

Straight toward the door. It’s locked.

You curse.

Behind you—he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, Kitten,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused.

You spin, darting behind the desk. He follows. Casually. Slowly.

“You disappear for six days,” he murmurs, voice smooth, mocking, deadly.

You sidestep. He matches you.

“You ignore my calls.”

You swerve left. He steps right.

“I tear this city apart looking for you.”

You dodge back. He adjusts effortlessly.

“And now,” he exhales, tilting his head, smirking lazily, “you’re running.”

You hurl a stapler at him. He catches it. Drops it. Sighs.

Then—his patience snaps.

A sharp pulse of red energy explodes outward. The desk flips. The chairs crash against the wall.

And suddenly—

You are out of places to run. Before you can move—

He has you.

A sharp yelp rips from your throat as he grabs you, spins, and drops into his chair—

Bringing you down over his lap.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—”

"Ah, ah, ah.”

His palm glides down your back. Teasing. Amused. Smug.

"You made a very poor choice, Kitten."

Your heart pounds. His fingers hook into your waistband. And in one sharp motion—

He pulls your pants down.

Your entire body jolts. “Wait—”

The first smack lands. Sharp. Stinging.

You jerk violently.

Then—the second.

Then—the third.

“Sylus—you absolute bastard!”

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest.

“Six days, Sweetie.”

Another smack.

“You think you get away with that?”

You snarl, thrashing. “You—I’ll kill you!”

"Oh?" His hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned.

Then—lower now, smooth as silk, dripping with mockery—

“You sure you can handle that right now?”

You growl.

And then—

You bite him. Hard. Right on the thigh.

His breath hitches. Then—a slow, dangerous laugh.

He grabs you. Turns you over, setting you between his legs, hands gripping your chin—forcing you to look at him.

And then—

You see it. The rage is gone.

And in its place—

Something raw. Something wrecked. Like he’s aged years in just six days.

His voice—when it comes—is low. Hoarse. Unsteady.

“…I thought Ever carved you up for spare parts.”

Your stomach drops.

"You really think," his fingers twitch against your skin, "I was just waiting?"

His eyes flick over your face, scanning, memorizing. And then—softer now, almost broken—

"If you hadn’t come back tomorrow, I would’ve wiped them off the face of the earth."

Your eyes sting. Your hands reach for him, trembling.

You slide forward, onto his lap.

His breath stutters.

And then—you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Unyielding.

He shudders.

Then—his hands clench around your waist, crushing you to him. When he pulls back—forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven—

“…Next time you disappear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, voice shaking with something terrifyingly real, “I’m not looking for you.”

Your heart cracks. You shake your head. You cup his face. Hold him there.

“…You won’t have to.”

Silence.

Then—

His grip tightens. And just like that—

He is never letting you go again.

❄️🩸💔 Zayne

You already know where he is.

Zayne isn’t home. Of course, he isn’t.

So you do the only thing that makes sense—you head straight for Akso Hospital.

By the time you step through the pristine glass doors, you’re already talking.

“I know how this looks, but I can explain—”

And then—you see him.

Standing near the nurses’ station, uniform crisp, posture rigid, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he’s carved from ice.

For a second—just a second—his breath catches.

But then—

A switch flips. His entire presence shifts.

Cold. Professional. Untouchable.

His eyes meet yours. And he says nothing.

No relief. No anger. Nothing.

Just pure, hollow emptiness.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to continue.

“Zayne—”

“You need medical attention.”

His voice is calm. Impersonal. A doctor speaking to a patient. Not the man you know.

Your stomach twists.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t ask why you disappeared. Instead—he starts listing symptoms.

“You’re pale. Have you lost blood?”

You inhale sharply. “Zay—”

“Concussion?”

“No—”

“Fever? Infection?”

His eyes flick to your scraped knuckles, the dried blood on your sleeve.

And you realize—

He’s not angry. He’s protecting himself. He’s shutting down. Like he already convinced himself you weren’t coming back. Like he already mourned you.

And something inside you breaks.

Your legs wobble.

You sway—

And then—

You collapse.

The reaction is instantaneous.

A sharp inhale. A rush of movement. A sudden, firm grip catching you before you hit the ground.

Zayne’s arms lock around you. One around your back, one under your legs, holding you effortlessly. His breathing is uneven. His fingers tremble against your skin.

“Hey—!” His voice is no longer detached. It’s urgent. Terrified.

He tilts your face up, eyes scanning for injuries, pupils blown wide with panic.

"You—" His breath shudders. “Shit, you're—”

But you don’t answer. Because you keep your eyes closed. Because you know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a moment, it works. For a moment, he’s yours again. For a moment, his walls are completely, irreparably shattered.

Then—

His steps slow. His breathing evens.

And suddenly—

He stops. And you feel it. That one single, damning second of realization.

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear it. The sharp, cold click in his mind as he figures it out.

His arms loosen. Too loose. Too fast.

And suddenly—you're falling.

You gasp sharply, hands instinctively grabbing at him—

But he catches you at the last second, lowering you onto the cold, sterile floor of his office with just enough control to keep you from truly getting hurt.

But barely.

His jaw is tight. His nostrils flare. His hands press into his thighs like he’s physically holding himself back from losing control.

Then—flat, quiet, lethal—

“You lied.”

Your stomach drops. You open your mouth—and then you feel it.

A sharp, aching throb in your knee. It hits all at once—the pain, the exhaustion, the weight of everything that happened.

Your throat tightens.

And then—before you can stop it—

Tears prick at your eyes.

Your voice comes out small, weak, broken.

“Zayne… my leg hurts.”

Everything stops. The air in the room shifts.

And suddenly—

The rage is gone. His walls crumble.

His gaze snaps to your knee—swollen, bruised, torn fabric revealing skin already darkening with a deep, painful contusion.

And just like that—he’s on his knees. The doctor in him takes over.

His hands tremble as they press to your leg, fingertips ghosting over the bruised flesh like it physically pains him to touch.

He leans down. And presses a soft, lingering kiss to the bruised skin.

Your breath catches.

His forehead presses gently against your knee. And then—a whisper, barely audible, like he’s afraid of his own voice.

“…I lost you.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

He inhales sharply, his fingers tightening against your leg, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

You slide off the chair. Sink onto the cold, sterile floor. Your hands come up, cup his face.

His breath stutters.

You press your forehead to his.

Hot. Unwavering. Eternal.

“Only death could take me from you.”

His eyes squeeze shut. And when they open again—

There’s nothing left but raw, agonizing devotion.

Then—

His hands reach for you. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

🪑🍎🎖️ Caleb

The door clicks shut behind you.

Something feels wrong. The air is too still. Too perfectly controlled.

And then—you see it.

The chair.

Placed dead center in the room.

The apartment is spotless. Too spotless. Like someone scrubbed it raw, wiped away every trace of warmth, every sign of life.

Your stomach tightens. And then—a voice.

Cold. Measured. Absolute.

"Sit down."

You turn sharply—

And there he is.

Colonel Caleb. Not your Caleb.

Not the man who kisses your forehead every morning. Not the man who makes you breakfast even when he’s running on two hours of sleep.

No.

This is the soldier. The commander. The man who could level entire cities with a single order.

And you are his captive.

Your jaw tightens. “Caleb, what the hell—”

"Sit. Down."

Your spine stiffens. “No.”

A flick of his fingers. The chair scrapes forward, slamming into the back of your knees.

You stumble, cursing—

But before you can react—a force clamps around you. G-forces shift. Gravity bends. The chair drags you back to the center of the room.

Then—weight locks around your limbs. You can’t stand. Can’t move. Your pulse spikes.

His face is unreadable. His eyes��stormy, dark, endless.

Like he hasn’t slept in six days.

A tablet activates in his hand.

Several floating screens appear around you, flickering with surveillance footage.

And then—his interrogation begins.

His voice is calm. Clinical. Devoid of warmth.

"In the hours before your disappearance, this man entered your building. Do you know him?"

You blink. “What—?”

He gestures at the screen. A blurry security cam shot.

You squint. “That’s—a fucking courier.”

"Interesting."

A swipe of his fingers. Another screen appears.

"You placed an order at a bookstore six days ago. Three books were delivered. For what purpose?"

You stare. “...For reading?”

His brows twitch.

"Curious. You spoke to the courier for over five minutes. What was discussed?"

Your hands clench into fists. “How the hell would I know?”

A beat of silence.

Then—softer now, dangerous in its evenness—

"You really expect me to believe you don’t remember?"

Your blood boils. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He swipes again. More footage. More records. More evidence that means nothing.

And you snap.

"You are losing your fucking mind."

His jaw tightens.

And then—

The gravity releases.

You lurch forward, finally able to move—

But before you can get up—

he’s already there.

A single step. One hand gripping the back of your chair, tilting it back—

His face is inches from yours. His gaze burns.

"Are you fucking someone else?"

Your breath catches. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter. Furious.

You gesture at yourself—the dirt, the bruises, the blood still crusted on your sleeve.

“Look at me, Caleb.”

He doesn’t move.

“Does this look like a woman having an affair?”

His fingers twitch against the chair. His voice drops to a whisper.

"I’m on the edge of it."

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t doubt that, you psychopath.” You shove against his arm, but he doesn’t budge. “Now let me up so I can strangle you.”

His fingers loosen.

And then—

"Six days."

Your breath hitches. His hand moves. Curls around your jaw, firm but careful.

"Six days. Eight thousand six hundred forty minutes."

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone.

"I couldn't breathe without pain."

Your throat tightens. Your rage collapses into something else entirely.

“Caleb—”

"I searched. I traced every lead. I turned this country inside out."

His voice wavers.

And then—softer, rawer, almost desperate—

"If you hadn’t come back, I would have burned everything to the ground."

Your chest aches.

“…I had a mission. It was classified.”

His jaw twitches.

"Then tell me—" His voice turns sharp, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you weren’t running."

You exhale shakily.

“You’re so obsessed with losing me, Caleb—maybe that’s why you always do.”

Silence.

Something in his face breaks. He straightens. Turns away.

Leaves.

The door slams.

And you collapse to your knees. Your hands come up—cover your face—

And finally, finally, the tears fall.

But then—

A soft creak. A shift in the air. Warmth.

Arms wrapping around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace.

You freeze.

His voice is hoarse, quiet, trembling with something raw.

"You’re the only one who can destroy me without lifting a hand."

Your breath shudders. His grip tightens.

"One word from you," he murmurs, "and I’m gone."

You shake your head.

“Caleb…”

His forehead presses against your shoulder.

"I tried. Every day. Every second. I tried not to hold on too tight." He exhales shakily. "But I can’t."

Your heart clenches.

“Caleb, I always come back.”

He flinches.

You pull back just enough to cup his face. His eyes are stormy, desperate, flickering with pain.

"You have to trust me."

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then—barely above a whisper—

"I can't lose you."

Your fingers tighten against his jaw.

"You won’t."

Silence.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Devouring. Starved.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you to him like he’ll die if you pull away.

A single tear escapes down his cheek. And you catch it with your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Caleb, I’m so sorry.”

His breath shudders. He shakes his head.

“No.” His voice breaks. "You don’t apologize to me."

Your brows furrow. “Caleb—”

He swallows.

"If you’re better off without me—"

Your hand flies up, slaps over his mouth. He freezes. Tears well in your eyes.

“Don’t. Say. That.” His chest rises sharply. You lean in, press your forehead to his.

“…You are my universe,” you whisper.

His hands shake against your back.

“No matter what we do, no matter what happens—” You press your lips to his, slow, deep, endless. “I will always come back to you.”

His breath shudders against your lips.

And then—his voice drops, quiet but unshakable.

"You will never disappear on me again without warning. Not now. Not ever."

🗡✨🌥 Xavier

The door clicks shut behind you.

You barely take a step inside before a voice cuts through the air—

Calm. Measured. Unshakable.

"Ah." A quiet exhale. "Look who finally remembered they have a home."

You freeze.

Xavier is already there.

Sitting in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced in his hand—like your sudden reappearance was nothing more than an interesting plot twist.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he’s reading first.

Then—calmly, unhurriedly—he turns the page.

And finally—his gaze lifts to yours.

Cold. Slow. Too calculating.

"Six days."

Your stomach tightens. "Xav—"

"Mm. No." He holds up a single finger.

The room falls silent. And somehow, that’s worse.

You watch as he closes the book. Carefully. Precisely. Then—without breaking eye contact—he sets it aside.

And then—a small smile.

Soft. Almost friendly.

Which means you’re in deep, deep trouble.

"You look tired," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Traveling, were you?"

You exhale. "Xavier—"

"Oh, no. Let me guess." His fingers tap idly against the armrest. "You were simply busy."

