Latest Posts by margos-midnight-rain - Page 3

when a colleague brings you home drunk

with: zayne, caleb, sylus

content: mc is drunk, the guys are a little possessive

[nsfw!] rafayel fucking you

literally ruined my pussy while making this

Maps headcanons -

🧡 Going to bed before Caleb fluff

Details: 200 words of pure Caleb fluff and pillow talk.

If you’ve gone to bed before Caleb, he always starts the same way. Quiet footsteps, the kind that barely disturb the air. He leans in, and without a word, presses his forehead to yours—just for a moment. Measuring your warmth. Checking if you’re running hot, or if maybe he just missed you that much.

Then his lips find your temple. A kiss like punctuation. Gentle. Necessary.

If you’re curled on your side, he doesn’t hesitate. He slides in behind you like he was always meant to be there. An arm over your waist, chest to your back. No space left between.

He kisses the nape of your neck, slow and careful at first. Then again. And again. Soft, scattered kisses, like he can’t help himself—like your skin is gravity and his mouth’s just answering the pull.

He tries not to wake you—he really does—but between those kisses, the words slip out anyway, broken up by breath and lips against your skin.

“You looked so peaceful…”

kiss

“…I almost stayed in the doorway.”

kiss

“You make this place…”

kiss

“…feel like home.”

kiss

“I don’t know what I did…”

kiss

“…to deserve you.”

kiss

“Even your breathing…”

kiss

“…sounds like a song.”

Each word barely more than a whisper. Each kiss a confession. And he’s still trying not to wake you—but gods, he needs you to know.

Just in case you’re listening.

caleb is a character for the chronically depressed girlies who struggle to get out of bed in the morning.

like. bro would brush your teeth FOR you if it felt too exhausting.

you fell asleep with your makeup on? he’s removing it so gently while you sleep that you dont stir.

you get glued to your phone and cant sleep? he’s taking it and laying with you, playing with your hair until you fall asleep.

you feel too exhausted to wake up? he’s there in the morning with breakfast and a plan for your day so you WANT to get out of bed.

random days you just feel so sad? he’s gonna provide you with every distraction possible so you don’t have to think about it. and if you cant help it, he’ll listen and hold you when you cry.

THE GREAT ASS-SMACKING WAR

character(s): Caleb Xia x f!reader (crack fluff)

having an ass slapping contest with best friend caleb

wc: 1.4k

The lock of the bathroom in your shared apartment clicked and your body reacted immediately, paddling down the hall to get your nail polish remover from what Caleb had decided to turn into his personal spa for a solid hour.

As you entered, you had to waddle all the hot steam away from your face with one hand, maintaining a hold on an apple juice-box with the other.

Caleb stood by the sink, wrapping a towel around his hips, water dripping from his bangs onto his wide chest as he did so. He jolted slightly at your sudden presence slipping behind him but paid you no further attention - used to you mingling in his business and him in yours.

You rummaged through the cabinet until you pocketed the bottle and began to make your way back out of the bathroom, chewing on the straw, but then-

You paused.

There he was.

Caleb was bent over, reaching for something under the sink, towel sagging so dangerously low that the temptation got the better of you. Without even processing it, you jabbed a freezing cold finger straight down his partially exposed ass crack. 

The reaction was instant.

Caleb let out a squirrel yelp of such high pitch that no man his size should be capable of. His whole body jerked as if you tazed him, spine snapping back and arching as the towel slipped from his fingers and fell with a soft thud.

“Wha- PIPS- WHA- OH MY GOD!” he shrieked, face flushed, hands flailing around as he fumbled for anything to cover himself up.

You stood there unmoved, watching the 6'2" wall of muscle panic like a Victorian lady who just flashed an ankle on the street.

And just when he managed to clutch the towel with both hands, crouching away from you to preserve at least some of his dignity, you raised one hand-

SMACK.

The slap echoed.

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth hanging open. Dignity? What dignity. Shattered… Completely.

…

…

He stared at you like you had just smacked his soul instead of his naked ass.

You raised the juice to your lips, still not breaking eye contact with him in the utter silence.

SLLuuuUuUuuUURrrRRppPpppPPppPpPPPppPpp

“Ah~,” you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “Whore.”

And you escaped the room at the speed of light.

“KISS MY ASS!”

“Gladly!” you screamed back at him from the hall.

“Freak!”

“Certified!”

On that beautiful blooming spring day, Thursday the 7th of March, 'The Great Ass-Smacking War' began.

Somehow, it became a truth universally acknowledged, that landing a bare-cheeked one counted double but also that the battlefield was restricted solely to the premises of the apartment complex; the elevator, stairwells, garage, rooftop, lobby, and other semi-public areas, all included.

Y/n’s War Journal - DAY 2: The Rooftop. He led me here. Lured me out under false pretense of stargazing and a truce. I believed him. “He wouldn't,” I thought. He did. “For yesterday,” he hissed at me. I have a red imprint now. A crow made eye contact with me. It knew…

Captain Caleb’s Log -  DAY 16: The Elevator. I hit the button. She hit me. A clean strike. I fear we have entered a point of no return.

Y/n’s War Journal - DAY 51: The Stairwell. I took the stairs to avoid him. He was already there, waiting for me. Mid-step. It was a full palm one - sent me back up three steps and made me see a spirit. I can still hear his demonic cackle.

Captain Caleb’s Log -  DAY 183: The Lobby. I managed to retreat before retaliation. Civilians were alerted. A toddler next to her screamed too. One passerby asked, “Sir, that’s your girlfriend?” To which I replied, “Not anymore.” Victory: Absolute.

Y/n’s War Journal - DAY 243: The Garbage Chute. His hands were full - a defenceless state. He moaned. “Biodegradable,” I said. * The garbage man high-fived me.

It’s been a long day at uni and you just stumbled into the apartment, heavy bags dropping to the floor, back hurting, stomach grumbling, you name it.

But the apartment… dead silent. It was unusual for Caleb to not be blasting music in the kitchen, let alone not calling out to you the moment you came back - taking your jacket and bags from you like the housewife he prided himself to be. 

“Caleb?” you called out, hanging up the keys.

No response.

You took off your shoes and placed them on their spot right next to Caleb’s. He had to be in the apartment - all of his pairs were in place, not a single one missing.

“Gege?”

…

“Clownboy?”

…

“Cilantro?”

You furrowed your brows, cringing at whatever the fuck just left your own lips.

Your coat slid down your shoulders and as you freed yourself from it, it brushed right below your ass, sending a shiver down your bare legs.

It all clicked.

Your mini skirt. Caleb had pestered you about how short it was just this morning and you were in the lead after scoring in the garbage chute.

“Oh fuck off, Caleb!” you yelled out, backing into a wall, ass flush against the cool surface like it was a question of life and death. “This isn’t fucking funny! I’m tired, alright?!”

Silence.

You started shuffling sideways along the hallway, eyes darting all over the place. Every doorway was a potential trap - he could be anywhere.

“I swear to god, if you jump me, I’m shoving your Millennium Falcon down the toilet!”

A floorboard creaked behind you.

You whipped around.

Nothing there. 

Another creak but closer. Then behind you. That dickhead was playing with you, applying pressure all over the floors with his evol.

If you could just get to the bathroom... Lock yourself in there and take a warm shower. Relax a little. Change into some comfy sweats...

You kept dragging your ass along the walls. Almost there. The bathroom’s door knob came within reach surprisingly easily. It was now just across the hall. What was he playing at? Maybe he was napping this whole time? Could you have miscounted the shoes?

And just as you peeled away from the wall, reaching for the door, it flew open.

You screamed.

Caleb burst out like a line-backer. He tackled you - one thick arm snaked around your waist, yanking you off the floor, the whole world turning upside down. There was no escaping his grasp now. Your legs wiggled in the air and your head hung by his knees, hair dragging across the floor.

That left one thing exposed - the entirety of your ass, right there, right next to his smug face.

“BEHOLD!” he howled, “THE GODS OF WAR HAVE CHOSEN ME AS THEIR CHAMPION TODAY!”

You shrieked, “CALEB! NO- LET ME GO, YOU ABSOLUTE MENA-"

SMACK.

You gasped.

“You chose this path for yourself!” he hissed, eyes wild. “Right here, in this sanctuary!”

SMACK.

“I WILL SHIT IN YOUR PROTEIN POWDER!”

SMACK.

“YOU WERE THE ONE WHO STARTED THIS!” he screamed back, dodging your wild kicks, “I’M ENDING IT! HERE AND NOW!”

SMACK-SMACK.

You kicked and flailed and cursed, but it was too late; the scales had tipped.

A final thunder-smack echoed through the hall.

You gasped. Mouth agape. Eyes bloodshot, brimming with tears. That wasn’t just a slap. That was centuries of ass-smacking tradition coursing through his palm.

Caleb dropped you like a sack of potatoes onto the floor, breathing heavily, triumphant grin etched into his red face, while you lay there. Betrayed. Violated. Spiritually wrecked and left in complete ruins.

You rolled onto your back with a groan.

Then, still gasping for air, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out an apple juice box. Looking down at you sprawled on the floor, he caught the straw between his lips.

SLLuuuUuUuuUURrrRRppPpppPPppPpPPPppPpp

He sighed, leaning against the counter. “You know what this tastes like?”

You twitched on the floor.

“Tastes like justice.”

He crouched down next to you, poking your cheek like a toddler checking if a cockroach is dead.

“You good?”

“My ancestors were watching this shitshow.”

He patted your head. "Bet they're still clapping."

And just as he rose to leave, you summoned the last speck of strength you had left in your broken soul, dragging your phone out.

You opened the contacts list.

“Okay,” you huffed, propping yourself up with one shaking arm, pressing the phone to your ear. “You think this is over?”

Beeeeepppp

He turned, mid-strut. “Uh, yeah?”

Beeeeepppp

Beeeeepppp- “Yes, kitten~?”

You smirked. “Let’s see how you do against three and a bird.”

tag list for my beloved: @cordidy, @midiplier

Gravity instincts

Synopsis: You’ve been pining for Colonel Caleb in silence, hiding your feelings behind friendship and stolen glances—until one lonely day in his apartment breaks your restraint. Drowning in the scent of his shirt and the ache of unspoken desire, you give in to your need.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics dominance & submission (consensual), rough sex, praise & degradation mix, possessive/obsessive behavior, use of evol, mild voyeurism (security camera), slight dubcon vibe (due to voyeurism + power dynamic—but ultimately consensual)

Pairings: Caleb x reader

Word count: 5.9k

The stars never felt farther away than when he was near. 

You’ve known him for years now—through turbulence and silence, distance and closeness. Caleb, with his unwavering sense of duty, with that sharp gaze that sees through everything except your heart. A colonel in the Space Fleet, a man responsible for keeping the galaxy stitched together—and yet, it’s the quiet moments between missions that unravel you.

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. Not like this. Not while standing at his side as a technician, tucked into the same command deck where he commands the stars with a single gesture. Not while sharing routine maintenance reports, debriefing sessions, and the occasional cup of coffee in the silence of the observation deck. 

You were supposed to admire him. Respect him. Follow orders. 

But then he started looking at you like that. Or maybe he always did, and you were just too afraid to believe it.

His Evol never quite stayed confined to his command. It lingered. Pulled. Tangled itself into the fabric of every moment you shared. It wasn’t the kind of pull you could measure in units or explain with science. It was slower, softer, the kind of pull that didn’t slam you into orbit—but whispered, stay.

And so you did. Through every mission, every battle, every long night where he returned bruised and exhausted, and still managed to smirk at you like you were the first calm thing he'd seen in weeks.

But lately, it’s become unbearable. Because no matter how long you stand by his side, you’re always a half-step away. Close enough to feel the warmth of his presence—never close enough to fall into it.

So you do something reckless. Not battlefield reckless. Not strategy-breaking reckless. Something softer. Petty. Aching.

You steal one of his shirts.

Not because you expect him not to notice. Not because you think it will change anything. But because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want more. And it’s the only way you know how to say I miss you, without breaking apart completely. 

His place is quiet—sterile, in the way all military housing is—but he’s lived in this one long enough for traces of him to linger. The coffee mug he always forgets to rinse. The flight jacket half-slouched over the back of his chair. His scent, clinging stubbornly to the air. Warm. Subtle. Like cedarwood and ozone. 

You’ve stayed here before—dozens of times, even. Sometimes after late-night shifts. Sometimes after a mission when neither of you had the energy to be alone. And sometimes just because it was easier to fall asleep on his couch with the hum of the city cars in the background than face the silence of your own quarters.

You were just friends, after all. Friends who trusted each other more than anyone else. Friends who had learned the hard way that war doesn’t leave much room for hearts to speak freely.

But today is your day off. And he’s not here.

He left in a rush that morning—called back to command before he even finished his coffee. A small part of you had hoped he’d stay. A bigger part was grateful he didn’t. Because it’s only in his absence that you allow yourself to feel the weight of what you’ve been burying.

The ache. The exhaustion. The constant pretending.

You drift toward his room like you’ve done a hundred times before, intending only to grab your datapad, maybe take a nap in the bed he always insists you use when he’s gone. But your fingers pause on the edge of the closet. Hesitate. Then move with a kind of guilty hunger.

You find it folded neatly on the second shelf. A dark, well-worn shirt with his name tag still faintly stitched at the collar. The one he always wears after missions, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. You swear it holds more of him than anything else in this entire apartment.

You press it to your face. 

And that’s when everything unravels. 

His scent is still there—faint but potent, like static in the air before a storm. It slides down your spine like a whisper. Not just the memory of him, but the ache of being near him and never touching. Of hearing your name in his voice but never on his lips the way you want it.

Your body reacts before your mind can stop it. And you let it. 

Because you’re tired. Because you’ve spent too many nights curled on this bed pretending you don’t dream of what it would feel like if he touched you the way you crave. Because you’ve stayed silent while watching him flirt with danger, disappear into missions, return with bruises and blood and never once say I missed you too—but look at you like he did.

So you pull the shirt over your head, drowning in it. It smells like him. Feels like him. The fabric slips past your skin like a memory you’re not supposed to hold onto.

You lie down on his bed, the sheets still creased from where he slept. Your hands start to move.

And this time, you don’t stop them.

You imagine him. Not like he is at work—stoic, powerful, untouchable. But how he is when the world softens. When he forgets to wear the weight of his rank. When he smirks at you across the kitchen counter, teasing you for stealing the last pastry. When his voice drops in the quiet, calling your name like it means something more.

Your fingers tremble. Not from lust. From longing.

This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about the ache. The impossible closeness. The need to feel his warmth when you know you’ll never have it for real. 

His shirt swallows you whole. Soft, worn cotton clings loosely to your frame, the scent of him draped over you like heat—masculine, magnetic, undeniably Caleb. It’s too big, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves falling over your hands. But it makes you feel closer to him. Almost like he’s here.

You settle back against his sheets, your knees curling slightly as you sink into the place he’s slept in so many times—where you’ve laid before, pretending you weren’t listening for his heartbeat in the quiet.

But today, there’s no pretending.

Your hand slips between your legs, tentative at first. Not from shame—but from how raw the ache is. It’s been building for months. Years, if you’re being honest. And it’s not just about wanting him—it’s the way he makes you want. The way he looks at you with that unreadable expression, all heat and gravity and something else that never quite reaches his lips.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel.

You imagine him like you’ve never allowed yourself to before.

His voice in your ear, low and rough, calling you a good girl in that quiet drawl he uses when the world slows down. The weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress, his fingers trailing up your thighs, firm and warm and sure. 

Your breath hitches. Your touch grows bolder. 

You imagine his mouth. The way he’d kiss you—slow and possessive, like he’s waited just as long. His teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pinning you down as he whispers, Is this what you wanted, baby? Wearing my shirt like that? Touching yourself in my bed?

You gasp, the heat building fast and dangerous, everything tightening under your skin. You can’t stop the soft moan that escapes your lips—his name, broken and breathless.

And you don’t know that he hears it. 

Because a few levels below, the man himself has just returned from command.  

Still in uniform, boots heavy against the steel floors, he exhales as the apartment door hisses open. He wasn’t expecting to be home this early—but the comms were quiet, and for once, there were no emergencies.

He reaches for the wrist panel by the entrance—his home security linked to the system, just in case something went wrong when he’s off-planet.

He doesn’t expect to see you.

On his bed. In his shirt. Hand between your thighs. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Whispering his name.

Everything stops. For a moment, he forgets to breathe. The screen blinks quietly, casting a pale glow against his expression. Blank. Tense. A beat of silence. Then another. He turns off the feed.

And he walks. Slowly. Quietly. Up the stairs toward the woman in his bed.

You don’t hear the door slide open. Don’t hear the soft press of boots against polished flooring. Don’t feel the shift in the air when he steps inside.

You’re too far gone.

Fingers buried between your thighs, breath catching on every gasp, every slow, deliberate drag that makes your muscles tighten and your stomach flutter. The shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—is hitched up around your hips, the fabric clinging to your skin with heat. It smells like him. Still warm with traces of cedar, ozone, and something darker. Something intoxicating.

Your other hand fists the sheets beneath you—his sheets—already damp with sweat and shame and longing.

You don’t even try to stop the sound that leaves your mouth. His name, breathless and wrecked. A whimper. A plea. You don’t know which.

You imagine him here. Not as the Colonel the world salutes, but the man who stands too close when he talks to you, who looks at you like he’s memorizing your every breath. The man who touches your lower back when you’re both pretending it means nothing. The man who haunts you.

You picture his hands instead of your own—larger, calloused, precise. You’ve seen what those hands can do to a battlefield. You wonder what they’d do to you, if he let go of all that control.

“Is this what you do when I’m not home?” The voice hits you like a thunderclap.

Deep. Low. Unmistakable. 

You freeze. Your heart stutters violently, blood roaring in your ears. 

He’s standing there. Just inside the bedroom, half-shadowed by the low lights. Still in uniform, the dark jacket unbuttoned just enough to show the black undershirt clinging to his chest. His eyes—stormy, narrowed, dark—lock onto you like he’s seeing everything.

And he is.

You’re sprawled on his bed, legs parted, breathing hard. Wearing nothing but his shirt and your guilt. Caught in the middle of a fantasy you didn’t know was real.

You try to speak. To explain. To move. But you can’t.

Not with the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the sin he’s been trying not to commit for years.

His jaw flexes. His fists are clenched at his sides. And still—he doesn’t move.

“I’ve imagined you like this,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “On my bed. In my shirt. Moaning my name.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs clench.

“I’ve stopped myself,” he continues, stepping forward once—slow, measured, dangerous. “Every day. Every night. From touching you. From ruining you the way I’ve craved.”

Another step.

“But you come into my home,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, darker, “put yourself in my clothes, on my bed, and touch yourself like you belong to me.” 

You swallow hard. You’re trembling now, heart hammering in your chest. Not from fear. From something far, far worse.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says. 

His voice isn’t angry. It’s reverent. Like you’ve become something holy in his eyes—something he’s worshipped from a distance too long.

And now? Now he’s done watching from afar.

“I—” you choke on the word, scrambling for air, for thoughts, for something to say that doesn’t sound like begging. “Caleb, I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”

You sit up fast, heart in your throat, his shirt falling lower on your thighs like it’s trying to hide you. Your hand trembles as you press it to your chest, like maybe you can force your heartbeat to slow, like maybe this moment will shatter if you just say the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, still breathless, cheeks blazing hot. “I didn’t mean for you to see. I thought you were still at work, I just— I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry—” 

Your voice falters, unraveling with every shaky breath. You can’t meet his eyes. Not when your skin is still flushed, your thighs still slick, your body still thrumming with the desperate need that had built and built—only to snap to attention the second he spoke. 

And god, you’re still wet. Still aching. Still ruined with the taste of him on your tongue, even if you’ve never really had him.

But the silence that follows your apology?

That’s what truly wrecks you.

Because Caleb doesn’t speak. Not right away. He just stares. Head tilted slightly, breathing slow, but his jaw clenched like he’s at war with himself.

And then—he laughs. A low, humorless sound that slides down your spine like ice.

“You’re sorry,” he repeats, as if the words are foreign. Bitter. “You think this is something you need to apologize for?”

Your gaze snaps up.

His eyes are darker now. Not with anger—but possession. Obsession. That hunger he always buried beneath rank and reason has cracked wide open, no longer hidden behind a smirk or a casual joke.

“You don’t understand, do you?” he says, voice low, gravelled. “You think I haven’t thought about this? Dreamed about it? You think I haven’t watched you sleep in that bed and imagined pulling that pretty little body apart with my hands?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and sharp again. 

“You think I haven’t fought every fucking instinct in me to keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that? When you say my name in that soft little voice like you don’t know what it does to me?”

Your knees press together, a soft gasp caught in your throat.

“I’ve kept this part of me from you,” he says, stepping closer, one slow step after another. “The part that wants to keep you in my bed. In my clothes. Under my command.”

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. You're still wet, still burning, and his words only make it worse.

“I’m not a good man, princess,” he breathes. “But I’ve tried to be. For you. I’ve tried to give you space. Time. Patience.” 

His gaze drops to your bare thighs, the curve of them just beneath the hem of his shirt. You see his jaw clench again—so hard it looks like it hurts.

“And now you apologize to me,” he growls, a hand running through his hair, like he’s barely holding himself back. “While sitting on my bed, in my shirt, with that sweet cunt still dripping from your own fingers like you were made for me—” 

“Caleb,” you breathe—half protest, half plea. 

But it’s already too late.

His control is crumbling. And all you’ve done… is invite the part of him he’s kept buried for too long to the surface.

His eyes drag over you slowly—ruthlessly—like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His uniform fits him like a second skin, dark and crisp and spotless except for the slight looseness at the collar where he always tugs it when he’s tired. The high-ranking insignia gleams on his shoulder, a cold contrast to the heat in his eyes.

You’ve never wanted to be touched so badly in your life.

But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He just watches. Listens to every shaky breath you take, to the soft rustle of sheets as you shift, thighs pressing together in a hopeless attempt to ease the throb between your legs. The ache that he caused. That only he can fix now.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder. “Not so loud without my name on your lips now, are you?” 

You flinch. Not from fear—but from the way his words twist inside you.

He knows. God, he knows everything now.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You thought about me. You were thinking about me inside you while wearing my shirt, weren’t you?” 

You try to look away. 

“Eyes on me,” he commands softly. “Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth?”

Your breath catches. Your heart is going too fast, the room spinning in the haze of your own arousal. Your panties are soaked, clinging to you, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“You were fucking yourself in my bed,” he continues, inching closer, voice low and deliberate. “Wearing my clothes. Saying my name. I want to hear you say it, princess.”

You shake your head, unable to breathe through the thick heat suffocating your chest.

He leans in just a little—just enough.

“Say it,” he breathes, tone tightening like a vice. “Say you wanted me.”

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your thighs shaking from the pressure, from the denial. Every nerve in your body screams for him. For contact. For relief. But you know he won’t give it—not until you admit it. Not until you surrender.

“Caleb…” you whisper, voice trembling, “please…”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes are sharp. Unforgiving. Hungry. 

“You’re going to look me in the eye,” he says, slowly unfastening the top button of his uniform jacket, the movement agonizingly controlled. “And you’re going to tell me that you wanted me. That you came into my bed, in my fucking shirt, because you were too wet and desperate to keep pretending you didn’t think about me when you touched yourself.” 

You’re panting now, knees drawn up, body flushed and aching. 

And he knows. He can see how wrecked you already are. How you’re squirming, clenching around nothing, leaking through your underwear just from the sound of his voice. From the image of him, powerful and poised, standing over you like you belong to him.

You can’t take it anymore.

“I wanted you,” you gasp, the words ripped from you like confession. “I wanted you, Caleb—I couldn’t stop thinking about you—I always think about you—”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear that.

“I need you,” you whisper, broken now. “Please.”

And finally—finally—his restraint snaps. 

Your confession hangs in the air like a live wire—raw, exposed, and trembling.  It’s the truth. And now that you’ve said it, you can’t take it back.

But Caleb… he’s far from satisfied.

Not yet.

The shift is subtle at first—a quiet hum beneath your skin, like pressure in the air right before a storm breaks. You don’t notice it immediately, not until your body sinks ever so slightly into the mattress. Like the bed has grown heavier. Denser. 

Like something is pulling you down. 

Your breath stutters.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tone low and lethal as he drags his jacket off slowly, revealing the sleek black shirt beneath. “But not good enough.”

You stare at him, heart slamming against your ribs, limbs heavy and hot with tension.

“Caleb…” you whisper.

He lifts one hand, fingers loose, and you feel it—a subtle flex of pressure in the air around you. Your wrists press gently into the sheets without being held. Your back arches slightly without your control. It’s not overwhelming, not enough to scare you. But it’s enough to make you feel it. Him.

“You think you get to say it once and have me come running?” he asks, circling the edge of the bed like a predator. “After all this time, after all the nights you’ve laid here and pretended you didn’t want me?”

The gravity pulses again—soft, deliberate, like an invisible hand stroking over your body. Your thighs twitch. Your breath shudders.

“I want to hear you beg,” he says. 

You’re already half-gone—mind fogged with heat, hips subtly rolling as you try to relieve the aching throb between your legs. The pressure of his Evol presses down again, just enough to keep you still. Just enough to make you feel helpless.

“Say it again,” he commands, his voice now just inches from your ear, low and dark. “And mean it this time.”

You bite your lip, breath catching. “Please, Caleb—”

“No.” The word cracks like a whip. “Not like that. You want me? You tell me exactly what you want. Use that pretty mouth. Or you’ll stay like this—needy and untouched.”

His words punch through you, hot and sharp. 

You writhe beneath the weight of him—not his hands, not his body… but his power. The controlled pressure of his Evol makes your body tremble with frustration. You can’t move the way you want to. You can’t even touch yourself now.

“I want—” you gasp, voice thin and desperate. “I want your hands on me— I want you to touch me—please, I can’t— I need you— Caleb, please, I need you so bad it hurts—”

He lets out a breath—low and hungry—and suddenly the pressure vanishes.

Like a switch flipped.

And you gasp, your body free again, breath flooding your lungs.

“You should’ve said that sooner,” he growls, already crawling over the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Now lie back, princess.”

His hands finally land on you—hot, real, and no longer restrained. One hand grips your thigh, spreading you open, while the other pulls the shirt higher up your body.

“You wanted this?” he murmurs against your neck, mouth trailing fire over your skin. “You’re going to take it now.” 

And this time? You will.

His hands are on you—finally on you—and everything else disappears.

He spreads you open like he owns you, like he’s done it a thousand times in his mind, each movement exact, hungry, controlled. The heat of his palms burns against your thighs as he kneels between them, dragging the fabric of his shirt higher, higher—until it’s bunched at your waist and your soaked panties are the only thing between you and his mouth. 

And god, the look on his face—like he could devour you whole. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice molten as his fingers trace the wet outline of your underwear. “So fucking wet. Is this all for me, princess?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your body twitching beneath the ghost of his touch.

He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s the one about to lose control.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he growls, pulling the fabric aside to reveal the slick mess underneath. “I’ve thought about your cunt wrapped around my fingers more times than I can count—and now you’re laid out for me, dripping, desperate…”

He sinks two fingers into you with a sudden, slick thrust.

You cry out, back arching, stars bursting behind your eyelids. The stretch, the pressure—him—it’s too much and not enough at once. He groans softly under his breath, eyes fixed on where he’s inside you. “Fuck, you feel even better than I imagined.”

And still, he doesn’t speed up.

He moves slowly, deliberately, fucking you open with long, measured strokes. Watching your every reaction. Your every gasp. His Evol hums in the air again—subtle but present—pulling your hips closer, making it impossible to escape the rhythm of his hand.

“You wanted to be ruined, didn’t you?” he murmurs. “Wanted to come in here, put on my shirt, and make yourself fall apart thinking about my cock.”

Your moan is all the answer he needs. He curls his fingers inside you, finding that spot that makes your legs shake, and presses hard.

You shatter.

Your voice breaks around his name, your body convulsing under his touch as your climax rips through you like lightning—violent, needy, raw. And still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, coaxing every last tremble from your body, watching you fall apart like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, leaning over you now, his chest brushing your thighs, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re perfect. Mine.”

You grab for him, desperate for something to anchor you, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head—not with force, but with gravity. You gasp, trembling under the weight of his Evol. Your body is still twitching, hypersensitive and spent—and yet, you’ve never felt more alive.

He leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and for a moment you see it—the crack in his armor. The soft part of him that’s completely ruined by you.

“I tried to be good,” he breathes, voice rough now, thick with emotion. “I tried to keep my hands off you. Tried to pretend I didn’t want to bury myself inside you every time you smiled at me.”

You blink up at him, dazed and dizzy and so, so full of him. 

“But I’m not pretending anymore.”

He lets go of your wrists. Grabs your thighs. And pushes them open wider. 

“You’re mine now,” he says. “And I’m not letting you go.” 

Your chest is still heaving when he moves back over you, his body heavy with restrained power, his gaze locked on yours with a feral kind of focus. His fingers are slick with you, his touch still lingering between your legs like a ghost—hot, consuming, impossible to forget.

You can’t stop trembling. And then you whisper, voice raw and wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

Caleb stills. Just for a breath. And then he smiles. Not soft. Not sweet.

Dark.

His fingers trail along your inner thigh again, lazy now, like he’s memorizing the shape of your need. “Oh, princess…” His voice drops into a low rasp, dragging through you like velvet. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

He kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, and higher—until you’re squirming again, body hypersensitive but already greedy for more.

You reach for him, still shaking. “I want you. Please, Caleb…”

His hands grip your hips hard, pinning you back into the mattress.

“You want me?” he murmurs, leaning in close, breath hot against your ear. “You want me like this? When I’m in control? When I’m fucking obsessed with the way you fall apart for me?”

You gasp. You shouldn’t love how it sounds—but god, you do. You nod, voice barely a whisper. “Yes… I want all of you.”

His hand slides slowly back down between your legs, two fingers teasing your folds again, gentle but commanding. “I bet you thought about it,” he growls, mouth at your jaw now, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t you?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What…?”

“Me.” His other hand grabs your chin and turns your face to his. His gaze is molten. “At work. In my uniform. All cold and composed and untouchable while you sat there pretending you weren’t soaking wet under your station console.”

You let out a soft, broken whimper.

“You did think about it,” he says, satisfaction curling in his voice like smoke. “You thought about my hands on you while I barked orders. Thought about crawling under my desk, didn’t you? Obeying every word I said like a good little soldier.” 

Your breath stutters, your hips lifting into his hand again. His fingers slide against your entrance, teasing—never giving. You’re already soaking again, so needy you could cry.

“Say it,” he whispers against your throat. “Tell me what you thought about.” 

“I—” You swallow, body twitching under the weight of his words, of the ghost of his Evol still lingering around your limbs. “I watched you and I… I imagined you taking me in your office. Still in uniform. Rough. Like you couldn’t wait.”

He groans, low, like it’s been ripped from his chest.

“You like me rough, baby?” he breathes, voice no longer in control. “You like me when I’m like this?” 

You nod, desperate. “Yes—yes, Caleb—please—”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs your thighs, pulls you down the bed in one swift motion. His mouth crashes into yours—hungry, claiming, filthy—devouring every sound you make. He presses the head of his cock to your entrance, thick and hot and bare, dragging it slowly through your slick folds.

And then he pauses.

“You want this?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

You’re breathless. Frantic. “Yes. Caleb, please—fuck me—”

He pushes in. One slow, devastating inch at a time, watching your face the entire time as your lips fall open, your back arches, and you shatter again without even meaning to.

He sinks into you slowly—so slowly it feels like your body might split apart just from the stretch. From the size of him, the weight of him, from the unbearable pleasure of finally, finally being filled by the man you’ve wanted for so long.

Your lips fall open in a silent gasp, your head pressing back into the pillow as your back arches off the bed.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, low and wrecked, forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out. “You feel… god, you feel like heaven.” 

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, holding himself still like he's barely hanging on.

And you realize—he’s shaking. Not from effort. From restraint.

You feel it in the way his fingers grip your hips just a little too tight. The way his jaw flexes. The way he moans—low and broken—when your walls clench around him, already begging for more.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your lips, voice rough and shaking. “So fucking long… Thought about it every night, thought about you on your knees, on my desk, under me in this bed—” 

He starts to move. 

Slow, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, that force little gasps from your mouth with each one. The sound of your bodies, of wet, slick need meeting brutal control, fills the room with something filthy and reverent all at once.

You cry out, nails clawing at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—won’t stop—just keeps driving into you with long, consuming strokes that reach the deepest parts of you. That stretch you in ways you’ve only ever dreamed about.

“You’re mine,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—yours, Caleb, I’m yours, please—”

He grunts, snapping his hips harder, faster now, burying his face in your neck like he needs to breathe you in to survive.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, voice almost gentle now, contrasting the way he’s pounding into you. “So fucking tight—so goddamn perfect—come on, give it to me.”

His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit with the same precision he uses on the battlefield. And it’s too much—the stretch, the pressure, the way he’s whispering your name like a prayer torn from his chest.

You come undone.

Your body clamps around him, shaking, spasming, screaming his name as the orgasm rips through you like a flood. You see stars—real ones, behind your eyes—white-hot and endless, your entire world collapsing inward.

He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking erratically as he thrusts deep, grinding into you, spilling himself inside with a rough curse and your name broken on his lips. 

He collapses onto you, his weight grounding you, both of you drenched in sweat, breath ragged and uneven. His hand finds yours, fingers twining together like it’s the only way he can anchor himself. 

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just holds you. Inside you. Around you. Against you.

Then— “I’m never letting you go,” he says softly, fiercely, his lips against your cheek. “You’re mine now. In every way that matters.” 

And you believe him.

Because even in the silence that follows, you can still feel his gravity pulling you in.

Your body’s still trembling beneath him, boneless and soaked in sweat, skin flushed and glowing with the aftershock of your climax. Caleb’s still inside you, softening slowly, his weight pressing you into the mattress like an anchor—his breath ragged, his hand stroking lazily up and down your thigh like he can’t believe you’re real.

He lifts his head slightly, his lips brushing your temple.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravelled and wrecked. “Didn’t hurt you?”

You nod, dazed, still high on the intensity of it all. “No. I’m okay.”

He smiles—just barely. A small, almost reverent thing. He leans down to kiss your shoulder, slow and lingering. And for a moment, you can feel it—the part of him that loves you in silence. That worships you even when he won’t say it out loud.

But then you shift beneath him. You roll onto your stomach. Slowly. Deliberately. And you look back at him over your shoulder, your eyes half-lidded, voice soft—but sharp.

“I’m not done.”

Caleb stills. His hand on your thigh freezes.

You reach back, tug his wrist just enough to make your point. “I don’t want soft.”

His breath catches. You arch your hips slightly, offering him the view—the slick, swollen heat of you still pulsing with need. His shirt is still bunched at your waist. Your skin’s glowing. Your mouth is parted. And you’re inviting him.

“Be rougher,” you whisper. “Please.”

His pupils blow wide.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, kneeling behind you now, his cock already twitching back to life as he takes you in from behind. “You think I haven’t imagined this? You think I didn’t dream about what I’d do to you if I ever let myself go?”

You glance over your shoulder again, smirking. “Then show me.”

That’s all it takes.

In a blink, his hands are back on you—gripping, claiming. He spreads your thighs roughly, one hand pressing into the small of your back to arch you deeper while the other wraps tight around the base of your neck.

“Mine,” he growls.

And he pushes in again.

Hard.

You gasp—loud and helpless—as he fills you again in one sharp, punishing thrust. The stretch, the angle, the force—everything is overwhelming. Perfect. You cry out into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as he starts to fuck you in earnest.

No gentleness. No hesitation. Just skin against skin. His hips slamming into yours. His hand wrapped tight around your neck—not choking, just holding. Dominating. Keeping you right where he wants you.

“You wanted this?” he pants behind you, every word punched between thrusts. “This is what you think about? Me taking you like this—owning you?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—Caleb—”

Your voice cuts off into a cry as his grip tightens slightly on your throat, just enough to make your vision blur, to make your body burn brighter with pleasure.