A pause.

"Too busy, in fact, to answer a single message."

Your jaw tightens. "It wasn’t—"

"Ah," he interrupts softly, as if realizing something.

His eyes flick over your torn sleeve, the faint bruises on your arms. Then, slowly—he smiles.

"Or," he murmurs, "did you lose your phone again?"

Your stomach drops. Because he knows.

You inhale sharply. "Xav—"

He shakes his head.

"No, it’s alright. I understand." He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his knuckles. "I’m sure you had an excellent reason."

A beat of silence. Then—mild amusement, carefully laced with steel:

"Would you like to tell me what it was?"

You hesitate.

Because you were on a mission. A classified one.

Because he wasn’t supposed to know. Because you work together.

And yet—he knew nothing.

You try anyway.

"I had a—"

"A mission?" His brow lifts, a polite flicker of curiosity. "Fascinating."

His tone is smooth, unbothered. And that—that is when you know how angry he really is.

He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of reports on the table.

"Tell me, darling, which mission was it?"

You swallow hard. "I can’t—"

"Mm. Right. Classified."

Another small nod. A slow, deliberate blink.

"As are all major operations within the Association."

His fingers drum lightly against the armrest.

"And yet, strangely—" He tilts his head. "Not a single record of your assignment exists."

You say nothing.

Xavier exhales through his nose—almost disappointed.

"And here I thought," he murmurs, "we were supposed to trust each other."

You flinch.

His gaze softens. Not with kindness. But with something far worse.

Pity.

"You must have had your reasons, of course," he muses.

A small sigh, like he’s humoring a child.

"I imagine you thought it was necessary. Sensible, even."

His fingers lace together.

"Just as I found it necessary to send out a search party on day three."

Your breath catches.

"You what?"

He hums.

"By day four, I expanded my resources. You'd be surprised how quickly information spreads when you know where to look."

Your hands clench.

"Xavier—"

"Day five, I began considering alternative outcomes. Some of them, admittedly, rather unpleasant."

A flicker of something colder in his expression.

"Ever been forced to sit in a room full of people trying to convince you that your partner is dead?"

Your stomach turns.

"Xavier, I wasn’t—"

He clicks his tongue.

"Day six, I received word that you had finally resurfaced."

He leans back. Folds his arms. And then—a soft chuckle, utterly humorless.

"Imagine my relief."

Silence.

You exhale sharply. "Xav, I—"

"Did you know," he interrupts, voice light, conversational, detached, "that people tend to avoid looking a grieving man in the eye?"

Your throat tightens.

"Not that I was grieving, of course." He taps a finger against his chin. "I don’t make a habit of mourning people until I see a body."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you.

"But I imagine it must have been quite the inconvenience, being dead for six days."

Your chest tightens.

"You think I wanted to—"

"Oh, I know," he murmurs. "You didn’t want to disappear."

His voice lowers.

"But you still did."

And for the first time—he is no longer smirking. His blue eyes bore into yours, steady, sharp.

"You made a decision that left me in the dark."

A long, slow breath.

"And I need to know," he says softly, "if you would do it again."

Silence.

You don’t have an answer. You don’t think there is one.

He exhales.

Finally, he leans back. Gazes at you for a moment longer.

Then, calmly—he stands. Smooth. Effortless. Precise. And then—he walks past you.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

"Xavier—"

He doesn’t stop. You push to your feet.

"Xavier, you’re coming back, right?"

Finally—he pauses. Turns his head, just slightly.

And then—

"Ask me again in six days."

The door closes behind him. And this time—you’re the one left behind.

🧜🏻‍♂️🧑🏻‍🎨🌊 Rafayel

You are exhausted.

Every part of you aches. Your body demands sleep, warmth, peace.

Instead—

You come home to chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. The scent of wine, perfume, candle wax, and indulgence.

And then—the sight of him.

Rafayel.

Lounging near the pool, half-leaning against an ornate chair, a glass of red wine dangling lazily between his fingers.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hint at toned muscle beneath, his sleeves rolled up, his perfectly tousled hair falling over his forehead in an effortlessly careless way.

And surrounding him—beautiful women.

Drinking, laughing, leaning toward him like he’s some fallen deity of temptation and excess.

Your stomach twists. A tight, burning rage coils in your chest.

And then—

He sees you. His eyes widen—just slightly. And then—a slow, almost lazy smirk.

"Ah." He lifts his glass dramatically, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look who's finally returned!"

You tense.

He rises to his feet, arms spread as if welcoming royalty.

"My muse. My inspiration."

His voice carries over the music, over the murmurs of people starting to notice the tension.

"The very heart of my art!"

A sweeping gesture.

And then—

He motions toward the canvas-lined walls.

Your breath catches. Because they’re all of you. Dozens of paintings.

But—ruined.

Slashes through the canvas.

Paint smeared and splattered over your likeness like an artist in rage, in agony, in heartbreak.

The fury in you erupts. Your voice cuts through the music.

"What the actual fuck is this?!"

He gasps, mock scandalized.

"Oh, you don’t like them? What a tragedy!"

He downs the rest of his wine in one smooth gulp, tossing the glass aside with a careless flick of his wrist.

Then—he grins.

Crooked. Reckless. Infuriating.

"And here I was, drowning in sorrow, channeling my unbearable suffering into art."

A sigh.

"But alas." He shrugs dramatically. "Seems the muse herself has returned."

You march toward him. He tilts his head.

"Careful, cutie. You seem upset."

"You’re a fucking disaster."

He laughs.

"You’re six days late to that realization."

You grab his wrist, yanking him toward the exit.

“We’re talking. Now.”

His body moves, but his feet don’t follow. Instead—he pulls against your grip.

His smile widens.

"Oh?" His voice drips with amusement. "Dragging me away already? Jealous, cutie?"

Your jaw clenches.

"This is pathetic."

Another laugh, lighter this time.

"Ah, but it was all I had!" He places a hand over his heart. Theatrical. Overdramatic. Perfectly insufferable.

You snap.

And shove him into the pool.

He barely has time to react—water crashes around him, drenching his white shirt, dragging him under.

And for a brief, glorious second—silence.

Until—

His hand grabs your wrist. You yelp, but it’s too late.

He pulls you down with him.

Cold water engulfs you, shocking your senses.

When you resurface, gasping, furious, he’s already brushing his hair back, blinking at you through wet lashes.

And suddenly—

The playfulness is gone. The crowd has vanished. Thomas made sure of it.

And now—it’s just you and him.

And for the first time tonight—he’s quiet. His voice is lower, slower.

"You storm into my house. Onto my estate. Into my party. And then..."

He gestures lazily toward the water.

"You throw me in my own fucking pool?"

You pant, teeth gritted. “Your—house? Great! I’ll leave you in your fucking house—”

You turn to climb out—

And he grabs you again. A firm grip. Unshaking.

His eyes—darker now. Sharper. Focused.

"Make another move, cutie." His voice is dangerously low.

"And we’ll have problems."

You glare. "Let. Go."

He doesn’t. Instead—he pulls you closer.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

Your pulse spikes.

"Rafayel—"

"Do it," he whispers. "Say it to my face."

Your breath catches.

"You want to leave?" His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, forcing you to feel the heat radiating from his soaked body.

"Then say it."

Your hands shake. You flick water into his face, desperate to break the tension.

He doesn’t even blink. Instead—his eyes drop.

To your clothes.

Soaked. Clinging. Revealing everything.

His pupils darken. And then—his jaw tightens.

"You left me for six days," he murmurs.

Your breath stutters.

"I left for work, not you, you hysterical maniac."

He tilts his head.

"That’s the same thing. And your phone?"

"A Wanderer shattered it!"

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Ah, yes. And I suppose you were also too busy fighting for your life to send me one. Single. Fucking. Message?"

You exhale sharply. "Raf, you’re insufferable. A party? Seriously?"

"How else am I supposed to handle soul-crushing heartbreak?"

His voice drops.

"Tell me, cutie." His fingers skim your waist, trailing fire in their wake. "How else was I supposed to drown my suffering?"

He leans in, breath hot against your lips.

And then—

He kisses you. Desperate. Possessive.

Your legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over.

His grip tightens.

"You threw me in a pool," he whispers against your lips.

"You deserved it."

His fingers dig into your hips.

"You waltz in after six days and just—throw me?"

"Maybe I should throw you again."

He grins against your skin.

"I should make you pay for that."

"Raf—"

"Mm. Shh."

His hands travel lower, pressing you harder against him.

Your breathing turns shallow.

"Your paintings," you murmur.

"I’ll paint more."

"You hated me for six days."

"Endlessly." He kisses your throat, voice dropping further.

"You didn’t want to see me again?"

He grins against your collarbone.

"Try leaving me again, cutie."

His grip tightens, unshakable.

His breath is hot against your ear.

"And I promise—"

His hips press forward, slow and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt of heat through you.

"You won’t be able to walk for a week."

5K notes · View notes

oliviawatt · 11 months ago

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Lively Childhood Hub: The Ultimate Play Area for Kids

Creating a fun and safe environment for your kids to play in is essential for their growth and development. The Lively Childhood Hub offers the perfect combination of play and safety, providing a space where children can enjoy themselves while staying secure. This comprehensive hub includes a slide and swing set and a kids splash pool—both of which make it an ideal choice for families looking to invest in their child’s active lifestyle. For more information visit- https://myhousehaven.com/lively-childhood-hub-the-ultimate-play-area-for-kids/

#slide and swing set

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cumironi · 3 months ago

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YOU ARE NOT DYING jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. MIA for two whole days, your older boyfriend finds you have been sick the whole time but don’t worry, they are here to take care of you!

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, you are early twenty and they are late twenty, petnames, fluff, crack,

GOJO SATORU

he bursts through your apartment door like a whirlwind in a storm — keys jangling as they hit the floor, designer sunglasses still perched on his nose, even though it's nearly sundown. the moment the door swings open, his voice echoes through the quiet, too-quiet apartment.

“sweetheart? baby?” his voice is deceptively cheerful, light and sing-song, but the tension is there, tight in the undercurrent. he hasn’t heard from you in two days. no text. no call. nothing. and you never go that quiet, not even when you’re mad at him.

satoru’s long legs carry him through your apartment like he owns the place — which, to be fair, he kind of does, considering he pays your rent without your knowledge. he steps into the dimly lit living room and freezes.

you’re there, bundled up on the couch like a miserable, sniffling ghost. oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, one of his, naturally, and a pathetic mountain of tissues around you like a fortress. there’s a blanket halfway off your legs, a cold cup of tea on the table, and your phone sitting dead by your hand.

“...what the hell,” he breathes, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he takes it in, brows furrowing under snowy bangs. “are you seriously dying in silence? do you hate me?”

you groan softly, barely able to lift your head. “didn’t wanna bother you… you’re busy with work…”

“busy with work? babe, i thought you got kidnapped by some creepy guy who’s into sniffing socks or something—which, by the way, i would’ve lost my shit over.”

he’s already moving, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, hands large and warm as they cup your flushed face. you’re burning. “oh my god, you’re so hot,” he says, wide-eyed, like it’s not from the fever. “and not in the good, ride-me-until-my-legs-don’t-work way. like… medically concerning.”

you manage a weak laugh, and he beams like you just handed him the moon. satoru brushes your hair back with trembling fingers, his usual smugness cracking under genuine concern.

“you didn’t even call me,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “two days, angel. two days. i almost broke into your classes like a psycho sugar daddy with a god complex.”

you sniffle, leaning into his palm. “didn’t wanna make you worry…”

“i always worry about you,” he says, exasperated. “that’s, like, half my personality. haven’t you noticed?”

and then, of course, he softens — because he’s a menace, but he’s your menace. satoru stands, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you squirm, mumbling protests, but your limbs are too heavy, and his arms are warm.

“shut up. we’re doing this,” he says, already carrying you to your bed. “you’re sleeping somewhere with actual blankets and no tissue graveyard. jesus, babe, this whole place smells like menthol and heartbreak.”

he sets you down carefully, tucking the blankets around you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers near your lips, hesitant.

“can i…? or am i gonna get the plague?”

you pout. “you’ll get sick.”

“worth it,” he says immediately, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss — just enough pressure to make your heart ache, his thumb brushing your cheek like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

when he pulls back, he’s grinning again, wicked this time. “besides, i bet i’d look hot with a fever. you’d have to nurse me back to health in, like, a slutty little nurse outfit. win-win, right?”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re my favorite stupid little college girl who forgets to eat when she’s sick.” his hands are already sliding under the covers, slipping around your waist, pulling you close. “so now i’m gonna hold you like a clingy teddy bear, make you drink water, and maybe talk about how good you’d look drooling all over my shirt.”

you snort. “what happened to concern?”

“baby, i am concerned. but i’m also very horny, emotionally overwhelmed, and tragically in love with you. deal with it.”

you let him spoon you from behind, his breath warm on your neck, his body a furnace. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder.

“next time you’re sick,” he mumbles, “you better call me. i swear to god, i’ll tattoo my number on your forehead if that’s what it takes.”

you nod sleepily, and satoru kisses the shell of your ear.

“good girl.”

GETO SUGURU

he doesn’t knock.

he doesn’t need to — your spare key has been hanging on his keyring for months now, worn from use. suguru opens your door slowly, shoulders tense under his tailored black coat, hair pulled into a lazy low bun like he didn’t even bother styling it this morning. he’s been in meetings all day, working too much, sleeping too little — and now, he’s standing in your apartment, greeted by silence and dim, static air.

“baby?”

his voice is low, velvety, laced with concern that makes your stomach twist. it’s the first time you’ve heard him in two days. you were too sick, too dizzy, too caught up in your own haze of shivers and aching limbs to call him, even though you wanted to. god, you wanted to.

you hear his steps grow closer, steady and measured, then stop right in front of your bedroom door. it creaks open. his tall frame fills the doorway.

and that’s all it takes.

your throat tightens immediately, and like a switch flipped, you burst into tears. snotty, pathetic, breathless sobs that hit you harder than you expected. your voice cracks as you try to speak, but nothing coherent comes out — just a whimper, an ugly sniffle, and a tremble in your bottom lip.

“suguru…” you croak, eyes watery as you sit up on the bed.

his expression falters for half a second — just a flicker of panic under the cool surface. he moves toward you so fast it’s like instinct, dropping his bag to the floor and shrugging off his coat in one motion.

but you beat him to it.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with all the theatrical effort of a dying victorian bride, forcing your shaky body upright. it makes your vision spin, but you don’t care — you throw your arms open dramatically, like some sad, flu-stricken princess summoning her knight.

“hold me,” you sniffle, hiccupping through the tears. “i’m sick and miserable and ugly, and i think i’m dying.”

he blinks. then huffs a breath — a soft, low laugh, like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you.

“you’re the most dramatic little brat i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, but he’s already on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you fully, palms spread over your back as he tucks your face into the crook of his neck.

“i missed you,” you whimper into his skin, voice cracking. “i was too dizzy to text you and i tried to make soup but it just turned into sadness—”

“shh,” he whispers, stroking your hair gently. “breathe, baby. you’re okay now.”

you cling to him like a koala, fists bunching the back of his shirt. your body sags in his arms, and he holds you up without flinching, like he wants to carry your weight, all of it — your illness, your loneliness, your melodramatic sniffles.

“two days without you and i already look like a corpse,” you mumble. “my skin’s grey. i’m withering.”

he chuckles against your hair, then pulls back just enough to cup your flushed cheeks. “hm. dramatic. needy. sick. crying in my arms like a heartbroken soap opera wife.” his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “you know that’s kind of hot, right?”

you blink. “i’m literally disgusting right now.”

“you’re my favorite disgusting little creature,” he says, and kisses your forehead. “now lie back. i’m going to order real food, give you meds, and make you drink water even if i have to hold your nose shut.”

you sniffle again, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzle into his chest.

“you’re gonna spoil me,” you mumble.

he smiles, kissing your hair.

“i already do, sweetheart.”

his hand trails lower under the blanket, slipping to your waist, possessive and warm.

“and after you stop looking like a dying victorian girl,” he murmurs by your ear, voice dipping low, “i’m gonna spoil you in other ways.”

you groan into his chest, heat blooming in your cheeks. “gross.”

“mm. you love it.”

and he’s right. because even at your worst — sick, crying, clingy — suguru geto looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made his life worth slowing down for.

NANAMI KENTO

he should’ve come sooner.

the thought pounds in his head, rhythmic and steady like the ticking of his watch as he pushes into your apartment with a key he made you give him months ago — “for emergencies,” you said, laughing. but this feels like one. you hadn’t texted him back in two days, and that’s unlike you. you were always eager to reply, dramatic even in your “i miss you” messages. so when the silence stretched into a second night, nanami ended his meeting mid-sentence, picked up his coat, and walked out without an ounce of hesitation.

the moment he steps inside, he knows something’s wrong.

your apartment smells off — like the sour tang of sickness masked under old lavender candles. he closes the door quietly, gaze sharp as he sets down his briefcase and calls your name once, calmly.

no answer.

the bathroom light is on.

and then he hears it — the retching.

nanami’s blood runs cold. he moves fast, faster than you’d ever expect from the man who lectures you about walking too quickly indoors. the bathroom door is cracked open. inside, you’re slumped on the cold tile, hugging the toilet bowl, trembling and feverish. your hoodie is sticking to your back with sweat, your knees red from the floor.

you don’t hear him. not until his calm, familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“sweetheart.”

your head jerks up weakly. your voice comes out hoarse, cracking. “kento…?”

he doesn’t say anything at first — just takes a slow breath and kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up in one fluid motion. his tie dangles over your shoulder as he brushes your damp hair back gently, then reaches for the towel nearby to wipe your mouth. his hand doesn’t shake, but his jaw clenches. tight.

“how long has this been happening?” he asks softly, but there’s steel under it. restrained panic. the kind that only surfaces when something he cares about is suffering — and you are the only one who makes him lose control like this.

you sniffle, dazed. “since last night… thought it would pass…”

“and you didn’t call me.”

“you were working,” you mumble. “didn’t wanna stress you out.”

nanami lets out a breath. a sharp one. he gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his frown deepening. you’re burning up.

“you’re shaking,” he mutters. “you’re not staying in here another second.”

“but i threw up—”

“exactly why you’re not staying in here,” he says firmly.

and that’s when your vision blurs again, but this time with hot tears. you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking like glass. “i feel gross, kento. i smell disgusting. my mouth tastes like death. i wanted to clean up before you came and now you’re seeing me like this—”

he doesn’t let you spiral.

his hands, large and warm, wrap around your wrists and gently pull them from your face. he leans in, forehead to yours, voice calm but low.

“you think any of that matters to me?” he whispers. “you’re sick. and you’re mine. i don’t care if you smell like hell. you’re still the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”

you sniff, swallowing another sob. “i look like a wet rat.”

he presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “then you’re my wet rat.”

and despite everything, you laugh — a weak, wet, pitiful sound, but it makes him smile.

then he lifts you. no warning. one smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing. your arms cling to his neck, dizzy and lightheaded as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

“where—?”

“bed? no,” he says, striding straight past it. “you’re burning up and soaked through.”

he stops in front of your closet and kicks it open gently. “clean clothes,” he mutters. “then i’m drawing you a bath.”

you blink. “aren’t you going to let me change myself?”

he looks at you, unimpressed. “do you really think i’m letting you stand on your own right now?”

you pout. “you’re bossy when i’m sick.”

“i’m bossy because you’re reckless and dramatic and refuse to call me when you need help,” he says, setting you down on the edge of your bed. his hands reach up, unzipping your hoodie with such care it makes your breath catch. “and if you ever do this again, i swear to god—”

you reach out weakly, tugging at his tie. “you’ll what?”

he leans in, gaze dark and heavy.

“i’ll handcuff you to my bed and monitor your temperature every hour until you learn your lesson.”

your eyes go wide. “…is that a threat or a promise?”

his lips curl into the barest smirk.

“both.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you were crying. again.

but not soft, delicate tears — oh no. it was messy, snotty, full-volume dramatic sobbing, the kind you’d only let out in the privacy of your kitchen, hunched over like some tragic figure in a bad medical drama.

the bottle of meds sat in front of you. sealed. stupid. evil.

and your fingers? useless. trembling. too weak to twist it open. your body had already betrayed you all day — shivering under five blankets, sweating through them an hour later, barely able to sit up without seeing stars. and this goddamn childproof bottle was the final straw.

“open,” you whispered hoarsely, turning it with your palms, your arms shaking.

“open, please… i’m not strong enough, oh my god. i’m a weak pathetic little victorian widow.”

you tried again. failed again.

your bottom lip quivered.

you dropped your head onto the counter with a dramatic thunk.

“this is it,” you wailed to no one. “this is how i die. taken out by a five-dollar bottle of generic tylenol.”

and that was, of course, the exact moment the front door opened with a heavy thud.

of course it was toji.

he was supposed to be out — working, training, maybe casually intimidating someone. but no. your hot mess of a dramatic arc just had to intersect with him at the peak of your suffering.

“you better not be on the floor again,” his voice called out dryly.

you gasped. “toji—!”

and in he walked, black shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly wet from the shower he probably took at the gym, eyebrow cocked in that way — the one that said he knew he was walking into bullshit.

he paused at the kitchen doorway.

you were curled in front of the counter, shaking like a leaf in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, cradling the bottle of meds in your hands like it was your last hope.

your eyes, glossy with fever and tears, locked on him like he was salvation.

“babe,” you croaked, dramatic hand on your heart. “i’m too weak. i need you.”

his face was unreadable.

then he sighed.

“you can’t open your meds bottle?”

“no,” you sobbed. “i tried. i begged. i even yelled at it. and it laughed at me, toji.”

he walked over slowly. “the bottle laughed at you?”

“with its silence.”

“you’re outta your damn mind.”

you whimpered as he took the bottle from your hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. he twisted it open with one hand. one hand.

your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

“don’t gloat,” you muttered.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were thinking it. i can hear your thoughts. they’re all smug and condescending.”

toji plucked two pills out, popped them in your hand. “yeah? what else are my thoughts saying?”

“they’re saying, ‘wow, my girlfriend’s so weak and small and pitiful, i could crush her with one hand.’”

he snorted, pushing the water bottle toward you.

“i’d rather use the one hand to spank you next time you act like an idiot instead of calling me.”

your eyes widened. “i was preserving your peace!”

“and i’m preserving your life, you dramatic little shit.”

you downed the meds, still sniffling. “i want chicken soup and cuddles.”

“yeah? say please.”

you glared at him.

he leaned down, grabbed you by the back of the thighs, and lifted you up with zero warning, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

you squealed. “toji—!”

“you want cuddles? you get ‘em after soup. and no more dying alone in the kitchen, dumbass.”

you whined into his back, but your fingers were already gripping the hem of his shirt, safe and secure.

he set you on the couch, tucked you in aggressively, and went back to the kitchen to slam pots around. the bottle of meds still sat on the counter, now open. completely defeated.

you glared at it from your blanket cocoon.

“i hope you fall off the counter and roll under the fridge, you little bitch.”

“what was that?” toji called.

“nothing, babe! love you!”

“that’s what i thought.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he knew something was off the second he walked through the door.

your apartment was dark. quiet. no sounds of you stomping around, no dramatic voice echoing from the bedroom about how he never refills the snacks or always leaves his rings on the counter like you’re his damn butler.

nothing.

just silence.

and sukuna?

he doesn’t do silence when it comes to you.

so his voice comes loud, sharp. “oi. where the fuck are you?”

no answer.

he’s already heading down the hall, jaw tight, fingers twitching like he’s ready to rip the universe in half if it’s taken you from him. he calls for you again—louder this time. still nothing. until—

a soft, pathetic sound.

gagging.

choking.

then… sniffling.

he throws open the bathroom door and freezes.

you’re on the cold tile, curled up dramatically beside the toilet like a tragic heroine in some bad romance movie. your hair is a mess, face flushed with fever, nose red, eyes glassy with tears. you’re shivering in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked up like a child. and you’re talking to yourself.

rambling.

like you’re saying goodbye.

“tell… tell my mom i loved her,” you whisper hoarsely to no one. “and you can have my manga… just not the signed ones. bury me with those. and don’t let that bitch from the office come to my funeral—”

sukuna blinks. hard.

“what. the fuck,” he growls, stepping in. “are you doing?”

you gasp, like he’s a ghost. “sukuna? is that you? i can’t see, i’m so cold—”

he crouches beside you instantly, hands grabbing your face. your skin is clammy. lips dry. eyes dramatic as hell.

you’re not dying.

you’ve just been throwing up for hours and working yourself into a spiral.

“are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?” he hisses, brushing your hair back, eyes scanning every inch of you. “you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t scream at me for buying the wrong brand of tea. i thought someone killed you.”

you sniffle, grabbing his wrist with trembling fingers. “i tried to crawl to the kitchen… to get water… but then i thought, what’s the point? i’m dying anyway—”

he looks like he’s two seconds from slamming his fist into the wall.

“you’ve got a stomach bug. not the plague. stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ soap opera.”