“Say it again,” he demands, his other hand sliding up your spine, holding you in place. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from how good it feels. “I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”

His thrusts get faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room, mingling with your cries and his groans and the slick, desperate rhythm of your bodies colliding.

You’re so close again. So unbelievably close.

“Come for me again,” he growls, voice wrecked, as he pounds into you from behind. “Let me feel you—fucking take it, baby—”

And you do.

You break apart under him again, harder this time—louder. A scream torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you like a supernova. Your body convulses, squeezes him so tight that he curses and thrusts once, twice more before spilling into you with a roar, his hips slamming against your ass as he empties himself inside you.

He collapses over your back, chest heaving, arms shaking, holding himself up just enough not to crush you.

He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just breathes. Against your skin. Inside you. Around you.

Then— “I think I’ve completely lost my mind over you,” he mutters.

And the way he says it—quiet, hoarse, honest—undoes you more than anything else.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

Gravity instincts - Sequel

Synopsis: You’ve been pining for Colonel Caleb in silence, hiding your feelings behind friendship and stolen glances—until one lonely day in his apartment breaks your restraint. Drowning in the scent of his shirt and the ache of unspoken desire, you give in to your need.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics dominance & submission (consensual), rough sex, praise & degradation mix, possessive/obsessive behavior, use of evol, mild voyeurism (security camera), slight dubcon vibe (due to voyeurism + power dynamic—but ultimately consensual)

Pairings: Caleb x reader

Word count: 1.8

Skyhaven Command—Two Weeks Later

You weren’t trying to make him jealous. Not really.

But the new lieutenant? Young. Friendly. Too friendly. A little too casual when he asked if you were free after the mission debrief.

You laughed politely. Declined, of course. But that didn’t matter.

Because Caleb was watching.

You could feel it—his gaze like a storm cloud gathering behind your spine. He didn’t say a word during the meeting. Didn’t even look at you directly. But the second it was over?

He spoke one word.

“Office.”

His voice didn’t leave room for argument. No one questioned it when you followed.

Now you’re standing in front of his desk, still in uniform, arms crossed, trying to keep your breath even while the door hisses shut behind you.

He doesn’t speak. Not yet.

He circles behind you—slow, calculated steps echoing off the metal floor. You hear the soft click of the lock. The low hum of the privacy field activating.

And then— “You think I didn’t see him?” Caleb asks, his voice low, controlled. Too controlled. “The way he looked at you?”

Your pulse jumps.

“I said no,” you murmur, turning slightly toward him. “He just—”

“I don’t give a damn what he said.”

His hand is on your waist in an instant, spinning you around, pressing you back against the edge of his desk. He crowds into your space, and you feel it—the shift. That magnetic pull. His Evol, subtle but present, curling into the room like gravity around a collapsing star.

“You shouldn’t have smiled at him,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Not like that.”

“I wasn’t—Caleb—”

“You think I don’t know that smile?” His hand comes up to your chin, tilting it until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You give it to me when you’re about to come.”

Your breath catches—hard.

“And he thought it meant something else.”

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “That makes me want to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your knees go weak. You can feel the hard edge of his desk behind you. Feel the heat of him in front of you. And suddenly, you’re the one forgetting how to breathe.

“You wore this uniform to work,” he says, hands drifting lower, tugging at your belt. “Thinking I’d be able to behave. Thinking I’d play nice.”

Your hands find the edge of the desk behind you, gripping hard.

“Caleb,” you whisper, flushed, voice trembling, “someone could hear—”

His mouth crashes against yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s claiming. Teeth, tongue, breath stolen between clenched jaws and bitten lips. And when he pulls back, you’re gasping—ruined—and his eyes are still burning.

“No one’s hearing anything,” he growls. “Not unless I want them to.”

He pushes you back onto the desk with a thud, hand already sliding between your legs, your uniform halfway undone in seconds.

“You’re going to take everything I give you,” he whispers, dragging your hips to the edge, “and then you’re going to walk out of this room with my marks on your skin.”

The edge of the desk digs into your lower back as he yanks your hips forward, pulling you flush against him. His grip is punishing—not hurting, but firm. Unrelenting. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go for even a second.

“Do you have any idea,” he hisses, “what you do to me?”

Your breath stutters as his hands slide beneath your uniform, pushing fabric aside like it offends him.

“I spent that entire meeting thinking about this cunt,” he growls, fingers dragging through your panties, already soaked. “Wondering if you were wet under that perfect uniform. If you were dripping just from being near me.”

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t look away,” he snaps, his hand tightening suddenly at your throat. Not choking—claiming. His thumb presses against your pulse. “You’re going to watch me while I wreck you.”

He tears your underwear down with one swift motion—doesn’t even look at them, just tosses them somewhere across the room like they’re unimportant.

Because they are.

Only you matter now.

“You like it when I talk like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, stroking your folds with two fingers, slow and cruel. “You want me unhinged. Want me to lose control. Want to be fucked by the man who commands an entire fleet—because you know I’d burn every star in the sky if it meant keeping you mine.”

You gasp—legs trembling, body arching into him without thinking.

He pulls his belt free with one sharp tug—the clink of metal loud in the otherwise quiet office—and unzips just enough to free his cock, hard and flushed and angry with need.

“You’re going to take it all,” he says. “Every inch. And you’re not going to be quiet about it, either.”

You open your mouth to beg—but he’s already pushing inside.

One brutal thrust—deep, claiming, perfect—and your head snaps back, a sound between a cry and a moan tearing from your throat. His hand is back at your neck, holding—not squeezing, not choking—just owning. His other hand grips your thigh, forcing your legs wide open as he begins to move. Not slow. Not gentle.

Possessive.

Hard, dragging thrusts that fill you to the hilt and pull back just enough to make you feel every inch as he slams in again.

“You hear that?” he growls, voice ragged. “That’s what your pussy sounds like when it’s taking its owner.”

Your fingers claw at the desk, desperate for something to ground you.

He leans in, mouth at your ear.

“I want you to think about this,” he pants, thrusting harder now. “Next time someone looks at you. I want you to remember how you feel right now. Split open on my cock. Owned. Marked.”

Your eyes roll back as he fucks you deeper—harder—his desk shaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin echoing off metal and glass.

You can’t hold on. You’re close—so close—but he doesn’t let up.

His hand dips between you, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, brutal circles, timed perfectly with every thrust. “You’re mine,” he growls, voice breaking. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, body convulsing. “Fuck, Caleb—I’m yours, only yours—”

You come hard, body tightening around him like a vice, legs shaking violently as the orgasm slams through you like a wave.

He follows with a loud groan, burying himself deep, his cock twitching as he spills inside you, hips jerking with every pulse. His hand stays at your throat, the other holding your hip in a bruising grip—claiming you from the inside out.

Silence follows. Just your ragged breathing. The sound of your heart pounding. The weight of everything he finally let loose. Then—softer. Rough, but honest. “If anyone else looks at you like that again…”

He leans in. Kisses your jaw. Whispers it against your skin. “I’ll break their fucking neck.”

You're still breathless, trembling against his desk, thighs sticky and shaking from the intensity of it all. His cum drips between your legs, and his hand hasn't left your body—not for a second. He keeps it there, palm warm against your stomach, like he's grounding himself with your presence.

But his breath hasn't slowed. His body hasn't relaxed. And when he speaks again—his voice is low. Dangerous. Hungry.

“That still wasn’t enough,” he mutters.

You glance up, eyes wide, voice hoarse. “Caleb—”

His hand grips your jaw, thumb sliding across your bottom lip.

“You think I can just let it go?” he breathes, dark eyes glittering. “After the way he looked at you? After the way you smiled and didn’t even realize how fucking perfect you are?”

You blink up at him, flushed and ruined, barely able to hold yourself upright—and still, your body pulses at his words.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, slowly circling around to stand in front of you. “But I’m going to punish you anyway.”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Get on your knees.”

The command slices through the air like a blade. You don’t even hesitate.

You slide off the desk, your legs still wobbly, and lower yourself to the floor in front of him. His uniform hangs open now, belt undone, pants low on his hips. He looks down at you like you’re the center of his whole goddamn universe.

His hand slips into your hair.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, wrapping the strands around his fingers. “You look so fucking pretty like this. My perfect little thing.”

You flush, thighs clenching instinctively.

He strokes himself slowly, lazily, the head of his cock already hard again. Still wet from being inside you. Still twitching with the need to claim your mouth the same way he just claimed your body.

“You’re going to open that pretty mouth,” he says, tone soft but merciless, “and take everything I give you. No whining. No flinching.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, eyes wide.

He pauses. Then groans—wrecked.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Say that again.”

You lean forward, mouth open, eyes locked on his. “Yes, sir.”

His cock jerks in his hand.

“I should keep you like this,” he mutters, guiding himself to your lips. “On your knees in my office. Mouth full of me, so no one else even thinks about speaking to you.”

You moan softly as he pushes the tip past your lips, your tongue swirling instinctively, tasting him, taking him deeper. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your pace—but never rough. Just firm. Just enough to say, I’m in control now.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You take me so well. So fucking obedient for me.”

You gag slightly when he hits the back of your throat, but he pulls back immediately, fingers brushing your cheek.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your jaw. “Good girl. There you go.”

Then deeper again. Slower. Controlling every inch. He starts to thrust gently, his hips rolling forward with perfect rhythm, watching you through hooded eyes like he’s hypnotized. Like he can’t look away.

“You like this, don’t you?” he pants. “Letting me use your mouth. Letting me fuck it like it’s mine.”

You hum around him, eyes fluttering, and the vibration makes him growl.

“God, you’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he mutters, hips stuttering. “Look at you… so good for me. So mine.”

You’re drooling. Moaning. Eyes glazed and cheeks flushed—and still, you don’t stop. You want this. Want to please him. To give him everything he asks for.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a long, guttural groan—his hand tight in your hair, his body shaking, his release spilling down your throat as he murmurs, “Swallow, baby. Just like that.”

You do. You swallow everything, never breaking eye contact.

When it’s over, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your face, lips brushing yours softly—almost reverently.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again, more to himself than to you.

Then, softer. “I don’t care if it makes me crazy. I’m not letting you go.”

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

previous part

[ Pushing my virgin Caleb agenda again yippieeeee. God he's such a loser I love him. Thinking about making a masterlist but im a full-time procrastinator lmfao ]

Virgin!Caleb who has zero sexual experience but is the textbook definition of sexual frustration. This man is about to snap in more ways than one.

Virgin!Caleb who during his teen years had to deal with his raging hormones and finally caved and searched for porn one night. He couldn't care less about the content itself only that the person MUST look like you, bonus point if their voice sounded similar to yours.

Virgin!Caleb who feels incredibly guilty each time he cums using your clothes but he can't stop himself from burying his nose into the soft fabric of your coat as his other hand quickly moves up and down his dripping cock— By the gods, you just smell so fucking heavenly.

Virgin!Caleb who wants to try everything at least once (as long as it doesn't hurt you) because he simply can't get enough of you and your body. Of all the LIs I think he's the most open to pegging but that's a topic for another day muehehehe

Virgin!Caleb who watches you sleep like a creep and notices your shirt riding up while you laid comfortably on your stomach. His eyes trail down to your exposed skin, body growing uncomfortably hot and causing him to shift the way he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He wonders...Would you squirm if he brushed his fingertips down your back? Would you tell him to stop? Or would you let him move lower? Would you let him slip his hands under the waistband of your shorts to feel your soft thighs and press against the thin fabric of your underwear, that would surely be wet by now— ....Yep, he definitely needs an extra cold shower tonight.

Virgin!Caleb who gets nosebleeds every freaking time you do or say something his dirty, loser mind considers as too much to handle. I will die on this hill if I have to listen to mE HE GETS NOSEBLEEDS AND IT'S SO HOT BELIEVE ME ! !

Virgin!Caleb who tries to keep his composure after he accidentally caught you grinding into a pillow and whining so good. He knows he should leave, that this is beyond immoral, but his body won't listen and honestly it's not like he really tried all that much.

Virgin!Caleb who is now leaning against the wall next to your door as he ignored his throbbing boner straining against his tight pants, trying to imagine that your pretty moans were because of him instead. How he wished he could just walk in there and taste you. To mark you as his so no one else would even dare to look at you. To keep you locked in his room, safe and healthy, while he spent his day buried into your soft little hole until either of you were unable to form a coherent thought.

Virgin!Caleb who had to cover his mouth to prevent your name from spilling out when his climax hit him and he made a mess in his own pants without even touching himself, sliding down the wall after his shaky knees gave out. Oh yeah, he's in biiiig trouble.

How about... Caleb who decided he would give reader everything they could ask for, so if pegging is what she wants to try, that's what they will do, because he also wants everything from her. They tried watching together a video but she got shy, so he took research upon himself, even prep on his own, just to be ready... And if shes too shy for missionary, he offers either way to ride her or present his ass up, idk but the idea has me thinking and squirming

11:05 mdni, pegging caleb, sub caleb, nipple play, tit sucking

dude....

and truth be told- he's initially not the biggest fan of the idea and its weird to assume he is but he does it cause he wants you to experience it. so he's there, prepping- squirming cause yeah, it is uncomfortable at first. but then the videos start playing and he starts picturing its you... like the first time he tries to stretch himself he's twitching, maybe jerking. and then hes practicing with a plug under his clothes.

and then if you're not doing missionary, hes cautious to not put too much of his weight yet as he sinks down- a shuddery breath leaving his lips, caleb looks up at the ceiling cause while he knows hes stretched himself its you filling him up this time for real. you're hands go up to grab at his chest and his hands are steadying himself as he slowly lifts himself up, up, up with just the tip of the dildo in his pretty hole before sinking down again, and again, again.

And caleb's so pretty too- leaning into you, hands grabbing at your shoulders cause hes just so stuffed. his brain is mush, his cheeks are rosy, lips pouty- his tits bouncing each time he moves. his nipples are super duper sensitive too. and thinking if the dildo had synthetic cum? just getting absolutely filled till its too much. or even having him face you, in your lap, maybe you suck his tits or smth. or he sucks yours. i can see that. god. just the mouthfulls.

or maybe hes on all fours as you beg him and your tits are against his back and you reach around to play with his pretty tip and nipples and he pushes back into the dildo cause hes so needy- not necessarily for the pegging but your praise and attention and adoration. his mind is swirling each time you do smth cause its you.

bonus points cause its futuristic so you can actually feel the sensations.

anyways.

ty anon

SUKUNA WOULD KILL FOR HIS SWEET WIFE, and he has done so before. Quite a few bullets were buried in the skulls of many terrible individuals who made a frown appear upon your face, or worse, made a tear fall.

A vulgar man making comments about you. A crappy mechanic who scammed you and refused to issue a refund. The careless, distracted driver who rear-ended you last week.

What a day that was. You had called your dear husband — holding back tears as you spoke — because you needed transportation after the car accident.

While Sukuna was on the phone with you, he could hear the careless, distracted driver in the background shouting bewildering nonsense about how the accident was somehow your fault.

Did someone really have the nerve to shout at his wife? His wife?

The chaos made you cry harder. The driver would barely let you get a word in, but when he did pause to catch his breath, you mumbled, “You don’t know my husband, sir. If I were you, I wouldn’t speak to me that way.”

The driver didn’t care. He continued to shout. To berate you. Sukuna stayed quiet throughout the phone call as he made his way to your location.

And that shouting man? That careless, distracted driver? He went weak at the knees when he saw Ryomen Sukuna arrive at the scene.

“Did I . . . Did I really rear-end Sukuna’s wife? I’m gonna die. He’s gonna fucking kill me,” the driver thought.

Tears fell from his eyes seeing the huge man, the one person everyone — everyone — in town knew not to mess with, emerging from his vehicle.

To make matters worse, there was a bruise on your forehead.

The man was rambling on and on. It was some sort of pathetic apology. Sukuna didn’t know. Sukuna didn’t care.

He simply killed him, gathered your belongings out of your car, and carried you to his — there was no way he’d let your favorite shoes get ruined with blood stains.

“I’ve got you, pretty girl,” he said as he carried you. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Sukuna took you home. Only after stopping to pick up food from your favorite takeout restaurant first, of course.

🏷️: @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @thewondrousdreamer @levisfavoriteteashop @preciousamethyst @iwanttohitmyself @shoyosdoll @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @sonarspace @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @koikohib

saw your requests are open and had to indulgeee

could u write caleb smut with an extremely submissive reader. she gets very subby very easily so he has to take care of her to make sure she’s not putting herself at risk (would do anything to please him, literally anything).

soft dom caleb :3

hope this isn’t a problemmmm <3

𝐚/𝐧: i fuck with this heavy anon... i think caleb would definitely be the sort to completely drop everything the moment his lover started to show any signs of reckless selflessness, especially in their pursuit of pleasuring him. i initially wrote something else for this, but i think it veered away from the original prompt and focused more on an overstimulated reader, post-coitous. maybe i'll probably post it at a later date hm..