“easy for you to say,” you croak. “you’re not the one rotting from the inside out.”

sukuna lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-laugh, and scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you cling to him instantly, arms locking around his neck like a koala.

“don’t cremate me,” you mumble into his throat. “i wanna be dramatic even in death. open casket. fake lashes. maybe some light fog and music—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. “shut up.”

you gasp, offended. “did you just spank me on my deathbed?!”

“you’re not dying,” he growls, carrying you to the bed. “but if you keep talking, i’ll kill you myself.”

you whimper pitifully in his arms. “then… will you at least keep my diary? the one hidden in the closet behind the shoe box? don’t read it—”

“i’ve already read it.”

“what?!”

he lays you down gently, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek.

“you wrote about me in it,” he says, voice low and dangerous now, “every page. even the ones where you were mad. you love me so much it’s pathetic.”

you sniff, cheeks heating up. “i’m allowed to be obsessed with you. it’s your fault.”

he leans down, face inches from yours. “and i’m gonna baby you so hard after this that you’re gonna wish you died, brat.”

“you promise?” you whisper.

his eyes flash with something possessive, raw, feral.

“yeah,” he says, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, “but only after i get some fluids in you. and not the kind you’re thinking, you filthy little goblin.”

you smile weakly.

and sukuna — your unhinged, dangerous, older boyfriend — tucks you into bed, curses the germs under his breath, and spends the entire night at your side.

because dramatic or not… you’re his.

and he’s not letting you go.

SHIU KONG

he had a key.

of course he had a key. he demanded it after you once locked yourself out at 3 a.m. wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, sobbing over forgotten dumplings. "never again," he’d muttered, shoving the key into his wallet with the same reverence he gave blackmail material.

he wasn’t expecting the door to be unlocked today.

or to hear… whimpering.

low, pitiful, echoing from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

“babe?” he calls out, already slipping off his shoes. his voice carries a lazy calm, the kind he always uses when he’s preparing for bullshit. “you better not be doing something stupid again.”

he turns the corner and freezes.

you’re on the floor.

literally on the floor, crawling toward the kitchen like a Victorian orphan in the final act. your blanket is trailing behind you like a cape, your hair a mess, eyes glassy with tears as you stretch your trembling hand toward the counter like it’s the promised land.

you pause, mid-drag, and look up at him with the most heartbroken face he’s ever seen.

“i dropped… my toast…”

shiu blinks.

you sniffle. “it fell jelly-side down.”

his lips twitch. “oh no.”

“and then i got dizzy.”

“mhm.”

“and i think the floor is sucking the life out of me, shiu.”

he’s walking toward you now, casually, like he’s not biting back a laugh. “you’re telling me… you belly-crawled like a war hero because you dropped toast?”

“i’m starving. i haven’t eaten in days.”

he bends down, squats beside you, one elbow resting on his knee as he watches you dramatically paw at the floor like you’re about to fade into the afterlife.

“you had broth.”

“broth isn’t food. it’s liquid regret.”

shiu snorts. actually snorts. “you’re outta your mind.”

but his voice is gentler now, and without warning, he slips an arm under your waist and another beneath your knees, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you yelp, clinging to his shirt.

“shiu! put me down! i was making progress!”

“toward what? an oscar?”

“toward the toaster!”

he carries you to the couch instead, ignoring your weak little kicks as he deposits you like a fragile treasure, tucks your blanket around you like he hasn’t seen you cry over expired yogurt before, then leans in close.

his voice drops, soft and dangerous.

“next time you wanna reenact your dramatic death, text me first, sweetheart.”

“i didn’t wanna bother you.”

“you’re my favorite kind of bother.”

you blink up at him, pout trembling.

“you’re such an asshole.”

he grins, brushes your hair back gently with a sigh. “but i’m your asshole.”

and then he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about how he’s going to make toast the size of your face and spoon-feed you if you try to crawl again.

he does.

he even cuts it into heart shapes.

he just won’t admit it.

HIROMI HIGURUMA

he knew something was off the second he called and you didn’t answer.

you always answered. even if it was just a groggy voice telling him you hated his ringtone and to never call you again. so when he’d finished his meeting, walked out of the courthouse with his tie loosened and a coffee he didn’t even want, and still hadn’t heard from you?

his stomach turned.

fifteen minutes later, he was at your apartment door, unlocking it with the key you gave him the night you first got sick and told him he was your emergency contact “because you look like you’d yell at doctors for me.”

he pushes the door open.

“...hello?”

silence.

and then—

soft sniffles. pen scratching paper. a dramatic sigh.

he follows the sound to the living room and—

freezes.

there you are. wrapped in a blanket like a sad little lump, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your head resting against the coffee table. a whole stack of napkins laid out in front of you like legal documents, each one written in your slightly-shaky, overly-loopy script.

he walks closer, blinking at the one closest to him.

“to my beloved hiromi: you can have my succulents, even though you always forget to water them. i forgive you. i love you. tell my cat i said bye.”

his brow twitches. “...what the hell is this?”

you jump, head snapping up like a child caught drawing on the walls. your eyes are watery and dramatic, red from crying, your nose a little stuffy and your cheeks flushed from fever. you clutch a pen like it’s a quill and you’re writing your last will before war.

“you came,” you whisper.

“yeah. what the hell is going on.”

you sniffle, voice soft and shaking. “i think i’m dying.”

he looks at the box of tissues, the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, and the room-temperature cup of tea on the table.

“you have a cold.”

“a terminal one.”

he sighs, long-suffering but fond, dropping the briefcase onto the floor with a soft thud.

“you sent me twelve napkin letters. in one of them you said i can have your pinterest password when you die.”

“you should know what i liked. to mourn properly.”

“you also left the air fryer to nanami.”

“he said he liked it once!”

he crouches down in front of you, long legs folding easily, eyes scanning your flushed face. he lifts a hand to press it gently to your forehead.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re burning up.”

you gaze at him with tear-filled devotion. “if i go, you have to be the one to eulogize me. make it sound like i was sexy and mysterious.”

“you’re congested and covered in napkins.”

“so was marilyn monroe probably.”

hiromi lets out a soft breath. then he leans forward, gathering you into his arms with a slow, practiced motion, your blanket and all, lifting you gently until you’re in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

you melt into him instantly, mumbling, “i left you my lip balm too. don’t let another girl use it.”

he hums. presses a kiss to your forehead.

“don’t worry, angel. you’re not dying.”

“you sound like a lawyer.”

“i am one. and i can legally promise you’re going to be fine.”

you grumble something about rewriting your will just in case, and he lets you. even picks up a fresh napkin for you and hands you your glitter pen with a quiet, indulgent smile.

“just let me make you some soup after,” he murmurs. “and then i’ll read every one of your dramatic goodbyes.”

“even the one where i left you my collection of embarrassing texts?”

“especially that one.”

he holds you tighter. his voice soft, but his touch firm. grounding. safe.

because for all your chaos, he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

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moonkidshome · 1 year ago

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Buy Wooden Castle Tower for Kids Online @ Moon Kids Home - @ UAE

Wooden castle towers are valued for their durability, natural aesthetic, and the ability to blend seamlessly into outdoor environments. Regular maintenance, including checking for wear and tear and applying weather-resistant coatings, ensures their longevity and safety, making them a cherished addition to any play area.

Wooden castle towers for kids are specially designed play structures that mimic the appearance and features of medieval castle towers. These swing and slide sets are constructed primarily from durable, treated wood and are intended for use in playgrounds or backyards to provide children with a fun, imaginative, and safe play environment.

#swing and slide sets

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bruisedboys · 2 months ago

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trouble — jacob black

it’s raining and you’re bored. your boyfriend proves to be an effective distraction (if you can distract him, that is) OR in which jacob is busy and you like to cause trouble. based off this drabble!

jacob black x fem!reader, 2k words. suggestive content 16+ pls!!

The rain is unforgiving today. It’s not uncommon for it to be wet in Forks, the rain a persistent, stubborn thing, but today it’s horrendous. Heavy and icy cold, big fat droplets that seem sure to pierce your skin and freeze you to death. It hasn’t stopped since last night and doesn’t seem like it’ll stop for a good few days.

You’re bored out of your mind. You realise rain just comes with living in Forks, and you’re mostly used to it, but you’d really wanted to go shopping with your friends today and the rain squandered your plans the moment you woke up. Jacob’s busy working on his bike in the shed, and everyone else is rained in. You’re stuck on the couch at Jacob’s while the rain comes down in sheets outside. You flick through channels on the TV until you can’t stand it anymore. There’s nothing good to watch, anyway.

You grab one of Jacob’s jackets from the hook by the door and brave the rain, using the jacket as a makeshift umbrella as you jog your way over to the garage, shoes sloshing in the mud.

You find Jacob sitting on the beat-up wooden bench, hunched over his newest project. It’s a bike he found second hand at a yard sale — when he first got it, it looked to you an unrecognisable hunk of metal, hardly a bike at all. But your boyfriend has a way with his hands, and now it at least has two wheels and a proper seat.

Jacob looks up as you come in, though the sound of the rain completely covers your footsteps.

“Hey, trouble,” he says. Then, at the look on your face, “You okay?”

Your frown deepens. “No,” you shake your head. “I’m bored, Jake.”

Jacob chuckles. Trust him to laugh at you when you’re clearly suffering.

“Yeah?” He asks. “You want to come help me?”

You take one look at the frankly confusing array of tools around his feet, and wrinkle your nose. “No, thanks. Can’t we go for a drive?”

Jacob wrinkles his nose back at you. “I’m busy, babe. And the road’s slippery, it’s dangerous. Maybe later.”

You roll your eyes. He can be such a grandma sometimes. Jacob goes back to his bike and you wander around the shed looking for something to do and moping. After a half assed search for some way to entertain yourself, you find an old novel you or Jake must’ve left in here a few months ago — you remember starting it and getting bored, but you’re already knee deep in boredom with no way out, so you decide to give it another try.

You sit in the bed of Jacob’s truck where it’s parked in the back of the shed, legs swinging over the edge. The rain drums rhythmically above you as you start reading. It takes about ten pages for you to get bored again, and five more for your mind to start wandering.

You think about how you could’ve been out shopping right now. Looking at all the lovely dresses in the new store they opened near the cinema. Sorting through books at the second-hand bookstore. Choosing a pretty new bra that you know Jacob would love seeing on you, and taking off of you. The thought gives you an idea. Unceremoniously, you give up on the book and slide off the truck bed, crossing the room to Jacob.

He doesn’t lift his head as you come up behind him, but acknowledges you with a brush of his knuckle to your thigh. You stand over him for a moment, watching him work. He looks hot when he’s concentrated, eyes trained in on his work, jaw set in concentration, arms muscles straining as he twists a particularly stubborn screw. He’s got big, strong hands, which only fuel your desire even more. What’s the best way to drag him away from his work?

“Did you want to help?” Jacob asks without looking up, interrupting your thoughts. You’re lucky he doesn’t catch you staring, or he’d figure out your plan in an instant.

You shake your head. “No. I’m just watching you.”

Jacob hums and goes back to what he’s doing, which happens to involve a lot of strained muscles as he tightens another loose screw with a wrench. You’re holding your breath as you watch his tanned bicep strain beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, and yeah, you’re a minx, but he’s really hot, and you don’t think anyone would blame you for reaching out and touching him.

Jacob doesn’t startle under your touch nor does he acknowledge it. You play it off casual, like you’re only rubbing his shoulder, palm gliding over the hill of it. You can feel his abnormally high body heat through his t-shirt, a nice change from the cold air. You find yourself pushing your hand down the expanse of his shoulder blade and up again, pressing the heel of your palm into his muscle.

Jacob sighs a little under your touch and rolls his shoulder back, leaning into your hand.

“Feels nice,” he murmurs.

You grin. This far into your relationship you’ve learnt that Jacob is a lot like a puppy when it comes to physical affection — he’s a total sucker for it, he melts for shoulder rubs and back scratches, and he turns to complete putty in your hands when you play with his hair (though you won’t implement that just yet.)

Instead, you just hum softly, smiling to yourself as you press both hands to his shoulders. He’s equally warm and muscled all over, and at this point it would take a hoard of vampires to hold you back from touching him. You get a good grip on his shoulders and push your palms into his muscles, massaging him.

It’s mean, because you know what it’ll do to him, know exactly what kind of mood it gets him into. Still, it’s not until you start to push your hands further up towards his neck that he confronts you.

He turns to face you, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Did you want something, sweetheart?” He asks, and you can tell you’ve begun to unravel him by the way he says it, plus he’s called you sweetheart, which almost certainly means he’ll give in.

You feign innocence, though the look on his face almost unravels you.

“Nope,” you lie. “Just watching.”

Jacob raises his eyebrows at you. “You sure? You’re being awfully touchy.”

“You’re really warm,” you say, shrugging.

Jacob squints at you, then shrugs. “If you say so,” he says, and (looking like he’s exercising quite a bit of restraint) turns back to his bike.

You stay where you are and give him about five minutes of peace before you start being cruel. Keeping one hand at the base of his neck, you slide the other up the back of it, pushing up into his hair. You card your fingers through the short strands at the very nape of his neck, and Jacob goes very still. You think he’s holding his breath. When you push your hand further up into the longer strands, and let your nails drag over his scalp on the way back down, he folds.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs. He drops his tools, scrubs his hands on his jeans and spins on you, hooking one leg over the wooden bench, straddling it so he can properly face you. He‘s giving you a dangerous look that makes your heart race. Finally.

You blink at him, a picture of innocence. “What’s the matter?” You ask sweetly, though you know your smile gives you away. As if you weren’t caught red handed already.

Jacob huffs and rolls his eyes, before grabbing your hips and pulling you forward roughly. You go tumbling into his lap and he catches you, hands hot on your jeans, adjusting you until you’re properly sitting in his lap. Your legs fall on either side of his hips and you giggle, pleased and flustered at his manhandling.

Jacob gives you a somewhat disapproving look, though his thumb rubs fond circles into the fat of your hip.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” He says in a low voice. His eyes flicker to your lips. He looks a bit like he wants to eat you.

“Sorry,” you say. You are kind of sorry for disturbing him, but the heat building in your chest outweighs the guilt. “I was really bored.”

Jacob laughs through his nose. “Yeah, I know, babe.” He spread his hands over your hips and butt and pulls you closer still. Your hands end up on his shoulders again. “You always know how to get what you want, huh?”

Something about the way he’s talking to you makes you so dizzy you can’t speak. You’re silent as Jacob dips his head to press a kiss to one of your wrists, then takes it in his hand and guides your hand up his neck and back into his hair.

“Keep going?” He asks in a quiet voice, encouraging your hand around the back of his head. “Please?”

Well, when he asks like that, how could you say no? You curl your fingers into his hair and Jacob barely gives you time to breathe before he’s kissing you, mouth landing on yours in the sort of kiss you can only describe as desperate. You’re equal amounts of needy as him, pushing forward in his lap and grabbing at his hair with greedy hands.

The rain thunders overhead. Jacob tilts his head, kissing you until your lips part under the pressure. His tongue slips into your mouth and your stomach swarms with butterflies. You grip Jacob’s hair harder, ensuing a sound from him like an angry dog, half moan half growl. It seems your touching earlier got him in exactly the mood you knew it would.

It’s not long before his hands start to wander. First your ass, then your arms, rubbing up and down as he kisses you hard enough to make you forget where you are. Then back to your hips, and you can feel the scalding heat of his hands through your jeans. He grabs you and tugs you further up his lap, close enough that your legs spread as you press against his bulge.

“Jake,” you whisper.

“Mmm,” he moans back. Then pulls away just an inch, lips swollen and forehead pressed to yours. “What, babe?”

You shake your head, breathless. “Nothing, just feels nice when you do that.”

Jacob ducks in to kiss you again. “Yeah?” He murmurs between hot kisses, sounding both pleased and a bit dangerous.

You nod your head, and it’s all it takes for Jacob to rock you against him again, pushing his hips up into yours as he goes. You moan and Jacob makes a similar sound from the back of his throat, heating you all the way through.

It quickly turns into not just kissing after that. Jacob’s kisses turn sloppy. You push your hands under his shirt to feel along the ridges and planes of his chest and abdomen, his skin like a furnace. Jacob guides your hips forward and back and forward again, grinding you against him slowly and breathing hard into your open mouth.

You forget about the rain, the pounding of your heart much louder than the downpour outside. You forget about the cold, your failed shopping trip, and the boring book abandoned in the bed of the truck.

It’s not long before Jacob’s got his hand on your thigh and a warm ache sweet as honey has bloomed between your legs.

Jacob’s busy kissing at your neck, bullying your skin with his teeth and tongue while you go breathless. His hand trudges further and further up your thigh until it’s high enough to abuse the waistband of your jeans.

His hand roves along the length of it, until he reaches the button. He tugs at it, mumbling into your neck a barely intelligible, “Can I?”

You nod vigorously, and your breath catches as he unfastens the button — his thumb skims over your underwear and you make a needy sound you can’t help.

Jacob emerges from your neck, smirking like mad. You’d say you hate him for it, but his thumb is tracing the hem of your underwear and you can’t speak.

“Not so bored now, huh?” Jacob teases in a low voice, but he’s out of breath too. You’ll tease him later for how quickly you managed to unravel him, but right now you can’t form more than two words.

“Shut up,” you manage, then make sure of it by pressing your mouth to his again.

He shuts up.

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

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sweetlovepascal · 10 days ago

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closed doors

pairings harry castillo x reader

summary you had his cock in your mouth under the desk when his clueless assistant walked in with a clipboard in hand, rambling about contracts while harry kept a straight face, only to bend you over that same desk the second the door closed as he fucked you like the spoiled little brat you are.

“do you feel me? this is how deep i am inside you.”

content nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (office setting), rich bratty reader, power dynamics. established relationship, unspecified age gap. proceed with care.

masterlist

you’re curled up on the velvet chaise in the corner of harry’s sleek glass-walled office, swinging one leg lazily, wearing a minidress that really shouldn't be appropriate for a business visit. but it’s harry. and you’re not just anyone.

he’s seated at his desk, speaking sharply into a call. you watch the way he moves.

fingers tapping, jaw tight, voice low and commanding.

and he hasn’t looked at you in twenty full minutes.

you rise slowly, crossing the polished floor without a word. he notices you in his peripheral but keeps speaking.

you perch on the edge of his desk. then slip down beneath it.

"get—get that document signed by noon," he says tightly.

you grin against the fine wool of his trousers as your fingers slowly trace his thigh. you tease.

you take your time undoing his belt. he’s gripping the desk now.

harry pauses, hand covering the mic. “don’t start something you can’t finish,”

you look up through your lashes, sugary sweet. “watch me.”

you palm him first, lazily, until he’s thick and twitching beneath your touch.

you draw his big thing out and lean forward to press a kiss to his tip. not a real kiss. a tease.

you swirl your tongue around the head. slow and wicked.

harry’s voice falters on the phone. “yes, we’ll finalize the contract.”

your tongue flicks the underside of his crown, and he grips the desk with white knuckles.

you don’t take him in yet. you smile, kiss him again. whisper, “why aren’t you watching me, harry?”

harry end the call and finally looks down. his jaw tight and eyes dark.

just as you begin to close your mouth around him, there’s a knock.

“mr. castillo?”

you pause. look up. smirk.

“let him in.”

harry glares at you like he might drag you to hell. then clears his throat.

“come in.”

his assistant walks in, clipboard in hand. business as usual.

except you’re still under the desk.

you drag your tongue up his shaft. slow strokes of your hand. sucking just the tip, softly. he bites the inside of his cheek.

“move the contract to next week,” he says, voice strained. “and tell legal to revise clause four.”

the assistant eyes him warily. “are you sure, sir? you told legal to finalize it today.”

harry clears his throat, jaw flexing. “yes. i changed my mind.”

there’s a beat of awkward silence. you suck him deeper.

“sir… you seem a little… tense,” the assistant says hesitantly.

harry’s voice is hoarse. “it’s been a long day.”

“would you like me to reschedule your 3 p.m.?”

you flick your tongue. harry exhales sharply. “no. keep it. anything else?”

the assistant flips a page. “only the fundraising gala. you’re supposed to finalize your guest list.”

harry locks eyes with the wall. “i'll put you on it.”

pause. “me?”

harry’s voice turns deadly calm. “do you need me to spell it out?”

“no, sir. i’ll take care of it.”

when the door finally closes behind the assistant, harry's grip is firm when he yanks you up from under the desk, and he doesn’t say a word at first.

not with his jaw clenched like that, not with his cock slick from your mouth and his knuckles white from how hard he’d gripped the chair.

"you want to act like a brat in my office?” he hisses. “fine.”

he throws you onto the desk, dress bunched at your hips.

you gasp, breath catching. he slides your panties with one hand, the other tight at your back.

“now you get to take it.”

“hands on the desk,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and command all at once.

you obey without question, your palms on the cool wood.

the city stretches behind the glass walls, glittering and unaware. this world. yours and harry’s.

his hand drags down the curve of your spine as he steps behind you.

“you know what this does to me,” he says, breath rough at your ear. “knowing no one can see you like this but me.”

you glance back at him with a playful glint in your eyes.

harry slides in from behind in one long, punishing thrust. your moan shatters the quiet.

he moves inside you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft against your skin. “you undo me.”

“you wanna tease me like that again? make me sit through a meeting with your lips wrapped around my cock?” you nod.

“you’re soaked, i could live inside you.”

he thrusts hard. the desk shakes. you cry out.

“you gonna be good now?” he pants.

you grin through glassy eyes. “probably not.”

“then i’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” he brushes your hair back and presses a kiss on your shoulder.

he keeps moving inside you. the city glows, but he’s the one setting you alight.

“this little act of yours,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck between movements, “your mouth on me with my assistant a feet away…”

“you let him in,” you gasp, voice shaking. “you could’ve said no.”

he laughs against your skin, deep and breathless. “you’d already wrapped me around your finger.”

you arch into him, and his rhythm falters. harry groans your name like it’s sacred.

“you’re mine,” he says,

you breathe. “i’m yours.”

“you are. every spoiled inch of you.”

his hand slips from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back against him while he keeps moving inside you slower now.

“do you feel me?” he murmurs at your ear. “this is how deep i am inside you.”

when you come, shaking around him with your cheek pressed to the desk and his name breaking in your throat, he follows with a low shuddering moan and a kiss to your shoulder.

he’s gives you all the parts of him no one else gets.

when he pulls out, he doesn’t move far. just wraps an arm around your waist and rests his forehead to your back, breath still uneven.

#harry castillo x reader #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fic #pedro pascal imagines #materialists #x reader #pedrohub #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #sweetlovepascal

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spookysanta · 2 months ago

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The Stack Effect. (1/3) (MBJ)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: smut

listen. i know everyone likes smoke, okay? but there's something about that slick-mouthed stack that makes me (s)cream. anyway. part 2 will be out tomorrow.

She really thought she could handle it.

He’d told her what the look was going to be. She’d seen the early character mockups. Even helped him pick out which rings looked best under camera lighting.

But nothing prepared her for the real thing.

Nothing prepared her for Stack.

The moment she stepped on set, she knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t just the grills or the button-down or even the perfectly-tailored suit. It was the walk. The posture. The voice that turned every word into something that lingered too long in the air.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even looked at her yet.

He was finishing up a shot with Ryan, leaning against a vintage car like he belonged to another time. Gold tooth catching sunlight. Chain resting against his chest. A cigarette between his fingers that he didn’t even smoke, just held for the aesthetic. The way he moved — slow, confident, swaggering — made her skin prickle.

She was supposed to be dropping off lunch.

She forgot all about the food the second he laughed.

The sound hit her low in her gut. Dangerous. Like something out of a dream she’d forgotten to wake up from. Heat rose beneath her skin, her stomach fluttering as she tried to breathe past the ache blooming in her chest.

She lingered by the edge of set, trying to act unbothered. One of the costume assistants passed her and grinned knowingly.

“He’s in character today,” they said. “Deep. Like, don’t-even-call-him-Michael deep.”

Great.

She tried not to stare. She did. But then the crew wrapped the shot, and he turned. Eyes on her like he’d known she was there the whole time.

And that damn smile.

Gold teeth flashing. Dimples on low simmer.

He nodded once to the crew. Said something quiet to the director, then headed straight for her.

Her mouth went dry.

She tucked her phone into her bag, shifted her weight, did everything except run, because that’s what her body wanted to do.

He didn’t speak until they were close.

Closer.

Everyone else peeled away. The set crew thinned. It was just the two of them now.

And he was still in character.

“You bringin’ me somethin’, baby girl?” he asked, voice slow and Southern and laced with heat.

She swallowed. Hard.

“Lunch,” she croaked.

He tilted his head, took the bag from her hands without breaking eye contact.

“That so?”

“You said you were hungry,” she added quickly, trying to pull her composure together.

He leaned in, just a bit.

“I am hungry,” he murmured, glancing down her body before looking back up. “But not for food.”

Her breath caught. A shiver ran down her spine.

He smirked.