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: caleb x fem! very subby reader 𝐜𝐰: smut + idk sexual inexperience ? 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

“open your mouth for me, baby,” 

caleb’s large, rough hand cupped her delicate chin, tilting her face up towards him. his intense violet eyes practically bored into her, dark with lust and a hint of worry that had taken a backseat to his most primal desires. with his other hand, he gripped the thick base of his impressive erection, the swollen head already glistening with pre.

obediently, she parted her lips without hesitation, her pink tongue darting out to moisten them nervously. caleb took advantage of her obedience, rubbing the leaking tip against the soft, flush flesh of her bottom lip.

her breath hitched as she felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against her mouth. the musky scent of his arousal filled her nose, making her head dizzy with a heady mix of nerves and desire. she could feel the weight of his gaze on her, the intensity of his focus as he watched her every reaction like a hawk.

her heart pounded in her chest, breaths coming in short, eager gasps as she looked up at him, small hands wrapping around his heavy shaft and making a sloppy attempt to jerk him off.

it was clear that she was inexperienced, new to this whole world of power and submission, but she was eager to lear, eager to please. caleb did so much for her, was always giving everything and then some just to make her happy. this… this was the least she could do for him, right? to make him feel just as good as he made her feel.

admittedly, she was nervous, sitting between his legs with his cock pressed against soft lips. she ran her tongue over her teeth, worrying idly at the idea of them getting in the way or her being unsure how to use her tongue.

she wanted so badly to please him, to make him feel as good as he always made her feel. the thought of his pleasure, his satisfaction, consumed her mind. even if she wasn’t the most skilled, even if her mouth was too small to take him properly, even if it hurt… she was determined to try her best.

her throat constricted as she parted her lips, trying to relax and accept the hard, pulsing flesh pressing insistently against her mouth. her little tongue flicked out, lapping tentatively at the salty drops of precum that leaked from the tip of caleb’s cock.

the taste of him, the scent of his arousal, drove her mad. she wanted to taste more of him, to feel him throbbing on her tongue, to hear his breathy moans and low praises directed at her.

but as caleb pushed forward, sliding his thick length past her lips, she felt a surge of panic. her jaw ached as she stretched her mouth wide to accommodate his girth, and her tongue began to throb uselessly from the pressure. 

every ridge, every vein of his massive cock, she could feel it. tears pricked at the corner of her eyes as she fought against her gag reflex, as it clenched and spasmed helplessly around the intrusion stretching her throat.

her small hand pumped what little of his shaft wasn't in her mouth, the skin of his cock sliding slickly between her fingers. he was so big, so much bigger than anything she'd ever taken before, and even the pornos she had watched in an attempt to try to ‘practice’ didn’t seem to help her in the moment. 

her small hands gripped caleb’s muscular thighs, nails digging into the firm flesh as she tried to ground herself. the sounds she was making were anything but sexy— wet, gagging noises that echoed obscenely in the room as she struggled to breathe through her nose. 

drool leaked from the corners of her mouth, dripping down onto her chest and nightshirt. she could feel it pooling in her throat, making it even harder to breathe as caleb’s cock pressed deeper, demanding more from her.

despite the discomfort, despite the way her throat burned and ached and her face was clearly flushing concerningly, she didn’t pull away. she focused on the sounds of caleb’s pressure, on the low groans and grunts that rumbled in his chest as she worked her mouth over his cock. the knowledge that she was the one causing that pleasure, that she was the reason for the blissful expression on his handsome face, spurred her own.

caleb groaned, his hips flexing as he fought the urge to thrust into the hot, tight clutch of her throat. he could feel her struggling, could hear the nasty gagging noises she made as she tried valiantly to please him. the sight of her, so small and dainty, with his huge cock stretching her lips obscenely wide, was incredibly erotic but just as much concerning with her face flushed a deep, almost mottled red.

he gripped her hair tighter, not to force her deeper, but to steady her as he felt her struggling. 

“fuck, baby, i think that’s enough,” he said, his voice strained, a mixture of pleasure and concern. “you’re pushin’ yourself too hard…”

despite his words, she redoubled her efforts, tears of determination in her eyes. she was terrified that he was pulling away because she wasn’t pleasuring him well enough, that her inexperience and clumsy technique was falling short. the thought made her heart clench with fear and disappointment in herself. 

caleb, sensing her distress, tightened his grip on her hair and exerted gentle but firm pressure to pull her off of his cock. she resisted for a moment, before the force of his tugging overpowered her, and she was forced to release him with a gasp and a sputter, falling into a cough fit almost immediately after.

wide, anxious eyes peered up at him as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “c-caleb, did i do something wrong? i-i’m sorry, i was just tryin’ to make you feel good…” 

her body trembled, small hands coming up to grip the fabric of her nightshirt nervously. she felt small and insignificant compared to caleb’s imposing presence, terrified that she had failed to please him when he had practically spent his whole life taking care of her.

“shh, no, of course you didn’t do anythin’ wrong, baby,” caleb murmured soothingly, his large hand cupping her delicate jaw. he brushed his thumb gently over her tear-stained cheek, wiping away at the evidence of her distress. “you could never disappoint me, who told you that? probably that pretty little head of yours, hm?” he gently ruffled her hair, trying to tighten the mood.

“you’re just… not ready to be takin’ me that deep. i don’t want you hurtin’ yourself just to please me.” 

she swallowed thickly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she gazed up at him. “b-but i wanted to make you feel good, like you always make me feel good,” she whispered, her voice quivering with emotion. 

“listen to me,” he insisted firmly, cupping her cheeks and forcing her to meet his eyes. “i could never be disappointed in you, not for trying your best. and who’s to say i didn’t feel good? but even then, i don’t want to feel good it it’s at the cost of your well-being.” 

caleb’s hands slid down to rest on her shoulders, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “i care about you too much to let you push yourself too hard,” he explained softly. “you come first, you will always come first to me. i want you to enjoy this as much as i do, not dread it because you’re scared of messin’ up.” 

her breath hitched as she listened to caleb’s soothing words, her heart swelling. she nuzzled into his gentle touch, craving his comforting warmth as her eye’s fluttered shut. 

she knew he was right, that he could never be disappointed in her for trying. but it still made it hard for her to accept that she was enough as she was without needing to prove herself constantly. 

“i mean it,” he insisted once more, his voice low and sincere. “you’ve already made me happier than you know. the fact that you’re willing to try new things, even when you’re nervous… that means everything to me.” 

he brushed a stray lock of her behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek. “i think we should call it a night for now, though,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his mouth as he tried to ease the mood. it was the truth. admittedly, he couldn't really get aroused knowing she was hurting herself for him.

“as much as i enjoyed that, i don’t want you pushin’ yourself too hard, little miss. but next time.. i'll pull out all the stops for you. ”

she blushed at his words, a giggle bubbling up in her throat. she knew he was speaking lightly, but the thought of having another chance to please him sent a thrill through her. 

“okay,” she agreed quietly, eyes sparkling with a mix of lingering desire and exhaustion. “i trust you, caleb. but… but i can’t wait for another chance to make you feel good.” she hesitated for a moment.

“will you, um, teach me? what makes you feel good, i mean?”

caleb grinned, heart swelling with affection for his sweet girl. he knew he was lucky to have her, and he silently vowed to take care of her, to never let her push herself too hard. 

because in his eyes, she was perfect just the way she was— clumsy, anxious and loving every second of pleasing him. and that was more than enough. 

Saw this tweet saying this is #calebmc and I couldn't help but make this XD

Caleb doesn’t mean to lose control like this.

He told himself he’d take it slow—that he’d be gentle, that he’d savor you. But the moment he’s inside you, every promise unravels. It’s not just about want anymore. It’s need. Raw, overwhelming, all-consuming need. And it hits him so hard he forgets how to breathe, let alone stop.

Your hands claw at his back, trying to ground yourself, but he’s already gone. He’s mouthing apologies into your skin even as he thrusts deeper—his voice cracked and hoarse, “I’m sorry, I know—I know, just—fuck, I can’t—”

You’re crying, overwhelmed, your body trembling beneath him, and still, he can’t stop. Not because he doesn’t care—God, he cares too much—but because you feel too good, too perfect, too much, and his body keeps moving even while his mind begs for mercy. For yours, and his own.

You whisper his name like a prayer and a plea. He’s shaking. He's biting back sobs. He doesn’t know whose tears hit the sheets first—yours or his.

“I love you,” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m hurting you, I know—I just—please… just a little longer…”

But “a little” turns into more. It always does. And by the end of it, you're both wrecked, ruined, too sore to move, too full of emotion to speak. He clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And even as he holds you, whispering apologies and kisses against your shoulder, his hips twitch once more—because he never really learned how to stop needing you.

hybrids, semi-public sex ୨ৎ fem!reader

dogboy!choso gets off on being a little bit vulgar…

it’s so easy for him to whine and trot to your feet, hump your leg, too, and blame it on the fact that it’s just his “instincts” taking over !

no, of course he doesn’t mean to pin you down that harshly so he can use you to get off. rutting against the curve of your ass as though he were left to the wild. and he definitely doesn’t mean to cum all over you. leave a sticky mess all over your skin. getting hard again when you coo that “it’s okay” and he’s just a “silly little mutt who can’t help himself”, as you scratch behind his ears because he’s still your good boy.

he almost thinks it’s too good to be true—the extent of your naïveté; your ignorance. how you let him act however with little repercussions. turning him into a grimy thing. a spoilt, little house-pet.

…it’s entirely your fault, then, for what comes next:

a dinner party; all your close friends and family members gathered in one room to celebrate your recent promotion, and dogboy!choso sits in the corner and eyes you as though starved. ears twitching lightly. eyes hooded. watching as the hem of your dress rises little by little whenever you move.

he doesn’t exactly know when that itch started up again—that fire in his belly swelled—but all he knows is that he wants to touch you. wants to feel you. sink his canines past your supple flesh and watch you writhe—pin you to the table while your guests stare in horror.

but he’s patient. knows better, if only just barely. waits until the wine’s gone, the food’s picked over, and the rowdy chatter about simmers into something more subdued—before he takes his own serving.

(stretches his maw; readies himself for a bite.)

and then—quietly, smoothly—he creeps forward.

no one notices. why would they? he’s just the quiet, obedient pet, right?

wrong.

he slinks under the table, head low, crawling on strong forearms, and sniffs until he finds you. his pretty thing. his master. the scent of your cunt so distinct—honeyed—that it knocks the air from his chest. makes his head spin.

you’re wearing silk panties. the kind he likes. soft and thin and soaked through. like you knew he was coming.

he nuzzles close. presses his nose to your slit and inhales deep, then deeper. his tongue darting out to taste.

slowly.

he’s good this time. careful. doesn’t want you to shove him away and whisper scoldings in that condescending tone of yours that often leaves him puzzled.

instead, he laps softly—lazily—like he’s tasting something sweet for the first time. like you’re dessert and he’s starving. sating his sweet tooth.

and when your thighs twitch? when your breath catches mid-laugh and your hand slides under the table to grab a fistful of his hair?

he whines. humps the floor once, like a filthy, desperate mutt.

and he swears—he’ll be good. he will. if you just let him keep going a little longer.

your fingers tangle in his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and choso practically purrs.

his tail thumps once—twice—against the hardwood before he stills it, panting now, lips glossy with spit and slick. he mouths at you like it’s all he knows how to do. tongue dragging slow and wide up the seam of your panties, soaking the fabric even more until it clings to your folds and he can see the shape of you through it. smell it. taste it.

you shift slightly, trying not to squirm, biting down on a moan. and just your luck, someone across the table says your name, asks you a question.

“you okay?”

you can feel all eyes on you.

“just…a little hot.” you murmur, voice strained. high-pitched.

choso just grins into your pussy. nose pressed against the damp fabric, tongue slipping underneath to flick against your clit just once, just to see if you’ll flinch.

and you do.

he moans at that, a soft little rumble that vibrates right through you, and starts grinding into the floor like the fucking dog he is. cock dragging along the polished wood, sticky with pre already, throbbing with every twitch of your thigh.

you try to close your legs. try.

but he growls—a low, warning noise that’s more animal than man—and pries your thighs back open with rough hands. pushes them apart until the chair creaks.

he noses the fabric aside and licks directly into you now. slow, deliberate. broad strokes that make your eyes flutter and your belly tense. his tongue is messy, undisciplined, like everything else about him. he groans into you, drinks you in, rutting against the floor the whole time, leaking and whining, eyes rolling back as he buries his face in your cunt. licking, slurping, suckling, like he wants to crawl inside.

you know you shouldn’t let him.

you know there are eyes just above the tablecloth, people talking and laughing and sipping their drinks while your filthy dogboy fucks himself on the floor and licks at your cunt like it’s his last meal.

but he’s looking up at you now.

those eyes.

glassy and fucked-out, begging you not to stop him.

and how could you? he’s being so good. so good.

so you pet his head. scratch behind his ears. let your hand slide down to cup his jaw as he sucks your clit into his mouth with a low, wet moan.

“good boy,” you breathe, too soft for anyone else to hear.

and choso shudders. cums in his pants again without even touching himself, hips jerking wildly into the floor. the sound he makes is guttural, ruined.

but he doesn’t stop licking.

not even after your thighs start to tremble. not even after you tug his hair and hiss his name and try to push his head back.

no—he needs this. needs your taste, your scent, your thighs squeezing around his ears like you’re trying to kill him.

and when you finally cum? biting your lip and pressing your heel into his back to keep him there?

he whimpers. grinds his spent, twitching cock into the floor and moans like he’s in heaven.

like you just gave him the greatest reward in the world.

you gently pull him away. smooth his messy hair back. he pants against your thigh, dazed and warm and sticky.

and just before he crawls back to his corner—still dripping, still aching—he presses a soft, sloppy kiss to the inside of your knee.

your friends are still talking. still laughing.

and not a single one of them knows that your good, little mutt just made you cum under the dinner table.

“will you be my egg?”

straightening up in your seat, you give satoru a once over.

“your… what?” brows furrowing, the words leave your lips slowly in your confusion. “are you saying i look like an egg?” your eyes narrow, slightly offended and defensive.

chin dipping down to his chest, satoru releases a heavy sigh. a disappointed one, emphasized by a small shake of his head.

“and you told me to invest in a calendar.” he scoffs in disbelief. “don’t you know what holiday is coming up?”

“. . . easter?”

“exactly.” he emphasizes as if it is the answer to all of your questions.

the puzzled expression on your face doesn’t change one bit and satoru groans, full body turnt towards you now as you both laze on the couch on a random afternoon.

“and what do we do on easter?”

you blink, brows shooting up in surprise.

“i didn’t know we had anything planned.”

growing frustrated, satoru tuts and takes your hands in his, staring deep into your eyes as if it’d help convey the answer to your brain through telepathy.

“c’mon! stop acting so oblivious.” “i’m not—” “it’s a fun activity — a game.”

it takes you a second, but your eyes light up like a little kid’s once it hits you.

“egg hunting!” you perk up with expectant, glittering eyes. “are we going egg hunting?”

satoru chuckles at your misunderstanding, “no, you aren’t.”

“aw,” you pout, shoulders falling.

“i am.” he corrects with a smirk, and your head tilts slightly to the side. “we’re going to have plenty of fun. but, i’m going to be the only one scouring for eggs.”

your lips purse. “how would that be any fun for me?”

a certain gleam takes over in his eyes, and you know it only means trouble.

“well, you see — there is only one egg i’m interested in…” satoru begins slowly, his large hand creeping up and resting over your stomach. the warmth of it does nothing to stop the shiver that runs up your spine from his touch.

“one i’d love to coat in a layer of thick, gooey, white chocolate. what do you think?”

for a moment, your mind goes blank.

“oh… oh!”

your cheeks heat, visibly flustered by the innuendo. you get it now. this bastard. his ability to turn anything and everything sexual is unbelievable. you swat at his chest.

“you’re such an idiot.”

he laughs in the face of your embarrassment and half-hearted insult, clutching where you hit him softly with a jutted lip.

“you’re so weird.” you huff, defiantly looking away. god, he is something else entirely.

“only for you.” he giggles happily, enjoying your reaction. “you make me so so weird, my most precious egg.”

with a quirk of a brow, you cross your arms. “oh? so you have other eggs in your life?”

it’s meant to be a lighthearted joke, just to tease him a little. but you see satoru’s face fall. your lips part slightly, lost at the way his expression turns cold all of a sudden.

“sa—”

“no,” he states firmly, as if it is a fact in every piece of literature and textbook in existence. you go silent.

with a firm hand, satoru grips your chin, turning you to face him properly once more. your breath hitches in your throat, surprised by the shift in his demeanor and the atmosphere.

observing him, your sights rake all over his face. the seriousness is still there, but you see the softness creeping into cerulean blue — the gentleness he ever only holds for you. as if he can’t help it.

he’s trying to remain extremely focused, because what you said just now was no joke — but he can’t stay stone faced in the face of his joy in human form.

that’s not funny. another? there will never be another. there is nothing after you — nothing without you. he may as well not exist.

“there’s only you.” he breathes close to your lips, as if they are the only words he knows to speak.

“there is ever only you.” satoru repeats, as if to make sure you know it deep down to your core.

the sentence is at the tip of your tongue, an “i know” — because how could you not know when satoru never fails to remind you every day how you are his one and only?

but, you are left speechless as you always are. though this time, it isn’t because of something ridiculous.

it is because of something real, something raw. ironically — like an egg.

“do you understand, sweetheart?”

satoru continues to stare deep into your soul, reading you, reaffirming if you know it to be true — any confirmation. you give him a small nod and his shoulders relax with relief.

“now, i’ll ask you again.” his voice breaks through the air in barely a whisper.

“will you be my egg?”

i think caleb is the type to not wait until the ceremony to see you in your dress </3

he’s definitely too needy, and before you know it, he’s snuck into your dressing room, a deceptively innocent smile on his face.

“sorry, honey, i couldn’t wait.”

but you look so pretty, eyes soft and every beautiful feature of yours enhanced by your makeup. you’re an absolute vision in white, too, the dress hugging you in all the right places before flowing out onto the ground.

so caleb can’t be blamed for pouncing on you, kissing and licking into your mouth before he drops to his knees to slip all six feet and two inches of himself underneath your dress.

his tux might get wrinkled and dirty, but that’s nothing when he has his face shoved all up in your clothed cunt, sucking and kissing and licking until the strip of fabric is soaked with both his spit and your slick.

and then he’s hooking two fingers and ripping it right off, exposing that pretty, dripping pussy to the cool air of the dressing room and caleb’s hungry mouth.

if you thought he was desperate earlier, he’s beyond feral now — licking, slurping, shoving his tongue so deep that you’re keening. he just can’t stop; you taste divine, look divine, are divine.

even when your loved ones walk into the room to check on you and help you finish getting ready, caleb is still eating, moaning and groaning into your pussymound and sending delicious shudders to your clit.

if he could focus, he’d find your desperation to keep both you and him quiet amusing. after all, they don’t need to know your husband-to-be is currently eating you out like you’re his last dinner, now do they?

it’s difficult, though. oh, he knows it is, with the way you kick at his back and squirm, trying to move away from his greedy mouth. his poor princess, always trying her hardest to be good.

for that, you definitely deserve a reward, but not now. tonight, when he can properly get his hands on you and worship.

for now, though, he makes you cum all over his face, and caleb laps up every drop, his thighs flexing as he barely, just barely resists the urge to cream his pants.

and when your loved ones finally leave you shuddering and panting in the dressing room, that’s when he crawls out from under your dress with a kiss goodbye to that cute bundle of nerves.

his slicked back hair is all ruffled now, and your wetness stains his freshly shaved chin, but his violet eyes are hazy with pleasure, a loopy smile on his face.

that should be enough to last him until tonight. hopefully.

pre-dating!gojo who has a massive crush on you

pre-dating!gojo who doesn't even try to hide his blatant favoritism

"i'll take over her mission. she needs rest. i'll write a doctor's note. i am a doctor. kind of."

pre-dating!gojo who constantly hits you with horrible pick up lines.

"if you keep looking that good, i might actually die. which would be horrible. for humanity.... okay, i'll shut up now..."

pre-dating!gojo who collects soda tabs so that he can trade them with you for a kiss.

pre-dating!gojo who gives you ridiculous pet names like 'my venti iced white chocolate mocha with extra syrup and sweet cream cold foam with caramel drizzled on the foam..."

pre-dating!gojo who tries too hard to be your hero, even in unnecessary situations. like when you dropped your phone and he did two backflips and defied gravity just to slam it into the wall with his otherworldly reflexes.

pre-dating!gojo who over-explains his cursed technique to you just to seem cool.

"yeah so my limitless technique literally manipulates space at an atomic level, are you even listening?? i can make space dissappear, arent i so cool??"

pre-dating!gojo who will ask for your help for the most simplest things like putting his sunglasses on for him (he asks for a kiss on the forehead for good luck whenever you do it).

pre-dating!gojo who will find a way to make everything about you. it annoys people to bits.

pre-dating!gojo who stares at you like you hung the stars, and he won't even try to deny it.

pre-dating!gojo who brags about you as if you're already dating.

"she laughed at my jokes today, thats basically a love confession! shes so perfect and oh my god her laugh its so.... shoko, you better not have your earbuds in right now"

everyone is begging that you two start dating just so he stops.

little do they know, boyfriend!gojo is ten times worse.

a/n:- even though you didnt ask for this at all, for @deathofacupid cuz girl im lowkey down bad for u. i hope you know that i think of you whenever i write for gojo. while ik that you would love to do....other things.... with him, too, you deserve the cute and the adorable and everything in between too. i hope that one day youll find your gojo who loves you to infinity and beyond because you deserve that and more. ily bro and congrats once more on 2K!

enough of the sentimental shit

Oh, you’re curious about my past works? Well, luckily for you, all the deliveries are neatly archived! Just head over to the Archive of Deliveries and browse through what I’ve sent out in the past. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

prone bone is the position of all time because you can feel his entire weight pressed into you—impossibly close, sweat sliding down the length of your back and his torso—the sensation both too much and not enough. and he’s so fucking deep at this angle; you swear you can feel him in your throat. but all you can do is lie facedown on the mattress and take everything he has to give you.

( home cumming )

househusband!satoru prepares his special matcha pancakes in the early sunday morning. with nothing on more than a pale blue apron and lots of love for his breadwinning wife. well, that was until you took him hostage in the countertop of the kitchen.

"missed you in bed..." your hands inch on his exposed waist. voice barely a whisper but nevertheless laced desire for your pretty husband, "let me take a look at you real quick."

in a quick 180 spin, your husband faces you exhibiting gloriously his voyeuristic look. your lips part in a smug smile, his toned body meshed perfectly on his body, accentuating his narrow waist by how tightly he laced the apron.

"you're so fucking hot like this 'toru." a shiver ran down satoru's spine as your nails brush his exposed skin. his pretty face twisting away with a small pout, and you thought how long it was since you had tasted him in your mouth and teased him.

"...really?"

"mhm! makes me miss all the things we did before marriage..." as tough as it was, keeping a household afloat was busy duty, from both of your ends, leaving him and you exhausted at the end of most days. satoru deserved each and every spare second of your attention and affection before he wildly claims you're fucking your secretary— untrue by the way.

your lips found their way towards your husband's exposed skin, following down, trailing towards the disturbance on the apron. you kissed his hips before going under the fabric, gojo killed the switch on the stove swiftly and pushed the cotton apron to the side so his grip on your hair would be firm while you tease his pink tip with the cusp of your tongue.

"sh-it, honey~" his dick would slip off from your lips to your cheeks or chin as he began to nudge his hips forward. your wet tongue followed the path of veins around his shaft till his base rested over you face.

satoru's eyes glistened watching his wife's face be his cock placeholder, his chest heaved and his grip on you hardened when you took his balls to your mouth, sucking and kissing and making them a slippery mess, "fuck sweetheart, keep it like that and i'll cum all over your face..."

gojo knew with his words you wouldn't relent until all his pent up lust was spread all over your face for him to later lick clean. and maybe, as a good, diligent husband, he would return his wife's favor by eating your pussy out with some newly bought maple syrup.

whose?

synopsis: what’s his is yours.

tags: fluff, smut (handjob), kind of comfort, in a way. jealous/possessive reader, reader needs reassurance, caleb subs himself out to give it to them. reader is a bit delusional but he’s into it, of course word count: 1.4k

a/n: i have reached the point in writerdom where my “drabble ideas” exceed 600 words and must become full fics. i like this one though

“So, how was it?” 

Caleb looks up as your voice echoes from the living room, having just returned from a Fleet meeting. That afternoon, there’d been a new recruit skill showcase, and he’d been summoned to judge.

“Nothin’ special,” he calls casually, strolling into the room. “The guys at the DAA were a lot more passionate, and a lot nicer to be around. Although…I think this one girl was trying to get on my good side. Kept lookin’ over at me during her trials like she wanted to impress me. She even came up to me afterwards saying she liked my eyes—I had to turn her down. Shame you weren’t there with me, otherwise we could’ve saved her the trouble,” he ends with a sheepish chuckle. 

Unfortunately, Caleb was too wrapped up in his storytelling to notice you flinching at four particular words: “girl,” “liked,” “my eyes.”

Bristling in irritation, you shoot him a skeptical glance before turning your attention back to your phone. “Whose?” you ask, your eerily calm voice cutting through the dry air.

“Huh?” he blinks confusedly. “Whose…what? She said she liked my eyes, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he repeats.

You tut, ticking your head up to the side and raising a sloped eyebrow. “Whose?”

Caleb feels like he’s back in a college classroom, sweating with nerves as he stares at an exam question that hadn’t been on the study guide. 

What had he said wrong? He racks his brain for an answer, and then—oh. He knows what you're doing.

Lately, when other people commented on his body—the body you'd waited so long to touch without consequence—you got a bit…sensitive.

He knows what you want him to say, now. And, like always, he was happy to indulge your adorably territorial request.

“…Yours,” he swallows.

“Good.” With a haughty sniff, you click your phone off and lob it across the couch. “Come here.”

And now, Caleb feels like he’s back in high school, suddenly getting called to the principal’s office. Except this time—because it’s you—a thrill rockets down his spine, propelling him forward in long, obliging strides. 

He sits obediently when you pat the spot next to you, and you turn to face him with a light scowl on your face. An act, he thinks. You’re no more than a lion cub trying to be brave, but you need the validation, the reassurance. And he’ll gladly give it to you.

“I wasn't doing it on purpose,” he pouts. “It's not my fault. Just wanted to tell you about my day.”

“It is your fault,” you grumble, “for being so damn hot and charming all the time.” 

He uses all his effort to take you seriously. To listen solemnly instead of preen at your praise.

“But I am glad you told me, because that means I can remind you,” you add, climbing on top of him. “These,” you start, fingers tracing the outlines of his purple irises, “are mine.” He inhales sharply when you come forward, his eyes fluttering shut to let you press twin kisses to their lids.

He shivers for a moment before opening them gently, encouragement and poorly hidden delight in his gaze. “Yeah,” he rasps in agreement. “Yours.”

Humming in pretend contemplation, you trail your finger down the bridge of his nose. “This too,” you declare, tapping it lightly. 

You take his quick nods as a sign to continue. 

Just a few more centimeters, and your hand reaches his full mouth. “And these,” you start, lowering your voice as you lean in, “are definitely mine.” Claiming his lips in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, you tangle a hand in his hair as he groans into you. His large palms splay across your back, tugging you even closer, and you’re almost upset when you have to pull yourself away. But you have a point to prove. 

“Am I right?” you ask through uneven breaths, and he answers you with hazy eyes and swollen lips. 

Onto the next part.

Running your hands down his bulky arms—also yours—you inch back on his lap just enough to see the full pane of his clothed abs. Like usual, he knows what you want before you even ask and swiftly tugs his shirt off, exposing himself to you with unconditional trust. 

You let a soft smile grace your lips as you count the smooth muscles, chiseled by years of hard work and restraint. “Each of these,” you begin, lightly tapping each one, “is also mine. So I certainly hope she’s never seen them,” you warn with a deceptively playful squint. 

“Nope,” he says proudly. “Nobody outside this room has for a long time. I just keep ‘em in good shape because I know their owner likes them,” he smirks and squeezes your hip gently. 

Flustered by how readily he plays along, you clear your throat bashfully. Damn him. “Y-yes. Well. I do,” you stutter, cheeks burning when his grin widens.

Alright. Evidently, he’s eager—almost too eager—to be put in his place, if you can even call this that. You have to shift the power in your favor, to get the ball back in your court. And luckily, you’re in just the right position to do that. 

Meeting his gaze defiantly—he is not in charge here—you reach between your bodies to slip your hand into his pants. As your warm fingers wrap around him, he lets out a choked whine and screws his eyes shut, only to blink them open seconds later with a pitiful stare. 

“Mhm,” you hum in approval. From Caleb, that look is a show of submission—his favorite card to play when you score the upper hand. That look—the furrowed brow, the pleading gaze, and the slightly quivering bottom lip—means he’s yours to control.

“And whose is this, Caleb?” you tease with reclaimed confidence, squeezing gently around his hardened length. 

“Yours,” he breathes shakily, the response automatic. “Only have it for you—so you can use it.” 

“That’s right,” you smile in satisfaction. Giving him a quick kiss, you lift his heavy cock out of his boxers, watching in admiration as the head glistens with growing need. “Mine to use. Why don’t I show you?” 

Reaching up, you run your thumb across his tip and down his rigid length, coating it thoroughly until he’s slick with his arousal. You figure it’s okay to reward him—that’s part of learning, right? Rewards for good behaviors, punishments for bad. And despite the small hiccups, the moments where he’d siphoned your dominance, he’d been so good for you tonight. 

So you start with slow strokes. Gentle praises and twists of your hand, up and down, down and up, until his face contorts in bliss. Frantic gasps and whimpers fill your ears, and you’re happier than ever that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. You know there’s no one else—you’ve always known, deep down—but that doesn’t stop you from needing to hear it. From needing him to say it. So you’ve started to ask for it in…creative ways. “You’re all mine, right Caleb?” you murmur between pumps, savoring the pleas that fall from his lips. 

“Forever,” he moans, glassy eyes trying their hardest to focus on your face. “Only yours. Only want to be yours.” 

The fuzzy feeling inside you is a bit out of place in the moment, but as your heart swells, you decide not to care. Latching your lips onto his, you increase the pace of your strokes until he’s struggling to return your kiss, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. Giving him space to breathe, you take the opportunity to whisper in his ear: “Let go, Caleb. But remember, that belongs to me.” 

And as your words envelop him, he spills into your hand with a mewling groan. After two more lazy pumps, you settle yourself back in his lap, positioned right over his twitching cock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, kissing his cheek gently. He buries his face into your shoulder in response. 

Chuckling, you ease his head back and gaze into his—your—violet eyes. “I almost forgot,” you add softly, placing a hand over the erratic thud in his chest. “This? This is mine, too.” 

simply ear-resistible!

who has two floppy ears and a cute little tail? Suguru Geto, apparently!

pairing: bunny!Geto x f!Reader

content: mdni, fluff and smut, au where Geto never defected, taking care of Geto after a curse temporarily transforms him into a rabbit, teasing, multiple povs, coworker to pet to lover, Geto HATES being a bunny, pining, petting, cuddling, domestic fluff, falling in love, smidges of angst, injury, hurt/comfort, gojo being a nuisance and our favorite matchmaker, eventual smut (after he transforms back to his normal body), oral (f! receiving), back shots, unprotected piv sex, creampie, breeding kink, Geto is borderline OBSESSED

art by @aransmind + divider by @dollywons

"You got a bunny?" You giggled, bending down to get a better look at the small ball of fuzz sitting on Shoko's desk. Tufts of long black fur stuck out, beady eyes staring back at you through its mane when you squinted at it.

You never knew bunnies could glare.

Gojo laughed behind you, a big hand clamping down on your shoulder once you stood back up as he leaned in to hum in your ear. His infinity was down for once, but he still seemed a little jittery, his foot impatiently bouncing on the tile. "Not quite."

"Then whose is it?" You tilted your head to the side, one corner of your mouth curling up trying to suppress your laugh that someone actually brought one here. One of the students? Haibara? Nanami?

Its fur was obviously well-maintained, maybe the pieces of his emo little heart leftover from high school convinced him to purchase his own stoic companion.

"Yours."

"Yeah, right," You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes at the realization he seriously expected you to take this thing home and shrugging his hand back off of you. "If you think I'm babysitting whatever animal you-"

"You haven't even let me explain," Gojo whined, tugging at your sleeve.

Between missions and the stacks of paperwork he already pushed off on you, there was no fucking way you were taking care of another one of his problems.

Or pet, in this case.

"No."

"Come on, please," He purred, pitching his voice down and skimming his fingertips over your back in an attempt to butter you up.

"Ask Suguru to take care of it," You sighed, glancing back to where the rabbit hadn't moved, perched on the edge and sitting oddly still, almost observant.

"I can't," He whined.

"Why not?"

"That's Suguru."

You blinked up at him. Then at the bunny. Then back to him. You heard his words, but they weren't setting in, all the synapses in your brain refusing to fire to give them any meaning.

"You named that Suguru?" Your eyebrow shot up, bottom lip still pushed out in a pout.

It wasn't like you were friends with Geto, or more than just coworkers or acquaintances, but you sincerely doubted he would be pleased at the tiny creature in front of you sharing his namesake. Even it didn't seem happy, a harsh thump of his back foot against the table as if he was making a point of his annoyance.

"No, like, that's literally Suguru," Gojo insisted.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Or just gullible.

You'd been the subject of Gojo's jokes before, used to the punchlines pointed at you. But this was a new one.

"Suguru, help me out here," He huffed, talking to the bunny. Who actually nodded.

God, you didn't get paid nearly enough for this.

"I swear if this is another joke-" You mumbled, leaning down to get a better look. The bunny, Suguru, was watching you back just as intently, beady eyes staring straight into yours.

"I'm not joking," Gojo protested, as if offended by the thought alone.

You stuck out a finger, wondering if it'd be rude to pet him or even just poke one of his paws, struggling to accept what you were seeing. But the second your finger got close enough to his face, he nipped you.

"Hey, wait-" His warning was a little late when Geto's freshly-sharpened incisors had already sunk into the pad of your finger.

"He bit me," You frowned, pulling your hand back and holding it close to your chest, little red droplets pooling over the broken skin.

"You stuck your finger in front of his mouth," Gojo said it like it should be obvious. "It's, like, an instinct or something."

"How am I supposed to know that?" You blinked, wiping away the blood on your shirt with a disgusted huff.

Suguru stomped his back paw again, irritated with one or maybe both of you for bickering while he was stuck like that.

"What even happened?" You grumbled, muscles pulled tight in your jaw.

"Dunno," Gojo shrugged, readjusting the blindfold over his eyes and pulling it up just enough to peek again at his best friend on the table. "He swallowed the curse one second, and the next, poof!"

He talked with his hands, exaggerating the motion and cocking his head to the side.

"Poof?" You repeated, barely holding in your eye roll.

"Shoko says he should be back to normal in a few days," Gojo just kept on going, ignoring your strained stare. He did pause though, tilting his head from side to side sheepishly. "Or a few weeks."

You half-expected Geto to pop out from the hallway, a wry smile on his face and that annoying know-it-all crinkle of his eyes. Leaning against the doorframe murmuring something about you falling for another one of Gojo's tricks again.

Sure, they'd grown up from the teenagers who used to tease you at every sister school exchange, but ever since you transferred and started working with them as adults, you'd been swept up in their bullshit enough times that you were having trouble shaking your suspicions.

"So you want me to take care of a bunny, I mean, Suguru for weeks? While you do what, exactly?" You grimaced when you corrected yourself, looking back at the door that the real Geto still hadn't walked through.

Once upon a lifetime ago, you actually had a crush on him, doodled his name in notebooks and dreamed about confessing your feelings in some cheesy way. But you'd grown up too, enough to recognize that even as adults, he paid much attention to you outside of polite 'hello's and whatever schemes Gojo roped him into.

"Who do you think has to handle his missions now?" Gojo hummed, ruffling your hair before you could smack his hand away, a cocky smile still on his face.

Unbothered to pick up the slack from his best friend's situation.

You weren't sure what was worse.

Being the one to handle Geto's workload or taking on the workload of handling him.

"I might need you to cover some of his classes too," Gojo added.

"Gojo," You groaned, having a hard time glancing over at the bunny astutely observing your conversation for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Just if, you know, he's like that for more than a week," Gojo gestured back again, like the black ball of fur could speak for itself.

There was no way it'd last that long.

Or you told yourself as much, snagging the pet carrier from the passenger seat of your car and slamming the door shut behind you as you glanced up at your apartment.

You were pretty sure Geto shared your sentiment judging by the faintly audible little grunts from inside the plastic cage, the sound of his nails scratching against the sides.

Oddly enough, you were nervous.

Stomach hurting and twisting with each step you took forward, unable to shake your discomfort and anxiety. He'd never been to your apartment under normal circumstances. Never seemed to see you as anything other than a semi-competent coworker to help Gojo tease.