Then he turned and started walking.

She didn’t realize where they were going until she saw the trailer door swing open.

He held it for her.

“Ladies first.”

She stepped inside. He followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence.

And then he was on her.

“You been starin’ at me like that since you got here,” he said, voice low, hands gripping her waist. “Like I ain’t yours. Like you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” she whispered.

He kissed her jaw, slow and messy, teeth scraping skin. “You sure? You actin’ real shy now. Where’s that mouth from this mornin’?”

“Michael—”

“Stack,” he snapped gently, tugging her closer. “When I look like this? You call me by my name.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And then he smiled. The kind that promised nothing good.

“Go on and get comfortable, darlin’,” he drawled, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the small couch inside the trailer. “I’m gon’ take my time with you.”

And he did.

Her back hit the cushions and his hands were everywhere — sliding beneath her blouse, tugging down the waistband of her pants, thumbing the insides of her thighs until she was gasping. The heat between her legs pulsed like a heartbeat. Every movement was deliberate, teasing, until her hips were arching off the couch in search of friction.

He took his time. Mouthing at her breasts, dragging his teeth over sensitive skin, licking a stripe down her center until she cried out his name — the wrong name.

“Stack,” she gasped, thighs trembling.

He grinned up at her, lips slick. “That’s more like it.”

For the rest of the lunch break, she forgot who she was. Forgot what day it was. Forgot her own name.

All she remembered was his voice in her ear.

And that gold tooth grinning down at her every time she moaned his.

#michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #michael b jordan #michael b jordan smut #x reader #x black reader #x black woman

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flwrstqr · 2 months ago

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[ .. ] DREAM ✶. WHEN THEY CALL YOU "WIFE"

𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗖 ᪲ 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆, 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ '𝒏. ｡ boyfriend!enha & fem!rea 7OO ୨୧ fluff reaction imagines ✶ petnames skinship ◜ᯅ◝ 𝑙’ click

note. a remake of my old fic part like whatever.. but i hope you enjoy ! was fun remaking a fics >_< i promise i'll write more newer ones in the future

LEE HEESEUNG

you’re curled up on the couch with heeseung, his arm lazily draped over your shoulders, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles your skin under his hoodie—well, technically his hoodie, but you’ve claimed it. he leans in closer, as he whispers, “you’re so pretty, my wife.” you tilt your head with a teasing grin. “who’s wife? i don’t see a ring.” his eyes sparkle, lips tugging into that cocky smirk you know all too well as he murmurs, “yet.” the word slides off his tongue, and it sends butterflies straight to your stomach. you swat his chest with a laugh, but he just pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck. “mm, my baby’s shy,” he coos, “but you’ll look so good with my last name.” "heeseung!"

PARK JAY

jay’s sitting beside you on the bed, one arm casually slung around your waist, the other scrolling through his phone as he chats with his assistant on the call. “yeah, that one in beige—my wife loves neutral tones. oh, and add the matching wallet. she’s been eyeing that set for weeks.” you blink. once. twice. slowly turning your head toward him like did he just— “what did you just call me?” you whisper, stunned, your hand frozen mid-air with a chip halfway to your mouth. jay ends the call soon after, locking his phone before turning to you with a grin, his voice all warmth and silk. “wife,” he repeats, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you don’t like it?” you roll your eyes, “you can’t just say stuff like that and expect me to breathe, jay.”

SIM JAKE

you’re perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging as jake rummages through the cabinets for snacks, mumbling to himself until he finds your favorite. “got it—knew my wife would want this one,” he says so casually. you blink, head tilting. he turns around, already grinning like he knows what he did. you squint, “okay then… thanks, husband.” his brain short-circuits. the bag of chips nearly slips from his hands as he stares at you, mouth slightly open, cheeks turning pink. “wait—say that again. no, actually, one more time. please.” he’s already walking back to you, standing between your legs, hands resting on your waist. “baby, say it again. call me that again. i’ll literally do anything—buy you a house, a puppy, a whole island.” you giggle, tugging him closer by the shirt. “relax, husband.” he melts. fully. game over.

PARK SUNGHOON

you’re leaning against the counter, sipping water while scrolling on your phone when sunghoon walks past, grabbing his keys and murmuring, “i’ll be back in ten, wife.” it’s so smooth, so casual, like he says it every day. your fingers freeze mid-scroll, blinking slowly like you didn’t just hear the man you’ve been secretly in love with drop that word. you try to play it cool, lips twitching as you mumble, “mm? what was that?” he glances over his shoulder, one brow raised, deadpan. “i said i’ll be back, wife.” your smile creeps in before you can stop it, trying to bite your lip to hide how dumbly happy you look. he sees it, of course—he always does—but just smirks as he leaves the door. “lock the door behind me, babe,” he calls out, like he didn’t just casually claim your whole heart and future.

KIM SUNOO

you were rummaging through the kitchen cabinets when sunoo, curled up on the couch in his oversized hoodie, called out casually, “wife, can you grab the honey too?” and you froze. blinked. slowly turned around with wide eyes. “wait… what’d you just say?” he looked up, confused for a second, then grinned when he realized. “i said wife. what about it, baby?” your brain short-circuited instantly. wife?? wife?! he’s never called you that before. were you missing a proposal?? did he mean it?? was he teasing?? “why would you say that so casually like it’s not a whole wedding vow??” he laughed, arms wrapping around you, “because you feel like home already. and i like calling you mine.” and that was it. brain gone.

YANG JUNGWON

you were sitting on the floor, legs tangled with jungwon’s as you helped him fold laundry, when he mumbled, “thanks, my pretty wife,” while handing you a shirt. your hands froze mid-fold. wife? you whipped your head around, face already heating up. “wait.. did you just call me 'wife'?” you asked, wide-eyed. he blinked innocently before smirking, that dimple making an appearance. “i said wife. sounds right, doesn’t it?” you immediately buried your face in his chest, groaning, “stoppp, why would you say that so casually?” he chuckled, arms wrapping around you as you tried to hide your flustered state. “because you are gonna be my wife someday,” he whispered into your hair, making your heart explode. his voice was too soft, his smile too sweet—how were you supposed to survive this boy? you clutched his hoodie tighter, face still burning. god, you were so hopelessly in love with him.

NISHIMURA RIKI

you were half-listening as riki chatted with his friend, scrolling on your phone until you heard him say, “yeah, my wife likes that too.” and you froze. your head snapped around so fast. “your what now? who’s your wife??” you demanded, staring him down like he just confessed to having a whole secret family. he blinked at you, deadpan. “you. you idiot.” you gawked. “oh. oh.” he burst out laughing, tugging you into his side. “thought i had a side chick or something, huh?” he teased. “maybe i do… but she’s you." “you’re so stupid, riki,” you mumbled, burying your face in his hoodie. “but you like being called wife, huh?” he whispered, grinning. “shut up.” “wife.” “riki, i swear—” “wiiife.” lord, you were never living this down.

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rafayelxsylusho · 3 months ago

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How do the LADS men react when they catch you reading smut. 🫣 Part 4

I present to you brat tamer Zayne, enjoy!!

TW: Smut

Part 1 (Xavier)

Part 2 (Caleb)

Part 3 (Sylus)

Part 5 (Rafayel)

You step into the cozy restaurant, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the biting winter chill outside. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, making your mouth water. You spot Zayne already seated at your usual table by the window, he looks up as you approach, hazel green eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Sorry I'm late," you apologize, sliding into the seat across from him.

"It's fine, I already ordered the usual is that ok?"

You nod, smiling warmly at Zayne as you take off your coat and drape it over the back of the chair. "That's perfect, thank you."

"How's work? I'm glad we could squeeze in this lunch date today, I've really missed seeing your face these past couple of days, Zayne." You offer him a playful smile, your cheeks flushing slightly as your eyes meet his intense gaze.

You listen intently as Zayne speaks, noticing the slight furrow in his brow and the weariness in his voice. "Busy" doesn't even begin to cover it, you think to yourself. He's been running himself ragged at the hospital, pouring every ounce of his brilliant mind and skilled hands into saving lives. It's what he does, what he lives for - but it also means long hours, missed meals, and precious little sleep.

As the waiter arrives with your shared meal, you dive in enthusiastically, savoring each bite. About halfway through, Zayne's phone begins to buzz on the tabletop. He glances down at the screen, his brow furrowing with apology as he meets your gaze.

"I'm so sorry love, but I need to take this call. It's one of the surgeons from the cardiac ward." He stands up, already moving towards the entrance of the restaurant. "I'll just be a moment." Over his shoulder he tosses a reassuring smile your way before stepping outside, the door swinging shut behind him.

You quickly finish the rest of your meal, knowing that your stolen moment with Zayne is fast slipping away. As you set down your utensils with a soft clink, the restaurant door swings open, ushering in a gust of cold air and Zayne's tall frame.

He strides over to you, his expression a mix of apology and urgency. "I'm so sorry about that. A patient's condition took a turn and I need to get back to the hospital immediately." He reaches for his coat, already shrugging it on as he speaks. "I'll give you a ride back to the Deepspace HQ, if that works for you. I know it's not ideal, but..." He trails off, hazel eyes filled with regret as they meet yours.

You feel a flicker of annoyance spark through you at the interruption, your voice reflecting a hint of that irritation as you respond. "Fine, Zayne. A ride back is fine." You start gathering your belongings and you slip your arms back into your coat with a sigh.

"I understand your work is important, but..." You pause, meeting his gaze with a pointed look. "I thought we could have a bit more time together today. Just the two of us." The words come out with a slight edge, betraying your disappointment at the cut-short lunch date. Still, you know better than anyone the gravity of his responsibilities at the hospital.

Swallowing your frustration, you offer him a small smile. "But of course, your patients need you. Let's get going." With that, you stand up, ready to follow him out to the car.

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As Zayne starts the car, the engine purring to life beneath you, you settle into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt with a soft click, the interior is warm and cozy. You turn to face him, ready to strike up a conversation, eager to catch up on the lost time. But before you can utter a word, his phone begins to ring once more, the shrill tone piercing the relative quiet of the car.

You let out a sigh, feeling your shoulders slump slightly as you lean back against the leather seat. Zayne glances over at you apologetically, one hand gripping the steering wheel.

It's been too long since you've had Zayne to yourself, too many nights spent aching for his touch, for the feeling of his skin against yours. The phone rings again, a second time, the sound grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. You know his work is vital, lives literally depend on his brilliance and skill, but damn it, don't you deserve some of his time too? Don't you need him just as desperately?

As Zayne answers his phone, you hear the concern in his voice, the urgency in his tone. You know instantly that this call is going to take longer than the short ride back to HQ, and that your chance to catch up, to steal a few intimate moments, is slipping away once more. With a sigh, you reach into your bag and pull out your headphones, you take your phone from your pocket, tapping the audiobook app open with your thumb. You click on a novel you bought recently, a romance story that had drawn you in from the very first chapter, a tale of love and passion that you had been eager to lose yourself in. You tap the play button, the soothing voice of the narrator filling your ears as you settle back into the leather seat, letting the story unfold around you.

Suddenly, you remember the part where you left off, the male and female leads, both strong willed and passionate, had been locked in a heated argument. Their voices, filled with frustration and unspoken emotions.

You listen intently, feeling the intensity of their disagreement, the way their words cut through the air like a knife. But as quickly as it began, the tone shifts. The anger in their voices softens, replaced by a charged silence that hangs heavy with unspoken desires. You hold your breath, feeling the tension building between them.

Suddenly, in a moment that catches you off guard, their fight turns into something else entirely. The passion behind their words transforms, morphing into a raw hunger that you can feel through the speakers. Their argument turns into a battle of a different sort, a war of touch, taste and need.

You sit up straighter in your seat, your heart starting to race as the scene unfolds in your headphones. The male lead's dominant actions send a shiver down your spine, his forceful yet tender touches painting a vivid picture in your mind. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you listen to the female protagonist's breathy gasps and needy whimpers, her body responding to his skilled ministrations.

A sudden ache throbs between your thighs, a longing that you didn't even realize you had been suppressing. The way he takes control, commanding her body and mind, ignites something deep within you. His dominance, his raw masculinity, the way he makes her his... it's everything you've been craving without even realizing it. Your fingers clutch at the hem of your shirt, your knuckles turning white as you grip the fabric tightly. The car feels hotter now, the air thick with a tension that mirrors the scene playing out in your imagination.

You feel Zayne's fingers tap gently on your arm, the sensation jolting you out of the heated scene unfolding in your mind. Startled, you jump slightly, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to face him. With a slightly trembling hand, you remove one of your headphones, allowing his voice to filter through the lingering echoes of the audiobook.