The latter had been to your place before.

A few times, actually.

Finding excuses to show up at weird hours on his day off, sometimes bringing souvenirs from his missions or just to bother you when he was bored and Geto didn't want to hang out with him.

At least it meant he knew your address, boxes waiting for you by the door, the pet supplies Gojo mentioned having delivered before you left stacked up.

You had to nudge them over with your feet to have enough room to unlock the door and push it open.

"So, uh, this is my place," You cleared your throat, setting the cage down on the floor. Geto was already scratching at the door of it, little claws scraping over the metal bars.

You glanced around your very much not animal-proofed apartment, the dishes still left in the sink and the blanket wrinkled on the couch from where you'd stayed up late watching tv the night before.

"Sorry, I, um, guess I should set up your stuff first," You sighed, opening the door again to start dragging all the boxes back in and tearing them open. Settling onto the floor next to him, legs crossed as you started to take out the pen you'd have to put together, the bags of hay and pet bowls before tugging out toy after toy.

You wondered if Gojo just ordered express-delivery for anything marked bunny in the pet section.

"Sorry," You absentmindedly apologized again to Geto, not even sure what you were saying sorry for. Maybe for the fact he was stuck with you in the first place?

Was it weird to talk to him like that? As if he'd really be able to respond?

You thought it'd be weirder to act like it wasn't still him, to ignore the cues he was still trying to send.

He was shaking his head no inside the cage, displeased with your decision.

"You want out now?" You asked, chewing on the inside of your cheek as his head bobbed back up. You glanced around your place again before hesitantly reaching for the latch to unlock it. "Promise you won't like, chew on any wires or anything?"

You were pretty sure he was internally rolling his eyes at you.

Feeling even more like an idiot, you unlatched it, holding it open so he could hop out. He was sniffing the air, nose twitching. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

Whatever he decided, he was quick to sprint away, disappearing around the corner to assess the rest of his new surroundings, where he'd be living for the time being.

You tried not to let the discomfort stew too much, tried to dismiss how nervous you felt at having him here too, distracting yourself with putting together the pen and moving all your furniture to fit it against the wall, filling up a bowls with water and setting up a box with hay for him.

Just throwing in the chew toys with the rest of the stuff made you feel weird, icky treating him like he was your new pet.

Would he think it was pity rather than sympathy if you tried to express that to him? Or would he hate both?

You frowned, breaking down the last of the boxes and tossing them in the trash while you glanced around the floor, searching for a flash of black anywhere.

"Geto? Um, hey, I've got everything set up now?" You called out, peeking into the kitchen and not spotting him there either.

You'd daydreamed a few times about Suguru Geto being in your bedroom.

You just hadn't imagined he'd be chewing up your favorite fucking shoes.

"What the fuck?" You huffed, going to pick him up just for him to scamper away at the last second, growling at you. "You're buying me a new pair, asshole."

That little prick.

It wasn't like you did this to him. Like you even wanted him here.

"We can just fucking pretend none of this ever happened once it's over, okay?" You gritted your teeth, picking up your now-wrecked shoes and walking over to the small trash can in your connected bathroom. "That's what you want, right?"

The black ball of fuzz in front of you made a sound. What exactly it was, you didn't know. Didn't fucking care. But you were pretty sure it was as close as he could get to agreeing.

"Fine then," You huffed, chucking the once beloved pair in the trash can and fixing your stare back in the petulant beast by your feet. Acting out as if you weren't doing him a fucking favor to begin with.

But it was hard for the anger to hold when you were looking at the new him in front of you. Knowing it was probably torture to be trapped in something so small, so helpless he had to rely on a coworker he barely knew to take care of him.

Your frown softened, letting out a soft sigh as the lid for the trash can shut again.

"Once you're you, we can just go back to how it was before. We won't even have to talk again."

This was perhaps the most humiliating week of his life.

Suguru Geto was a man who could stomach almost anything. He had to. Forced to swallow curses, bite back the bile in his throat and learn to live with the taste of it.

But really, hay?

All he could fucking eat was hay? A piece of romaine lettuce? A few carrots? Blueberries if he was lucky?

The taste was fine, good even, to his changed taste buds and the way his brain was currently rewired, but you feeding it to him? Biting your lip and frowning while your fingers held it out for him to take? Like you felt sorry for him?

He hated it.

Hated being trapped here. The stupid pen where you put chew toys for him, the brush you tried to use to comb his fur no matter how many times he managed to wiggle free from your grip, how quickly you bunny-proofed the place, closing doors and putting up gates to keep him contained to the living room and your bedroom. Although, you kept your closet shut now after he'd taken out his frustrations on your shoes in a moment of weakness.

The first few days consisted of feeble attempts at communication, your face scrunching up when you tried to get him to blink once for yes and twice for no before you realized that was stupid. Then came the papers, your almost illegible scrawl in big letters to ask him if the food was okay, if he needed anything, your pout returning when he kept thumping over and over again on the one marked no.

He didn't know if he should be annoyed or appreciative when you returned home from a mission the next day with those push-to-talk buttons people supposedly trained their pets with.

The rational part of him understood how hard you were trying to help.

It didn't make the idea you were trying to tame him feel any less dehumanizing, training him like he really was your pet.

Forced cohabitation was bad enough. He wished you'd just act like he wasn't there. Leave him to eat the hay and watch the tv you never seemed to turn off and wait it out until he got his body back.

You even tried to put him in a fucking harness one afternoon when you came home earlier, cooing softly about taking him outside to get some sun and go on a walk. You gave up after he accidentally bit you when your hand got too close to his face while he squirmed his way out of it.

"Hey, um, Geto?" You called from the bedroom, voice muffled despite the open door.

His head snapped up to the sound automatically, nose twitching. That was another thing, how easily his prey instincts took control at the first hint of danger, reduced to feeling even more like a trapped animal by his own body.

He still found himself staring at you though.

You were dressed up.

Not in your usual work uniform or one of the casual outfits he'd seen you in whenever you tagged along with Satoru somewhere, but in a dark little dress and heels.

"I'm heading out for a few hours, um, sorry to leave you by yourself again," You apologized, when really all he was thinking was thank fucking god for some peace. "Do, uh, you want the tv on or-?"

Suguru thumped his back foot, the best he could do for a no without going through the series of questions that'd inevitably come if he showed an ounce of interest in those dumb buttons.

"Oh, okay," You nodded, jaw tensing as your eyes swept back over the room, looking for something. You didn't find it, returning back to your room and coming out a few minutes later with a purse hooked over your elbow. "Well, um, I'll be back in a bit."

Suguru watched the door shut behind you.

The silence was strange, the quiet he used to enjoy back in his own home drowning him here. Time took longer to pass, no phone or books or movies to distract him.

He missed reading. Missed reclining in his own bed, missed warm baths and washing his hair.

He didn't miss you.

Okay, that was sort of a lie.

Your company was comforting, in a strangling sort of way, weighing down on his conscience in your absence. All his needs were met. Food, water, entertainment. But he was still bored without you.

A bizarre itch that his hind legs couldn't scratch, one he couldn't run from, pacing pointless circles, paws leaving tracks on your soft bedroom rug.

Your scent was everywhere, on every surface, clinging to the clothes you'd left on the floor in your rush to get ready.

He was thankful you weren't here to see him burying his nose into a dress you discarded in a pile next to your half-empty laundry basket, sniffing and rubbing his cheeks and chin over it. Suguru didn't even fully understand why - one of those stupid instinctual urges that he couldn't resist.

"Geto?"

Shit.

He scurried back out to the living room before you made it past the couch, your heels already kicked off as you tossed your purse on the coffee table. You reached up to cover your mouth while you yawned, steps wobbling a little, like you'd been out drinking. He noticed it then - how the hem of your dress was rolled up on your thighs, clinging to the skin, eyes glossed over and tired.

Drinking? Or a date?

He didn't think you had a boyfriend.

Satoru would've known, would've pestered you about it or complained to him about you having a social life outside of work. He'd even tried to set the two of you up a few times, although Suguru usually shot down the idea. He'd never been that interested in having a real relationship with anyone - assumed you were the same way. But that didn't mean you couldn't hook up, have casual flings on your nights off.

It bothered Suguru.

Much more than he cared to confess.

He stared while you half-collapsed on the couch, curling up on your side and reaching for the remote on the table to turn the TV on before sighing and shutting it back off. Rolling over onto your back to just blink at the ceiling overhead.

He was tempted to actually use the buttons for once, to smack the one that said where to see if you'd actually tell him how you spent your night away from him.

To convince himself that the only reason he was so irritated was the fact that you could leave and he couldn't.

"Hey," You murmured, turning your head to glance over at him.

Suguru wasn't sure what he'd say even if could reply.

Just staring at you when you sighed again, sitting back up and shuffling off the couch, disappearing down the hall into your bedroom.

Usually, you'd stick around, hang out in the living room and kitchen, absentmindedly talking to him while you went about your evenings. He waited for you to come back out, eyeing the empty spot where you'd just been.

You didn't come back out though, no soft hum of your voice talking to yourself or the quiet pitter patter of the shower running either.

And yeah, he hated to hop, but he was hesitantly hopping through the hall until he reached your cracked open door, poking his head through and scanning the room for you.

You had changed into a tiny pair of shorts, a loose t-shirt, sprawled out in your bed and reading with your head propped up on a pillow.

It was easy to imagine you spending your nights like this.

An uncomfortable feeling was settling in his stomach, mouth dry at feeling like an intruder, an interloper in your home.

You sensed him there, maybe heading the quiet creak of the door, glancing over your shoulder.

He expected a frown. Or even just a blank expression, something polite.

But you smiled instead, one corner of your mouth barely curling up, features softening. Warm. As if you were actually happy to see him.

"Bored?" You asked, tilting your head to the side. Suguru took a small step closer, nudging the door open further. Your smile grew at the affirmation. "Want up here?"

He bobbed his head just once. The most his pride would allow. You were quick to hop off the bed, scooping his off the floor and plopping him down on the bed.

Your touch was delicate, careful. Hands that held him like he was something precious, or breakable.

It dawned on him that it wasn't because he was. That it wasn't because you were looking down at him. But because you respected him enough to care he was comfortable.

The realization didn't help how fast his new heart was beating.

You flopped back down next to him, holding out your book and flipping back to the page you left off on.

"Satoru said you like to read," You commented, eyes on the words ahead rather than him. It was true, but for some stupid reason, he was stuck on the fact you could so casually said Satoru, when he usually only ever heard you use Gojo in front of him. The only time he ever heard you say Suguru was when you thought he wasn't there, only overheard in your conversations with Satoru as if he was a frequent topic of conversation.

He never thought he'd want to know what you used to talk about before as badly as he did now.

He tried to make a humming sound, to actually reply to you for once, wondering if you'd smile again.

You did.

"I can, uh, read out loud if you want? Or pick up some audiobooks for you to listen to while I'm on missions?" You offered.

He nodded again, taking a small hop next to you, his fur brushing against your skin as he laid out next to you, nose twitching at the sweet scent of your perfume. Just your perfume.

And secretly?

Suguru was glad you didn't smell like someone else.

The you from a few weeks ago wouldn't have believed it.

Somehow, someway, Suguru Geto had slowly started to settle into his role of a spoiled house pet. Your spoiled house pet.

He'd wait near the door for you to get back, although, your started to cut a few corners to get out of missions as soon as possible, wrapping up lessons early and sending the students for treats or shopping to give them a break so you could return to him faster. You'd set up audiobooks for him to listen to, buying a speaker just for him to be able to hear it properly and connecting it to an old tablet so he could listen during the day. He'd been more willing to communicate, letting you carry him up to the TV to pick out shows and movies to watch together or picking out what fruits he wanted from the fridge.

It was nice to not be alone.

You guessed he felt the same.

Sniffing at your clothes, his nose twitching when he picked up on the faint scent of Gojo clinging to your shirt just to rub his chin over it. Sitting on your lap and letting you stroke his soft fur while he made a quiet sort of purr to let you know he was content.

He'd even started letting you brush him without protest, let you check his sharp little teeth poking out, not that you really knew what you were looking for despite how many articles you read and videos about bunny dental care you watched.

"Pretty boy," You murmured, scratching behind his ears how you knew he liked.

It was easy to forget sometimes that your precious pet was really a fully-grown man and your former coworker.

What would happen when he transformed back? Or what if he didn't?

You were pretty sure he had to. An inevitability.

Each day brought new doubts, concerns that were getting harder to hide when you woke up and he was still this furry version of him.

You couldn't read his mind. But you suspected he'd gotten used to it the same way you'd gotten used to him.

Started looking forward to you coming home in the evenings while you spent your days thinking about being curled up on the couch with him, his comforting weight on your chest while he let you pet him.

Even with your new routine, you were still painfully aware your rabbit wasn't one.

"Long day, huh?" You muttered, yawning as you continued to stroke his fur. "Me too."

Gojo had left on some mission last night, leaving you to juggle his students and Geto's, dragging them with you to take care of lower grade curses across the city before returning them to the school, scuffed up and dirt-stained.

There was a knock at the door, loud enough you jumped, and Geto did too. Little nails scratched at the bare skin of your thighs below your shorts, scurrying off your lap to your side. You swallowed hard, glancing down at him before reluctantly standing up.

"Probably just food," You mumbled, picking up a slice of the apple you'd cut up for him earlier, holding it out for him to nibble on before you walked over to answer the door and get your own dinner for the night.

Technically it was.

It was just in the hands of a white-haired imbecile.

"How's my favorite two people, er, friends?" Gojo corrected himself, stepping inside and past you before you could stop him. He half-tossed over on your coffee table, squatting down to look at his best friend turned bunny.

"You could've called," You frowned, sighing as you shut the door behind him. "Or texted."

The disruption made you nervous. Convinced you that it was some sign of change, that for all you knew, it'd go back to before, getting the cold shoulder from a fucking rabbit.

"Can't I just check in on you two?" Gojo whined, reaching out like he was about to pick Suguru up by the scruff of his neck.

"Don't grab him like that, it could hurt him," You huffed, stomping over just for infinity to stop you before you could pull him back.

"Fine, fine," He groaned, and you didn't need to see his eyes to know he was rolling them under the blindfold. "So protective."

"Whatever."

Suguru stomped, letting out a soft little growl at how close Gojo was. But you weren't sure what annoyed him more - Gojo's proximity to you or him.

"You got anything sweet?" Gojo didn't let the topic linger, distracting you as he started pushed aside the plate with apples and pulled out your to-go box, lips curling down at its contents.

"I dunno," You shrugged. "I'll look in the kitchen."

You ended up scrounging through most of the shelves in your pantry and half your fridge before you finally found an ice cream bar in the back of your freezer, sighing as you went to return to the living room.

But you paused before you entered at the sound of Gojo still talking, holding Suguru up in the air while he tried to kick his paws and free himself. You almost giggled at the sight, already thinking all the different ways Suguru would surely find to get him back for it later.

"I bet you don't even wanna go back to normal, huh?" Gojo teased, cocking his head to the side while Suguru just let out another little bunny growl at him.

"Hey," You announced your presence, barely keeping the grin off your face as you stepped inside and Gojo quickly returned Suguru to the couch, attempting to look innocent.

Suguru was quick to hop back in your lap the second you sat down as you handed the ice cream bar over to Gojo, despite the fact it felt a bit like rewarding a baby for bad behavior. You grabbed another apple slice to make up to Suguru for it, automatically smiling when he started eating it.

"He lets you feed him?"

For the first time in the past few weeks, the idea of what came next didn't feel quite so scary. That it didn't have to be awkward or unfamiliar.

It wasn't so insane to think you weren't just coworkers or awkward acquaintances anymore. Things didn't have to be weird when this was over, or you'd have to go back to pretending you didn't notice him in every room you were in together.

Still though, you couldn't shake the small part of you that hoped for something more.

Where were you?

You'd shown up late a few times, but only ever an hour or two. Suguru was too short to see the clock on the stove, but he'd watched the sky shift outside from the fading pink of sunset to pitch black, with only the glow from the tv and the tiny lamp you'd forgotten to turn off in your bedroom to cut through the dark of your apartment.

The show you switched on for him earlier shut off at the end of the season, stuck on the same loading screen waiting for someone to press a button on the remote. Which, unfortunately, you'd left on the kitchen counter in your rush getting ready this morning, just out of his jumping height if he even wanted to try.

He'd been a little annoyed at first. He knew you'd feel bad about it when you got back, probably pick him up and apologize with a cute pout, nuzzling him against your chest or cuddling on the couch to make it up to him. He just wanted you to show up already so you could. Absentmindedly stomping his foot waiting for the click of the key in the lock, for you to shuffle through after the door swung open.

But it didn't come.

It didn't help that ten minutes felt more like an hour in this body. That with no way to measure time other than the episodes auto-playing and changing daylight from the window, the seconds stretched out, the hours dragged on until it felt more like days since he'd last seen you.

He tried to remember what you were rambling about this morning, if you mentioned anything about being late. But nothing stood out. You were teaching his students today, then a mission, right?

You mentioned that Nanami was supposed to come along, so surely, between the two of you, you could take care of even a special grade if you had to.

Or maybe you had, and you were out getting drinks with him. Maybe you were in the backseat of his car, letting him undress you and pull you onto his lap. Fiddling with his belt or running your fingers through his short hair-

The lock flipped.

Suguru had already made himself mad though, stomping his back feet before you even pushed the door open, uneven footsteps stumbling through. Haughty as he held his little bunny head up high, planning on giving you the silent treatment until he heard your shaky breathing.

His heart was beating too fast, blood roaring in his ears frozen in place listening to the slam of the door behind you, your footsteps pausing as you leaned against it, holding your side with one hand.

"Shit, Suguru, sorry," You mumbled, your voice weak. "Just, fuck, give me a few minutes."

Your body was shaking, from adrenaline or anxiety, taking uneasy steps forward and bracing yourself on the couch once you were close enough.

He wished he could see you clearer, all the wrong colors and the slightly blurrier bunny vision he was confined by made it hard to tell how hurt you were, how much blood was on your already dark clothes other than what had seeped through to stain your hands.