"We've arrived" Zayne says, his deep voice cutting through the haze of your lustful thoughts. You blink up at him, realizing that in your distraction, you hadn't even noticed the car coming to a stop outside the towering building that houses your workplace.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were already here," you murmur, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Thank you for the ride," you say reaching for the door handle. As you step out of the car, the chilly winter air hits your flushed skin and you pull your coat tighter around you.

Before you close the passenger door you hear him call your name again. "Y/N, wait," he calls out, his deep voice reaching your ears as he mutes his phone call "Don't forget, you have an appointment scheduled with me today for your monthly check-up."

You nod, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. "I know, I haven't forgotten. I'll be there, Dr. Zayne," you roll your eyes at him as you close the door. The way his title slips from your tongue feels strangely intimate.

You slip your headphone back into your ear, eager to catch the last few minutes of the heated scene unfolding in your audiobook. The narrator's deep, soothing voice fills your ear once more as you turn to walk towards the headquarters building. You have about twenty minutes left of your lunch break, and you're determined to make the most of that time

As you walk, you reach into your coat pocket to retrieve your phone, intending to rewind the last few minutes of the audiobook that you had missed. However, as your fingers search the depths of your coat, a sense of unease begins to creep in. Your phone, usually nestled securely in your pocket, is nowhere to be found. You pause on the sidewalk, patting at your other pockets, a growing sense of panic rising in your chest.

Suddenly, the narrator's voice falls silent in your ears, the audiobook coming to an abrupt end as your headphone loses its connection to your misplaced device. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, in your distracted state, in the haze of lust and longing that the audiobook had induced, you must have left your phone behind in Zayne's car.

"Fuck"

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Later that day, you find yourself sitting in the modern waiting room outside Zayne's office, your knee bouncing nervously as you await your monthly check-up. The white walls and the faint scent of disinfectant do little to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You can't shake the feeling of embarrassment that has been lingering since you realized your phone, and with it, your audiobook, were left behind in Zayne's car.

As you sit there, your mind wanders back to the heated scene you'd been listening to, the male lead's dominant actions and the female protagonist's responses echoing in your thoughts. You had been so engrossed, so lost in the intimate moment, that you can't help but cringe at the idea of Zayne potentially overhearing even a snippet of it. The thought of him knowing what you had been craving, the desires that had been stirring within you, makes your cheeks flush a deep shade of red.

You try to push the thoughts away, taking a deep breath to compose yourself as you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. The door to Zayne's office swings open, revealing his tall, broad shouldered frame. He's changed out of the dress shirt and tie he had on earlier, now wearing a crisp white lab coat that accentuates his professional demeanor. His hazel eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of something in their depths but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cool, collected gaze of your doctor.

You rise from the chair, your legs feeling a bit unsteady as you walk towards Zayne's office. As you brush past him, you feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air between you. It's enough to make your heart race and your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red.

The room feels both intimidating and comforting, a testament to his brilliance and dedication to his craft. You perch yourself on the edge of the exam table, smoothing your skirt over your thighs as you try to calm the nervous energy coursing through you.

Zayne closes the door behind him, the click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. You watch as he approaches, his movements efficient and focused as always. A glimmer of hope sparks within you at the realization that perhaps he hadn't overheard the explicit scene from your audiobook after all. Some phones are known to stop playing media once disconnected from headphones, aren't they? Maybe, just maybe, yours was one of those right?

"Alright, let's begin love, we only have 15 minutes" Zayne says, his voice low and smooth as he reaches for his stethoscope. He listens intently to your heartbeat The cool metal of the stethoscope sends a shiver through you, making you all too aware of the intimate proximity of his body to yours.

Zayne's brow furrows as he listens to your heartbeat, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with a questioning gaze. He removes the stethoscope from your chest, letting it rest around his neck as he reaches for your wrist, his long fingers finding your pulse point with practiced ease.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he notes. His thumb brushes over your skin, the sensation sending a small jlt of electricity through you. "Did you run here?

You shake your head as he places the stethoscope against your chest once more, urging you to take a deep breath. As you inhale, your lungs expand, your ribcage rising gently. But as you exhale, you feel your breath catch, the air leaving your lungs in a shaky, uneven stream.

Zayne's brow furrows again, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He listens intently to your breathing, his head tilted slightly as he focuses on the sound. After a long moment, he straightens up, allowing the stethoscope to rest around his neck once more.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice filled with a gentler concern. "Your breathing is a bit erratic. And your cheeks are flushed..." He trails off, his gaze drifting over your face, taking in the deep red hue that still paints your skin.

Before you can answer you feel Zayne's body heat radiating against you as he leans in closer, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangle in your hair. Your heart races, your breath catching in your throat as you think, for a moment, that he might close the distance between you and press his lips to yours.

"Were you in the emergency room two days ago?"

His words reach your ears, and the spell is broken. Your eyes widen in surprise as you realize that he's not about to kiss you at all. Instead, he's demanding an explanation for something far more serious.

"W-what?" you stammer out, your voice coming out sounding more breathless than intended. "I don't know what you're talking about, Zayne."

Zayne's eyes narrow, his grip on the back of your head tightening slightly. "Don't play dumb with me, Y/N" his voice low and dangerous. "I just got off the phone with Dr. Greyson. He told me that you were in the emergency room two days ago after a run in with a pair of wanderers. Is that true?"

You roll your eyes, trying to brush off Zayne's concern with a dismissive gesture. "It was nothing serious, Zayne," you insist, your voice taking on a slightly defensive tone. "I just... I passed out, that's all. It happens sometimes after a tough hunt."

You can see the frustration flashing in his eyes, his jaw clenching slightly as he takes in your words. He's not convinced, and you can tell that your attitude has only served to anger him further.

"Nothing serious?" he repeats, his voice rising slightly. "You could have been killed. Those creatures are dangerous, and you know the risks better than anyone."

You swallow hard, feeling a flicker of guilt for not telling him sooner. But you also feel a spark of defiance, a stubbornness that rears its head in the face of his disapproval.

"I had it under control," you argue, your chin jutting out slightly as you meet his intense gaze. "I've been training for this, Zayne. I know what I'm doing." Even as you say the words, you can't help but think of the way your heart had raced, the way your vision had started to tunnel before everything went black. Had you really had it under control? Or had you been in over your head, just as Zayne seemed to think?

You blink, wondering if you imagined the hint of a smirk on his lips. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a stern, disapproving frown. You can't be sure if it was a reaction to your defiant words or if it was a fleeting moment of amusement at your stubbornness.

With a sigh, Zayne releases his grip on the back of your head and steps away. He moves to sit behind his desk, the sleek chair creaking softly as it accepts his weight.

"Come sit down, Y/N," he says, his voice still tinged with that underlying frustration.

You feel a flicker of unease as you make your way over to the chair. Settling into the seat in front of him, you smooth your skirt over your thighs, suddenly feeling self conscious under Zayne's scrutiny.

"I said, come sit down but I never said where, did I?"

"Oh," you breathe out, suddenly feeling flustered. Your gaze darts down to his thighs, where his fingers tap impatiently against the fabric of his dress pants. The gesture is both commanding and intimate.

You stand up from the chair, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a tentative step towards him. But before you can sit down on his lap, as he so blatantly implied, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar object. Your eyes widen in surprise and a flicker of panic as you recognize it as your phone.

"Were you looking for this?" Zayne asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. A wave of embarrassment crashes over you, your cheeks burning hotter than before. You can only imagine the thoughts running through Zayne's mind, the conclusions he must be drawing about your... tastes. The realization that he now knows about your secret desire for dominant men hits you like a punch to the gut.

Zayne, I..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you try to formulate a coherent response. But what can you say? How can you possibly explain the fact that you've been craving the very thing he's always held himself back from giving you?

"Your taste in literature is quite interesting love" The way he says "love" sends a shiver down your spine, the single syllable dripping with a raw intensity that makes your knees feel weak.

Zayne leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his shifting weight. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, he's enjoying this, enjoying the way your embarrassment and flustered state have given him the upper hand.

Zayne glances at his watch, his brow furrowing slightly as he takes in the time. "Will you look at that," he murmurs "We only have five minutes left, so I suppose there won't be a chance for you to sit... anymore." His gaze rakes over your body, his eyes lingering on your curves in a way that makes your heart race.

You reach out for your phone, your fingers brushing against Zayne's as you attempt to take it from his hand. But at the last moment, you hesitate, pulling your hand back as if burned. The sudden movement causes the phone to slip from Zayne's grasp, tumbling down to land softly on the plush carpet at your feet.

Without a word, you sink down to your knees, the soft fibers of the carpet cushioning your legs. You lean forward, your hair falling over your shoulder as you reach for your phone. As your hand closes around the device, you pause, your gaze drifting up to meet Zayne's.

He's watching you intently, his eyes dark and unreadable. You can't help but smirk up at him, your lips curving into a playful grin, phone clutched in your hand.

His eyes widen in surprise as your hand suddenly drops the phone again and reaches for his belt. Before he can react or push your hands away, the ring of his office phone pierces the air, startling you both.

Seizing the brief distraction, you waste no time in your actions. Your fingers unbuckle his belt, the leather strap slipping free with a soft clink. Zayne's breath hitches, his body stiffening slightly as your hands move lower, grasping his zipper. With a slow tug, you lower his zipper, the metal teeth parting company with a soft hiss.

Zayne's eyes, which had been flicking towards the ringing phone, snap back to you as he realizes your intentions. His gaze is intense, blazing with a mix of shock, desire, and restrained hunger. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the words die on his lips as you reach inside his boxers and wrap your hand around his hardening length.

His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, already stiffening and swelling from your touch. You can feel the weight of it, the thick vein running along the underside, the velvety soft skin that sheathes the rock hard flesh beneath. A thrill of power surges through you as you realize the effect you have on him, the way his body responds to your touch despite his attempts to maintain control.

Zayne's jaw clenches, his eyes never leaving yours as he struggles to regain his composure. The phone continues to ring, its shrill cry growing more insistent, demanding his attention. But in this moment, his gaze is solely focused on you, his body trembling slightly as you stroke his now fully erect cock.

You freeze as a knock sounds on the door, the sharp rap of knuckles against wood jolting you like a shock of electricity. Acting on pure instinct, you quickly duck down, hiding yourself beneath Zayne's desk just as the door begins to open. The plush carpet brushes against your skin as you crouch there, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath before Zayne is pushing his chair forward, the wheels rolling smoothly across the carpet. The sudden movement catches you off guard, and before you can react, his chair is pressed flush against the desk, leaving you with no room, to hide his now fully exposed and throbbing erection.

You can hear the creak of the door hinges as it swings open, the sound of footsteps entering the room. Zayne clears his throat, his voice slightly hoarse as he greets his visitor.

"Yes, Yvonne, what is it?"

You can hear the faint rustle of fabric as Yvonne moves closer to the desk. "Dr. Zayne, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to let you know that your next patient, Mrs. Hartley, called to cancel her appointment for this afternoon. And I've just checked the schedule, you don't have any more appointments booked for today."

As Yvonne speaks, you find yourself face to face with Zayne's throbbing erection, the swollen head mere inches from your lips. The musky, masculine scent of his arousal fills your nostrils, making your head spin with desire. Unable to resist the temptation, you lean forward slightly, your parted lips brushing against the sensitive flesh.

Zayne inhales sharply through his teeth, his body tensing above you as your mouth envelops the head of his cock. His hand grips the armrest of his chair, knuckles turning white as he fights to maintain his composure.

"Is that all, Yvonne?" Zayne asks, his voice strained as he tries to keep it level. The effort it takes for him to maintain his professional demeanor is clear in the tightness of his jaw, the slight waver in his tone.

You can only imagine the show of willpower it must take for him to keep himself from reacting, from giving away the secret that you're hidden beneath his desk, your lips wrapped around his cock. The risk of getting caught only adds to the thrill, the forbidden nature of your actions sending a fresh surge of heat rushing through your veins.

"Well I have your schedule for tomorrow, do you want to go over it or should I just email it to you?"

"Just... just email it to me" he manages to grit out, his voice tighter than before. The sensation of your tongue dragging along the sensitive underside of his cock is making it increasingly difficult for him to think straight, let alone carry on a coherent conversation.

Yvonne hesitates for a moment. "Alright, I'll send it over shortly then. Is there anything else you need before I go, Dr. Zayne?"

As Zayne opens his mouth to respond, you take the opportunity to wrap your lips around his cock and take him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the thick head. A shudder runs through Zayne's body, his fingers tightening their grip on the armrest as he bites back a groan that threatens to spill from his lips.