"It's not that bad," You said it like you weren't wincing, choking down the lump in your throat as you walked towards the bathroom. Suguru couldn't do anything except follow. Couldn't steady you, couldn't hold your hand or help you sit and clean up your wounds the way he wanted to.

Shit. Why the fuck hadn't you gone to Shoko?

Why hadn't Nanami dragged you back to her?

Suguru would've.

It slipped his mind that you weren't as strong as him. That you didn't have RCT. Watching you swallow the pain, forcing yourself to keep moving until you were shoving the door to the bathroom open, eyes glazed over and exhausted as you gripped the counter hard and rumbled through the cabinets for a first aid kit.

Half-collapsing on the closed lid of the toilet seat and rummaging through for gauze to press down on the wound through the torn fabric of your shirt.

It was almost funny, he thought Gojo was full of shit before. Of course, he wanted to turn back, of course he wanted everything to be normal again.

But his best friend knew him better. Was right for once.

He hadn't wanted that - he liked being with you, liked this limbo of long days spent in the comfort of your home and nights spent in your bed.

Suguru liked you.

It just hadn't struck him until now, when he was ready to throw all of that away to be able to help.

He needed his body back.

Needed to do anything other than watch every excruciating wince and flinch as you wiped it clean. You made a small noise when you went to pull off your ripped and blood-stained shirt, balling it up and throwing it in the sink to soak so you could examine the slash across your side better.

"It looks worse than it is," You spoke so quietly it was hard for him to hear. Trying to comfort him when he should be comforting you.

He should be carrying you to Shoko, cradling you against his chest and wiping away the tears brimming at your lashes.

You wiped them yourself though, swiping with the back of your hand just to leave a streak of blood across your cheek.

"I'll see Shoko in the morning," You excused, steadying your voice as you went through each step. Popping a few painkillers before disinfecting it, struggling to patch it up, hands shaking through unsteady stitches before you finished bandaging it up.

You didn't look at him.

Suguru wanted to know what you were thinking.

He had to make himself hop himself forward, rubbing his head around your ankles to forced your attention down to him.

"Hey," You muttered, balling up the plastic wrapping of the bandaid and tossing it in the trash can. "You don't have to feel bad. I'm okay."

You weren't that convincing when you couldn't even bend over to pick him up or pet him.

He stayed by your feet while you cleaned up the first aid, filling up the sink to soak your shirt before you walked back to your bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and preemptively wincing at the thought of finishing changing. Suguru pulled at your shoelaces to untie them for you, loathing just how little he could do to help.

You laughed, something short, sweet, leaning over to pull your shoes off, carefully lifting him up and placing him on the bed. Even the simple movement seemed to hurt, your face scrunching up as you sucked in another breath.

"Thanks, Suguru," You sighed leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead.

He needed you to kiss him again - the real him.

You felt him first.

Someone's arm was wrapped around you, your cheek pressed against something firm and warm, smooth skin and hard muscles practically suffocating you. The blanket was still pulled up around your, your limbs tangled in the fabric while the weight of him kept you there.

Him sleeping on top of you was fine when he was like, eight pounds. He weighed a lot fucking more as a human.

Blinking back surprise, trying to squirm free just for Suguru to grumble something incoherent in his sleep and hold you tighter.

"Sugu, shit, Geto," You groaned as you corrected yourself, managing to pull your arms free to start pushing him off. Your side still hurt from yesterday, a dull throb that ached with every movement.

He just readjusted instead, moving down to nuzzle his head back into your neck, long dark hair splayed out and tickling your face, still too asleep to realize he wasn't a small bunny anymore.

"You're heavy," You complained, and he stirred, his body going stiff the second it hit him why.

"Fuck."

His voice was hoarse and raw, like it hurt to use. It took him a second to start moving, every motion slow, sluggish while he untangled himself from you. You tried not to stare, sitting up in your bed while he stood, but your eyes had a mind of their own, raking over his body to realize he was very much naked.

You made a small noise, immediately looking away and throwing the blanket at him to cover up.

"Um, okay, well, I'm, uh, gonna call Gojo so he can get you some clothes," You rambled, covering your eyes with one hand and fumbling for your phone where you could've sworn you left it on the nightstand before you fell asleep.

A warm hand brushed against yours, goosebumps going up your arm as sturdy fingers skimmed over your skin. It took you a painfully long second to realized he was holding your phone out for you to take.

"Thanks," You choked out, grabbing it and crawling out the other side of the bed so you wouldn't accidentally bump into him. "You can just, uh, use my bathroom to shower or take a bath or whatever."

You were scurrying out before he could reply clutching your phone like a shield to save you from the sheer awkwardness.

In your hurry, you hadn't realized you'd torn your sloppy stitches until you felt something damp through your shirt as you slammed the door behind you and started frantically thumbing through your contacts for Satoru.

"Shit," You muttered, hitting the call button and tucking it between your ear and shoulder and hurrying to the other bathroom to clean it back up, choking down a few more pain killers dry as the phone rang.

"Good morning, princess," An annoyingly chipper voice answered right as you perched yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter.

"I need you to come over," You cut straight to the point, hoping he didn't hear the tremble to your voice when you pressed down on your wound with a fresh piece of gauze. "Suguru's back to normal. And, um, naked."

"I'd never say no to you, but a threesome at nine in the morning is a little early, baby."

"Please just bring him some clothes, idiot," You gritted your teeth, bracing yourself as you disinfected it again.

You really just needed to go see Shoko, but you wanted to make sure Suguru was fine first.

"So no-"

"I'm hanging up now, be here in the next five minutes before I have to maim you," You warned, ending the call before he could say head.

Your side fucking hurt, grinding your molars just replaying the memory of that stupid curse catching you off guard after you thought you killed it.

Nanami had tried to convince you to call Shoko, but it was her night off, and she was out on some date. You didn't want to drag her away unless you were actually actively dying.

Although, you might need to interrupt her morning after now.

There was a sharp knock on the bathroom door, and you forced yourself back on your feet.

Gojo probably fucking teleported straight into your living room.

You glanced around the bathroom, pulling a bathrobe off the door and wrapping it around yourself, tying a bow around the waist.

But when you swung the door open, Suguru was standing there, sculpted chest on display, one of your towels slung low on his hips and his hair damp and long.

Your mouth fell open, but you couldn't find the words when your eyes met his.

His face was pulled tight, jaw clenched as his dark eyes assessed you.

Your heart sank.

Punctured and peppered with holes, disappointment flooding in and drowning you with just a single stern expression from him.

Before you could linger on it, before he could really shove your head under, the energy in the room shifted, and Gojo popped in behind him.

"Sup, Suguru?" He casually greeted, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

Geto twisted around to scowl at his best friend. Gojo just chuckled, pushing the change of clothes he'd brought against his chest before glancing over at you.

"Cute bed head," Gojo commented, stepping around his friend to ruffle your mused hair.

"Shut up," You huffed, smacking his fingers away.

Suguru slotted himself between you before Gojo could do it again.

"She's hurt," Suguru spoke slowly, still frowning. "Take her to Shoko."

"God, you're both so bossy this morning," Gojo complained, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him, peeking out from beneath his blindfold to squint at you. "How bad is it?"

"I can drive myself," You grumbled, cutting a glare at Suguru.

Really? You'd taken care of him for a month and the first thing he did was rat you out to Gojo?

"Whatever, I'll just take you," Gojo shrugged, slipping his blindfold back down and tugging you closer so you could teleport together.

You were staring at Suguru though.

Forced to look up at him now, all the softness gone, replaced by sharp lines and harsh edges. You didn't know what sort of face you were making, didn't want to when you were sure it was probably tinged with hurt or worse, longing. Caught somewhere between devastation and desire when you couldn't tell what new box he'd put you in now, or if he'd just returned you to the one you'd been stuck in before, barely more than coworkers.

That was what you promised him, right?

What you kidded yourself into thinking wouldn't be hard, no matter how much you liked his presence, how much you convince yourself there was some silent connection you shared.

You couldn't read his face anymore.

And then it was gone, replaced by trees, standing outside of the campus. Gojo was digging his phone out to text Shoko for you.

"Want me to carry you in?" He offered, shoving his hands back in his pockets to pull out loose candy and toss it in his mouth.

"No," You grimaced. "It's fine."

You could take care of yourself.

You'd been perfectly okay on your own before.

It was just a little hard to pretend it was the same when Ijichi gave you a ride home a couple hours later, returning to a quiet apartment with no one to greet you.

Stepping over a few bunny toys left out the day before, walking around empty rooms, starkly aware of just how alone you were.

Even the days felt longer, the silence louder, stretching out and surrounding you.

And yeah, you were still fine, but you ended up taking more missions just to fill the time, to give you an excuse not to return back to your room. Not to the point of really exhausting yourself, but enough that you wouldn't have to think. You avoided stepping foot back on campus, no matter how many times Gojo invited you to join his lesson plans, only going to see Shoko when absolutely necessary.

It wasn't that you didn't want to see Suguru, although it was part of it.

You just didn't know if you'd be able to keep your word if you did.

He probably just wanted to forget.

Didn't want to be dragged back to how it felt to be so small if he saw you.

The first time you bumped into him was when he was in the middle of arguing with Nanami in the latter's office, arms folded across his chest and that casually cold stare still on his face while they bickered about something.

"Um, sorry, I needed your signature on some stuff, Kento," You interrupted, forcing yourself to focus on your blond colleague as he sighed as pushed his goggles back up his nose.

"Sure."

You felt Suguru's eyes sticking to your back as you walked away.

There was a shoebox waiting for you when you got home that night, a brand new pair of shoes to replace the ones he destroyed.

You guessed it was just his way of upholding your deal.

The first time you talked to him was a couple weeks later when him and Gojo made an appearance in Shoko's office the second she stepped out after treating you.

"Hey," He spoke first, brows knitted together, searching your face for something.

"Hi," You echoed back, avoiding his sharp gaze in favor of the floor, the desk, anything.

"You're hurt?" His once silky voice still sounded raw, too low, not quite as smooth as it used to be.

"Not anymore," You shook your head.

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard," He frowned again, stepping closer. You hopped off the table you were sitting on, brushing past his broad chest to get by.

"Thanks for the concern," You muttered.

Obligatory concern wasn't of any interest to you. Whatever debt he might feel towards you, you didn't care to cash in. But a clean slate felt impossible when he'd stationed himself in every corner of your mind.

You'd started considering transferring back to Kyoto, started wondering if it was even worth staying when you just felt so weird about everything now.

Stopping a pet stores on the way home, scooping up bunnies and playing with cats and debating on if you really needed a companion. Or maybe just a date.

You'd been lounging on your couch and swiping through apps for the latter when someone started pounding impatiently on your door.

"You look like you could use a drink."

It was a stupid idea, every one Gojo had was, but you begrudgingly accepted, getting changed into a short dress and letting him drag you down the stairs to your car. He pretended to be a gentleman enough to open the driver's door for you before proceeding to be the passenger princess he actually was, sliding into the shotgun seat and flipping the radio stations on the drive to the bar.

You should've known better.

Because who else would be waiting in a booth for you when you got there?

Really, you should've left.

But you stayed, letting Gojo tug you over to join his best friend, ordering drinks and shots, careful to only drink enough for the warmth to set in, to feel the fuzz in your chest but not get too tipsy that you wouldn't let anything slip.

Gojo on the other hand?

It only took him one drink to dredge up everything you'd been avoiding for the past few weeks.

"C'mon, you'd take care of me if I got turned into, I dunno, a dog, right?" Gojo whined, slurring already, his infinity switching off as he flopped into your lap. He rarely drank - a sight you probably would've savored some other time, snapped some photos of to blackmail him later. He readjusted so his head was reclining on your thighs, fingers pulling back his blindfold so he could blink his big blue eyes up at you.

"You'd probably be a mouse, if anything," You teased, flicking his forehead.

"Nuh-uh," He argued, catching your wrist, small little flickers of energy tingling your skin that he couldn't control, pulling your hand until it was resting in his hair.

"Uh-huh," You giggled, combing through the soft short strands with your fingers.

"I'd take care of you if-"

There was loud thud, almost a heavy stomp, and it took you a second for it to click that someone had. Another to realize who.

You supposed some of Suguru's bunny brain was still there, a few little habits left he hadn't kicked.

"Satoru," Geto scolded, his whiskey glass hitting the table with a harsh clink. You glanced up to see his mouth set in a polite smile you knew was pretend. Fake and forced on, trying not to crack or twitch. "Get off."

"Fine," Gojo huffed and groaned, almost rolling onto the floor in his attempt to push off the booth and your legs to get up.

But you were busy watching his best friend, who, if you weren't mistaken, looked distinctly jealous?

You were torturing him.

He finally had his body back and here you were, torturing him.

The unsure glances you'd toss his way when you thought he wasn't looking, your soft words now addressing him politely, all the intimacy in them removed. The worst part was you weren't even avoiding him, just adhering to the stupid agreement from that first day and pretending the entire month never happened.

He didn't know how to make it more obvious he didn't want that.

But every time he stopped by your apartment, you weren't there. You were never at the school anymore either, always on some mission or with your nose buried in paperwork.

He left the shoes by your door, hoping to hear something, anything, just to get more of the same silence.

It took suggesting to Satoru that the three of you go out for drinks to get you to even come within five feet of him.

And watching this almost made him wish he hadn't.

You let Satoru plop himself down on your lap, giggling with him, petting him. Playing with his hair, fingers sifting through it how you used to stroke Suguru's fur.

Okay, he hadn't meant to thump his foot, just a leftover reflex. But it was better than grabbing Satoru by his collar and dragging him back to a sitting position.

He was only half-aware of what he was saying, if he even offered an excuse, only relaxing once Satoru sat up. His best friend yawning and stretching, digging his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

"Oops," He chuckled. "Ijichi's been waiting outside for me. You want a ride, sweetheart?"

You shook your head, but your eyes flickered over to Suguru, waiting to see if he reacted to Satoru's offer. Or maybe hoping he'd counter with one of his own.

"I'm okay, thanks though," You replied, lips pressed in a thin smile.

"Suit yourself," Satoru sighed, practically pushing Suguru out of the booth so he could get out. He tossed more than enough to cover the bill for all three of you in the table before lifted up one corner of his blindfold again, winking at Suguru before he started to turn. "Make sure she gets home safe, alright?"

The second he was gone though, you were flustered, shrugging before he even said anything.

"Could I buy you another drin-"

"You really don't have to," You accidentally interrupted, blushing and looking down at your hands in your lap. "I meant, about Satoru said, but, uh, to the drink too."

"I want to."

"It's fine," You insisted, but your smile was forced, practiced. "It was nice seeing you tonight though."

"Just nice?" He baited, barely able to keep a straight face when yours turned into a pout.

You pushed off the table, slipping out of the booth, tilting your head to the side with a conflicted expression. "Good night, Geto."

Suguru was following you out with a small frown this time.

"Suguru," He corrected. How many times had he stomped and grunted to get you to call him that in bunny form? Just for you to go back to his last name the second he was a sorcerer again?

"Good night, Suguru," You hummed. There was a hint of teasing there, a faint smile on your face he barely got a glimpse of before you walked a little faster out the exit.

"You're tired?" He asked, fresh air hitting him first as the door thudded shut behind him as he followed you outside.

"Not really." You probably only acknowledged it because you knew he'd been around you enough to know it'd be a lie otherwise.

He wanted to ask you to stay, or to leave with him instead.

"I should probably head home now," You swallowed, glancing between your feet before back out to the street ahead.

"Where's your car?"

"It's like a ten minute walk from here, I, uh, couldn't find parking," You mumbled, still not looking at him, putting yet another step between you he immediately bridged.

His hand grabbed the hem of your shirt, pinching it in his fingers lightly, just enough to get you to stop before you could slip away again.

"You wanna ride?" Suguru offered. Flying over the city at nighttime on his dragon was romantic, right? He could wrap an arm around your waist (to keep you steady, of course), watch the twinkling lights below and feel the cool breeze on your skin.

"I'm sorta scared of heights," You sheepishly admitted, shrugging your shoulders apologetically. "But thanks."

"Let me walk you there then," He insisted.

"Figured you'd probably want to just crash at your own place," You dismissed, staring straight ahead rather than looking at him.

"I wouldn't mind going back to yours," He smoothly answered back, letting go of your shirt to see if you'd try to break away again.

"Yeah?" You were cautious, eyes flicking up to his.

"Yeah."

He walked next to you, the quiet break in conversation comfortable, studying your side profile while you lead the way to your car.

"I'd take care of you," Suguru murmured under his breath. He wasn't even sure he actually said it, or if he had and the quiet footfalls on the pavement and the passing cars drowned him out.

"You'd, um, what?" You finally said, stealing another peek up at him. Your hand brushed against his, just barely, and it took everything in him not to hold it, not to interlock his fingers with yours and refuse to let go.

"If it ever happened to you," He replied, completely serious even if you were staring at him like you understood him better as a bunny.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head, like you were trying to decide how to interpret it before you landed on a joke.

"Yeah, you'd save me from being neglected or overfed at Gojo's?" You hummed, looking back at the street ahead.

"Sure," Suguru said.

"How kind of you," You laughed a little, folding your arms across yourself as a brittle breeze cut through the air, fighting back a shiver.

He took his jacket off, and you paused, staring at him with your face scrunched up, mouth parted like you wanted to tell him it was yet another thing he didn't need to do, no sound came out. He took the opportunity to help slip it on you himself, brushing your hair out of the way as you pulled it around your shoulders.

"Thanks," You blushed.

He wished he'd just listened to Satoru the first time he suggested you would make a cute couple a year ago, asked you out himself, wished there wasn't all this time wasted when you could've been his.

He refused to waste any more.

Opening the car door for you when you finally made it there, getting in the passenger seat and watching you scramble to turn the radio station to music you remembered he liked, adjusting the temperature and chuckling when you asked again if he really wanted to go to your place.

You still came up with a cute excuse after he said yes, claiming you had a book you thought he'd like, to pretend he was coming over just to borrow something.

As if it was too hard to believe you were what he liked, you were what he wanted.