"N-no, that's all for now," Zayne manages to say, his words coming out slightly clipped and strained. "I'll... I'll look it over when I get your email."

You feel Zayne's hand move to your hair, his fingers gripping the strands tightly the slight pain of his grip only adding to the pleasure of having him in your mouth.

Yvonne's footsteps pause, and you hear her ask, "Did Y/N leave already? I didn't see her leave earlier."

For a moment, there's a beat of heavy silence, the only sound being the pounding of your own heart in your ears. Then, Zayne's voice cuts through the air, strained and tight.

"She's... she's currently in the bathroom," he manages to say, his words coming out in a slightly husky murmur. The lie rolls off his tongue, but you can feel the effort it takes for him to maintain control.

Yvonne hesitates for a moment, and you can almost picture her brow furrowing in slight confusion. "Oh, I see," she says, not sounding entirely convinced. "Well, I'll just... I'll be heading out then. Have a good rest of your evening, Dr. Zayne."

As Yvonne turns to leave, you hear her call out, her voice louder than necessary, " Tell her I said goodbye, would you? I'll see you tomorrow."

The moment Yvonne is gone, Zayne's grip on your hair tightens, his hips rocking forward slightly as he pushes himself deeper into your mouth. His deep, powerful thrusts send waves of pleasure radiating through his body, but also push you to your limits. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to accommodate his thick length, your throat constricting around him.

A particularly forceful thrust causes you to gag, a spurt of saliva escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down the side. The sound of your choking and the feeling of your convulsing throat around him almost send Zayne over the edge.

With a sharp intake of breath, he pulls you off his throbbing cock. You gasp for air as your mouth is freed, tears streaming down your face and your chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Without a word, he uses his grip on your hair to gently pull you up and onto his desk, the smooth wood cool against your skin. You sit there for a moment, catching your breath and wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

Before you can regain your bearings, Zayne leans down and grabs your ankles, his strong fingers curling around the delicate bones. With a swift movement, he places your feet on the edge of his desk, the heels of your boots digging into the polished wood. The action causes your legs to spread, your skirt riding up to reveal your panties.

Zayne leans in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, love," he whispers, "Do you think Yvonne is stupid? Huh? Why do you have to be such a fucking brat?" The word 'brat' comes out as a growl, a sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. At the same time, his hand finds its way back to the hair at the nape of your neck, gripping the strands tightly and using them to angle your head, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

Before you can formulate and answer, Zayne sits back down in his chair, releasing your hair only to use both of his strong hands to push your legs even wider apart. The movement is forceful, almost rough, the desk creaking slightly beneath the sudden shift.

Not wanting to waste any more time , he hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of your panties and tugs them roughly to the side. The cool air of the office kisses your newly exposed flesh, making you shiver. But you barely have a moment to register the sensation before his mouth is on you, his tongue delving between your folds with a hunger that takes your breath away.

"Ah!" you gasp, your back arching at the sudden, intense pleasure. He doesn't hesitate, he licks and sucks at your most sensitive places with a single minded focus, his tongue circling your clit and dipping inside your cunt.

His knowledge of your body is intimate and extensive, allowing him to play you like an instrument. His tongue dances over your most sensitive spots with practiced ease, the slick muscle circling and flickering against your clit. He can feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his invading tongue as he drives you towards ecstasy.

And just as your climax begins to crash over you, your vision blurring at the edges and your toes curling in your boots, Zayne suddenly pulls away. Your hips buck up off the desk, seeking more of that delicious friction, but Zayne holds your thighs firmly in place, denying you the release your body cries out for.

"No," you whimper, frustration and desperation coloring your voice. "Please, Zayne, I... I need..." But the words die on your lips when you feel his palm crack against your sensitive flesh. You gasp, your hips jerking up off the desk at the sudden contact, your eyes flying wide open in surprise.

Didn't you hear what Yvonne said?" His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your soft skin with a possessive force. "We have all night, love. And brats like you don't get to cum fast... and certainly not when they want to."

With a deliberate, almost teasing slowness, he unzips your boots and slips them off your feet, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud.

"Lift your hips for me, Y/N," Zayne commands. "I need to remove your skirt and panties. Now." His gaze is intense, his eyes burning into yours with an unspoken demand for obedience.

You quickly obey, lifting your hips off the desk as instructed. Zayne makes short work of your skirt and soaked panties, roughly tugging them down your legs and off, leaving you bare and exposed.

As you start to reach for the hem of your shirt, intending to remove it as well, Zayne's hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His grip is firm, his fingers wrapping around your wrist like a manacle.

"Ah ah ah, not so fast," his voice a warning growl. "If you don't listen, I'm going to have no choice but to tie those hands of yours. And trust me, you won't like the consequences of testing my patience any further."

Without warning, he leans in and starts trailing hot, open mouthed kisses along your sensitive inner thigh, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh. You feel the sharp sting of his bite, followed by the soothing caress of his tongue, leaving a trail of marks in his wake.

He works his way up, alternating between sucking and biting, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Just as you think he might finally give you what you want, he pauses, his breath hot against your core.

Then, with deliberate teasing, he spreads your pussy lips using his thumb and middle finger to expose your throbbing clit and extends the tip of his tongue to graze it, the faintest whisper of a touch.

Your hips jerk, a strangled moan escaping your lips at the teasing caress. But before you can gain any real pleasure from it, he pulls back, leaving you wanting and desperate once more. He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he takes in your needy expression.

He continues his maddening tease, the tip of his tongue flicking against your clit in feather light strokes. He can feel your body tensing, your thighs trembling on either side of his head as he pushes you to the brink time and time again. Each time you feel your climax building, your walls starting to flutter and clench around his tongue, he pulls back, denying you the final push you need to tumble over the edge.

As much as you try to keep your impending orgasm a secret, Zayne knows your body intimately. He can feel the subtle changes, the way your muscles tighten and your breathing hitches. And so, just as each climax is about to crash over you, Zayne pulls away once more, leaving you on the edge.

"No!" you cry out, frustration and desperation coloring your voice. "Please, I... I can't..." But your pleas fall on deaf ears as Zayne refuses to relent.

Finally his hands reach for the hem of your shirt. With rough tug, he pulls it up and off, tossing it carelessly to the side. Your bra quickly follows, the clasp unhooking easily under his fingers. The lacy garment falls away, baring your breasts to his hungry eyes.

He takes a moment to admire the sight of you, laid out naked and wanting before him. His eyes darken with lust as they roam over your curves, taking in every dip and swell. Leaning down, he places open mouthed kisses along the soft underside of your breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh until he reaches the hardened peak of your nipple.

"Zayne, please," you whimper, arching your back to press your breast more fully against his lips. Your plea is cut off by a sharp gasp as his teeth close around the sensitive bud, his tongue flicking against it teasingly. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping the short strands tightly.

He pauses, his breath hot against your breast as he looks up at you with a stern, expectant gaze. "Next time you find yourself in the hospital, are you going to let me know right away? are you going to be a good girl and call me first thing, before anyone else?"

His tongue flattens against your nipple, the slick muscle dragging over the sensitive peak as he laves attention on the hardened nub. At the same time, he thrusts two long, strong fingers deep inside you, your walls instantly clenching around them.

He pumps his fingers slowly, his thumb circling your clit in teasing strokes as he suckles at your breast.

"I'll be good," you gasp out "I promise, I'll call you first thing if anything happens." You can feel your climax building, your walls fluttering wildly around his fingers. Tears of frustration and overwhelming pleasure sting at the corners of your eyes.

"Please, Zayne," you whimper, your voice breaking on his name. "Please let me cum this time. I'll be so good, I swear it. I just... I need it so badly. Please, I'm begging you..."

"Not good enough," Zayne whispers as he pulls his fingers out of your cunt, leaving you empty and aching. Tears stream down your face as he denies you the release you so desperately crave.

"Zayne, please," you sob, your voice choked with emotion. "I need... I can't... Please don't do this. I'll do anything, just please let me cum. I'm begging you." Your hips buck up off the desk, seeking any friction, any pressure to alleviate the throbbing ache between your thighs.

In a blink, Zayne flips you over onto your stomach, your bare breasts pressing against the cool surface of his desk. Before you can catch your breath or process the sudden change in position, he's gripping your hips and pulling them back, forcing your ass up to meet the heavy weight of his erection.

You feel the thick, hard length of him sliding between your cheeks, the tip smearing trails of precum all the way down to your dripping entrance. Your hips twitch and buck reflexively, your body craving the feel of him inside you, filling you up in the way only he can.

You reach back to grab Zayne's hip, your fingers digging into his flesh as you try to pull him closer, desperate to feel him inside you. But before you can, he grabs both of your wrists, pinning your arms above your head and holding them down against the desk.

"If you keep being a bad girl, Y/N, how am I supposed to fuck you properly? Hmm?"

He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your ass, the stinging pain blossoming into a warm, tingling pleasure that makes you clench around nothing. The head of his cock catches on your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what's to come.

Zayne releases your wrists only to grab them again, this time bringing them behind your back. Before you can react, you feel the cold metal of his stethoscope as he wraps the tubing around your wrists to bind your hands together, leaving you helpless and at his mercy.

"There, that should keep you from being too troublesome" His hands smooth over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave fingerprint shaped bruises in their wake.

"Now, let's see if we can find a way to make you behave," Zayne growls, his hips surging forward to bury himself to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat in one powerful thrust.

You scream in a mix of surprise and overwhelming pleasure as Zayne sheaths himself fully inside you with one hard, deep thrust. Your back arches, your tied hands fisting behind your back as you try to adjust to the sudden, intense intrusion.

Zayne lets out a groan, his voice echoing off the office walls as he hilts himself deep inside your clenching, grasping heat. "Fuck," he grunts, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he savors the feeling of your walls gripping his cock. "You feel fucking incredible."

He doesn't give you a moment to adjust to the feeling of his thick cock buried deep inside you. Instead, he grips the tubing binding your wrists and starts to move, using it as a handle to pull you back to meet his powerful thrusts. His hips smack against your ass, the stinging pain blending deliciously with the intense pleasure radiating out from where you're joined. The movement and force of Zayne's thrusts causes the items on his desk to clutter loudly, some falling to the floor with a crash, papers scatter and pens roll off the edge.

Don't worry, love," Zayne grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "This time, I'm not going to stop, but if...fuuuuck...if you keep clenching around me like that, I won't last long"

"Zayne, I'm gonna... I'm about to..." you stutter out, your words dissolving into a high pitched keen of pleasure as you feel your climax fast approaching. Just as you're on the brink, ready to tumble over into pure ecstasy, Zayne does the unexpected.

While one hand stays gripping your bound wrists, the other snakes around to your aching, swollen clit. But instead of the gentle rubbing or flicking you crave, Zayne pinches the sensitive nub hard between his thumb and index finger, sending a shockwave of intense sensation coursing through your body.

Zayne whispers harshly in your ear, "If you ever roll your eyes at me again like you did today, twice, your punishment will be far, far worse than a few spanks. The only time your pretty eyes should be rolling is when I'm fucking you just thrust like thrust this thurst, until you can't see straight."

To emphasize his point, he gives you a particularly brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass and forcing you to take every last inch of his cock. "Is that clear, Y/N?"

He lets go of your clit, the sudden rush of blood back to the sensitive nub sending jolts of intensified pleasure shooting through you. As your body trembles he angles his hips just right, and on his next thrust he lightly runs a finger along the side of your now swollen clit.

Your scream of ecstasy echoes off the office walls as you come, your vision going white with the force of your orgasm. "Yes, Zayne!" you cry out, your voice breaking on his name as your walls spasm and clench wildly around his cock.

As your body convulses and shakes through the most intense orgasm of your life, you hear Zayne let out a string of curses. "Fuck! Shit, Damnit! I can't...I'm cumming!"

His grip on your hips tightens to a bruising level as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your still fluttering walls. His cock pulses and throbs as he starts to unload, flooding your insides with his hot, thick seed.

You can feel each twitch and spurt of his release, his body shudders above you, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants as he rides out the waves of his own climax.

"Good girl," he whispers "you took my cock so well" He gently removes the stethoscope from your wrists, rubbing the reddened skin to ease the discomfort as he helps you up, his strong arms supporting your trembling body.

"Come on," he says softly, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. "Let's go clean you up and then we can head home. We have to stop by the store to get a new stethoscope, and then we have to figure out a way for me to hide my embarrassment every time I have to talk to Yvonne"

You can't help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all, your cheeks flushed and eyes bright with lingering pleasure.

He smirks at the memory, chuckling lowly as he helps you gather your scattered clothes.

Note: I don't know if a stethoscope is strong enough to handle that but you get the idea 😉

Rafayel is next!!!

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