"It's a little messy, but I guess you've seen it look worse," You muttered, lips pursed together as you rummaged through your bag for your key. He leaned against the door, one corner of his mouth quirking up as you threw him an apologetic look.

You found the key, turning it in the lock and pushing the door open, letting him in first.

The first thing he noticed was the bunny pen still up. Although the bowls were empty now.

"You kept everything," He commented, unsure what the weird feeling in his chest was. It was cloying, some thick nostalgia that clouded his judgement when everything was almost the same as he left it, although it all felt much, well, smaller.

You kicked off your heels, laughing a little when Suguru automatically started helping you shrug off his jacket, his fingertips grazing against your skin.

"I've been thinking about adopting a real one," You casually answered, a faint blush flooding your cheeks like you were embarrassed about it. Jealousy? Annoyance? Whatever it was, he felt absolutely territorial and entirely idiotic over the panic seizing inside him at the thought of you replacing him with a new pet. "It's been kinda weird adjusting, you know?"

"Oh," He murmured, attention sweeping back over your living room. It still smelled like you. Your perfume lingered in the air, but it was more than that, or maybe he was just more sensitive to it now. "It's been hard for me too."

"Really?" You breathed a sigh of relief, glancing back over your shoulder at him with that small smile he used to fall asleep next to.

"Yeah," He confirmed, pushing down the lump in his throat.

"Being alone-"

"I miss you," He interrupted before you could keep skirting around it, before you could find another excuse to pretend you didn't hate his absence the way he hated yours.

"I, uh, you what?" You squeaked, sounding just like the mouse you accused Satoru of being.

"I miss you," Suguru repeated, a tentative hand on your waist to twist you around so he could see your face in full. Watch your eyes widen and pretty lips part in surprise while you tried to work out if you meant it how you hoped he did.

"I missed you too," You quietly admitted, as if it was something to feel guilty for.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you," Suguru continued, tracing up your sides with long fingers, then back down to your hips.

He wanted to hold you this time instead of the other way around.

"I-"

You stopped yourself when he pulled you closer, your chest pressed against his, sucking in a sharp inhale.

But you broke eye contact, glancing away sheepishly. He followed your stare over to your messy coffee table, noticing the papers scattered across the surface. One word caught his eye, transfer in big and bold letters.

"What's that?" The panic from before flared up hard now.

You wouldn't leave.

You couldn't.

"Oh, um," You paused, embarrassed. "I was just considering transferring back to help them out. It's not like you guys really need me here."

"Do I not need you?" For once, he sort of wished he was more like Gojo.

He would throw himself down on his knees and beg you to stay.

Suguru could barely stand to even stare at you, loathed the longing in his voice when he waited for your answer.

"Do you?" You echoed quietly.

"I do," Suguru admitted, feeling something inside himself crack at the honesty.

"Suguru," You said his name like you weren't convinced.

"If you go, I'll go too."

He almost surprised himself. But he wasn't going to let life take the one thing he ever truly wanted from him, not this time.

"If you're just doing this because you feel like, you owe me or something idiotic like that," You started again, clearing your throat and trying to strengthen your resolve despite how close you were to giving in, your bottom lip starting to quiver.

"I'm doing this because I like you," Suguru chuckled.

You let him pick you up this time, wrapping your legs around his waist and your wrists around his neck, so badly wanting to believe him. Looking up at him like your whole world was in his hands when he carried you back to your room.

He half-tossed you onto the bed, hands almost shaking when they hovered over your body. He was nervous, but it felt like it had when he first transformed back, like all his proportions were suddenly wrong again, struggling to control his fingers and force them to move how they once did. Not nimble or deliberate, but messy, needy.

"Suguru," You purred so prettily, propping yourself up on your elbows and peering up at him with warm eyes. He settled on caressing your cheek, feeling the flush under your skin. "If you change your-"

"I'm not changing it," He murmured, sucking a sharp breath. He'd stay where you were, or follow where you went. Nothing had been simpler.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him on top of you, and he was struck again by how different your room felt. How tiny the bed seemed than the last time you were under him.

Then there was you.

Tangling your fingers in his hair and returning his stare, wondering if the little glints of adoration were really in your eyes or just a reflection of his own. You smelled sweeter in person, up close like this, but what he couldn't stop thinking about was your taste.

Of all the things he'd forced down his throat, rolled over his taste buds and struggled to swallow, you were the first he wanted to savor.

"Stop staring at me like that then," You let out a light huff, bottom lip sticking out. He wanted to bite it.

Your eyes fluttered shut when his nose nuzzled against yours, expecting the kiss before his mouth pressed against yours, and he was barely surprising the urge to lap at your bottom lip and beg for entry.

But you were always good at anticipating his needs, already parting your lips to let him in, your legs starting to wrap around his waist before his free hand snagged one of your thighs and pressed it down into your soft mattress.

Suguru was pretty sure he found heaven in your kiss. Divine karma repaying him for every putrid curse he'd choked down, lost between the cherry chapstick on your lips and the wine on your tongue when it slid against his.

He wanted to claim you.

Make you his in body and word and mind.

He was yours. He'd scratched and stomped and tried to fight it but it was true, wasn't it? His heart had already been cut out and you had already signed your name on it, permanently stamped him with a return to: label like he could somehow get lost when there was already an invisible leash connecting him to you.

Pulling away to breathe was hard enough. But seeing your tiny smile start to curl up, you eyes glossy and bright as they locked with his, his lungs could've collapsed at how pretty he thought you looked.

"Kiss me again," You quietly requested.

He'd kiss you as many times as you let him.

Returning his mouth to yours, offering warm open-mouth kisses like promises, loyalty and love and lust all wrapped up in his soft lips sucking on yours.

His free hand snuck between the increasingly narrow space between your body and his, tugging up your dress until he could see the pretty little lace underwear you'd worn underneath it.

"Cute," He commented, pulling away so he could them down, taking his time shimmying the flimsy fabric down your thighs, despite how badly he wanted to just rip it off in one go.

Your face was flushed, watching him with wide eyes as he tossed the panties into the laundry basket before prying your thighs apart all the way. He paused, removing his own clothes piece by piece, cock already swollen as it smacked up against his dark happy trail, pre-cum beading up along his pink tip.

Satisfaction swelled in his chest to see how soaked you were, his new favorite feast sprawled out for him.

Suguru flipped you over onto your stomach, pushing your face down and propping you up on your knees, nudging them open just enough for him to fit between them.

His second taste of you had him convinced he would never be able to get enough. Licking a clean stripe up your thighs to your entrance, pushing his tongue in deeper, flattening it as it danced inside.

"Sh-shit," You mumbled, completely flustered now, and he could just picture the pretty blush on your face, your next breath stolen as he practiced more drawn-out swirls.

His fingers leaving indents in your soft skin, the pliant muscles tensing with every squeeze of his hands.

Hearing your moans and shaky breathing only made him work harder, exploring every spot he'd stretch out later, determined to hear his name from your lips again. Devote each and every ministration of his mouth to you. His pretty girl.

"You like that?" He broke away to murmur right as you started making broken little whimpers into the mattress.

"Mm, mhm," You moaned, squirming under his grip.

"Wanna hear you, sweetheart," He sighed, pulling away just enough to admire the view one more time, tempted to leave scattered bites and kisses all over your thighs to make it just that much sweeter.

"Suguru," You huffed a complaint, all whiny and adorable as you barely found the strength to lift your head. "Keep going."

Your impatient whine might've worked on another man.

But Suguru had been patient before. Had waited for you to come back around to him. He'd be taking care of you the rest of his life, but he still wanted each second to last.

He couldn't help it, bending down to plant a kiss on the back of your thigh, letting his teeth sink in just enough to leave a small hickey, continuing up to leave a trail of them along your thighs while you made muffled noises.

"I asked you a question, baby," He reminded you, spreading your thighs apart as he left another peck close enough you had to feel his breath ghosting over your sensitive clit, almost jolting at the phantom sensation.

"You know I like it, Sugu-" You gasped when his tongue slipped back inside, surprised at the sudden warmth.

And yeah, he did, but you were clueless how much he loved it.

Loved every noise he pulled out of you, how you melted in him, let him pull you in and squeezed so tightly at every grunt and groan he made.

Adored every time you said his name, listening to your harsh exhales and watching you grip the blankets underneath you like you could crumble at any moment.

When you did? Falling apart after he slipped his hand around to your front, massaging careful circles against your aching bud until you were trembling, only held up by his arms around you?

Suguru was pretty fucking sure he was in love.

All that patience had evaporated, drained somewhere he couldn't access, need of his own taking over as he climbed back on top of you, lining himself up and barely holding himself back as he sank into you.

Half the street probably heard his groan, and your neighbors absolutely heard your pretty mewl of his name when his hands gripped your hips so mean to hold you there.

"Fuck, oh fuck, you're so-"

"Sugu," You whined, interrupting him and wiggling your hips as you tried to force him in all the way.

His composure, the control he'd cling to, both were quickly unraveling.

The sight of you bent over, his cock half-concealed inside you while you clenched around him so sinfully to suck him in?

He could probably cum from that alone.

Suguru clenched his jaw, staving it off as he slowly pushed in deeper, counting out his breaths until he bottomed out inside you, your own inhales growing ragged at the stretch and burn.

He wanted to mold you to him, to fuck you hard enough and long enough to leave an impression of every ridge and vein. Not make it two pumps before finishing.

But you had a knack for making his life difficult.

The arch of your back when he pulled out and plunged back in, the intoxicating scent of your perfume that was still driving him fucking insane, the gorgeous little gasps you let out with each thrust and smack of his hips against your ass.

He rutted deeper, his cock throbbing while your insides clung desperately onto him, watching the way your fists curled up in the comforter when you buried your face into the soft cotton to muffled your whines.

"M-mine," Suguru stuttered over the growl, hardly recognizing the husk in his own voice, swollen tip stuffed up against your womb while you squeezed around him.

Really, he was yours.

Would be your loyal dog or lap animal, whatever you wanted him to be.

Something primal inside him screamed that he had to fill you up, to mark you as his and stuff a baby or two or twelve inside you. Okay, not actually that last one.

The little sliver of him that was still operating on the most basic instincts of a small animal couldn't tell the difference though.

"Tell me to pull out," Suguru groaned, his fingers pressing harder into your hip, his reason getting fuzzier the longer you kept sucking him in. Sweat pricked at his forehead as his face fell forward to rest on your back, lips pressed to your skin like a lifeline.

"N-no."

Your voice was quiet, a soft breath that was hardly audible over the sound of skin on skin or the thump thump thumps of your headboard hitting the wall.

Barely hanging on by a strand, the tremble of your thighs underneath him and the shudders sent down your spine with each snap of his hips frayed the tether to his self-control until there was almost nothing left. Trailing kisses across your shoulder to feel the gasp he tore from your throat when you unraveled underneath him, holding you together while you fell to pieces crying out his name in broken whimpers.

He hadn't meant to.

But his teeth were sinking into the scruff of your neck, a soft love bite digging in to keep you still underneath him while warm spurts of cum coated your walls white. The thick veins pulsing until every last drop took, his cock still buried deep inside until he realized he was still half-clamped down, releasing you just to keep you pinned to the bed by his body weight instead.

"Suguru," You softly whined, turning your head so he could hear you better.

"Yeah, baby?" He murmured, pressing a few small kisses over the fresh hickies starting to blossom on your skin, lips pressing against the indents his teeth had left.

"I don't want this to be just sex," You confessed. Your voice was small, strained even, like you were embarrassed to say it.

"It's not," He promised. He readjusted so he could tilt your head, grabbing you chin as he caught your mouth with another kiss.

Part of him wished he could swallow you too - keep you with him where you'd always stay by his side. Another reminded him that was insane.

He could settle on being your boyfriend for now.

"I meant it earlier," He reiterated, kissing the corner of your mouth between words. There was no way in hell he was letting you slip through his fingers again. "You know I'm yours too."

You giggled, returning a peck to the tip of his nose as you tried to squirm free from under him, like you just remembered his cock was still inside you, cum leaking out around him and onto your blankets.

He didn't want to pull out though, didn't even want to separate when you were finally his.

Honestly, he was halfway-hoping you'd get pregnant, picturing you with a cute baby bump padding around barefoot in the sort of sundress that clung to your swollen stomach, physical proof you belonged to him just as much as he did to you.

You hadn't told him to pull out after all.

So surely, you wanted the same, right?

"You're all mine?" You hummed, shifting your hips around just to get a reaction out of him, his cock already oversensitive and starting to get hard again as his hands held you back down by your waist.

"You just want me to say it again," He chided with a chuckle of his own, sighing into your skin while you let out another weak huff that sounded more like a whine.

"Maybe," You admitted.

You looked back up at him, and he was a little too aware that he'd say it however many times you wanted as long as it was true.

"You know," You started talking again, biting down on your bottom lip as you rested your head on your folded forearms underneath them, yawning softly. "I was going to buy you a little bunny collar so everyone would know you were mine, but I guess you've already outgrown it, huh?"

He laughed again, his hand sliding up your spine to trace his own bite mark on the nape of your neck. Could you really not tell you already had him on a leash?

"I think you'd looked even cuter in a collar."

a/n: hi the voices got me again I’m going to bed now. no I did not proofread this.

──⠀ᯓ ✈︎ ⋆✴︎˚ ｡⋆⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

he waits with his knees together, kneeling like a good boy. his eyes beg for you to come closer, cock heavy and throbbing against his lap. you rake your nails through his brown locks, and he groans as his head rolls to follow your hand, cuffs jingling while his wrists tug against the metal. you press his face against your thigh, watching desire spread on his face.

“just a taste baby, please.” he trails open mouth kisses where he can reach, extending himself to desperately reach your warmth.

“mmph,” kiss “please—,” kiss “open your legs for me?”

“shhh,” your lips curl as your fingers trace his jaw. you extend a foot out and lightly spring his cock in the air. he sighs, teeth scraping against your skin as you bother his sensitive member. you want to provoke him, you want to see how far you can push.

the cuffs jingle again as he ruts against your foot, the heat of his breath tickles your inner thighs. you pull at his hair but he’s too shameless to stop. completely bare and restrained by his own equipment, so sensitive and needing to be touched.

“stop.” your voice cuts through the thick haze. caleb’s hips stutter at your command, he doesn’t want to pull away but he’s hesitant to not follow orders. he sits back on his heels and looks up at your arrogant smile.

“good boy.”

you step closer, legs on either side of his. he watches you carefully, his pupils completely engulfing the violet that sparkled in his eyes. you place a finger to his mouth to part his lips. he knows what you want—what you both need, but he knows to wait for your command. he clenches his fists as you tower over him, staring. he wants nothing more than to grab you and satisfy his cravings. you tilt his head up, watching lust swirl in his eyes before giving in.

“eat”

he stuffs his face inbetween your legs, lapping and suckling on the flesh to urge you forward. his tongue is hot against your velvet as he runs the muscle between your folds, tasting what he can reach. weight gradually builds onto your shoulders as his nose begins to grind against your sweet spot. you choke out a demand, sounding more like a plea.

“c-caleb no! you’re cheating—“

he’s not listening. you barely have the strength to fight, completely giving in to the feeling of his mouth massaging your slit. caleb curls his extended finger, the invisible weight pins you in place, continuing to sink you into him. hands reach his hair as he circles your clit. his tongue is rough against the bead, and his moans that vibrate against it continue to send sparks up your body until the tension in your stomach bursts.

stiff muscles melt as you’re undone by him, the gravity pinning you in place eases off your body as he tastes what’s left of your orgasm. your legs immediately buckle once you’re able to step back, landing into his lap. his cock springs up, slapping itself against your ass. you look up at him through labored breaths, his mouth glistening and agape as he catches his breath. the tip of his nose shines as well, eyes dark as he takes in your pitiful expression.

you sit up, lips ghosting over his. a groan drags from his lips as your hand slowly squeezes and strokes the tip of his girth, lining it between your folds. your breath catches as you rim him around your tender entrance, cuffs jingling once more. he presses his forehead against yours, his expectant eyes tickle something within you. he leans in, starving for a kiss, and you push him back, climbing off his lap. you pout as you grab his face, nails digging into his jaw.

“bad boy, I’m not rewarding you.”

・❥ CALEB P LINKS!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: some twitter p links for my subby!caleb

a/n :: a lil sum for hitting 500 !! halfway to 1k omg🥹🥹 thank you all so much!!

- shaving caleb but he's just so sensitive!!

- you told him he couldnt touch it

- humphumphump

- such cute matching onesies!

- shower overstim :p

- rubbing him through his boxers

- he lets you use him

- worshipping ur cunt

- he cums too fast :(

- him and a vibe istg

- chasing your touch

- torture him!!!

- keep em wide open

- close up of him and his toys

- peggingggggg:33

- he can't cum without you touching his nips

- thigh fucking

part.1 part.2

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliiies <333

virgin!nerdjo, ever the diligent student, stumbles upon tutorial on nipple sucking—so what does he do? he goes to the nearest pharmacy and buy a baby bottle to practice on. he got a baddie to please, after all. one who's already let him come inside her by the way and in record time. but also one who's experienced. and he's…well, him.

virgin!nerdjo frowns at the taste the moment he tries it, straight-up plastic. but still, he follows the video instructions step by step, phone in one hand, bottle nipple in his mouth, trying his best to mimic the motions—rewinding it over and over determined to get it right.

but of course, he's super bad at hiding stuff :( so the next time you're in his room you spot it on his desk, half-hidden behind his clutter of notebooks and cables. it's sightly chewed at the tip. and it definitely got your attention. “satoru…is this…yours?”

virgin!nerdjo goes red in seconds—like a cartoon character caught with porn.  “w-what? n-no…” he tries, voice already cracking. you look at him, eyebrows lifted, tilting your head in amusement as a smirk tugs at your lips like you knowevery single embarrassing thought he's ever had. 

he groans in defeat, “yes…it is.” his eyes are glued to the floor, cheeks blazing. he feels like if the ground could just swallow him whole right now, that'd be great. but for some reasons, his mouth had other plans, seems like it can't just shut up for his own good, “there was this video. a bunch of them, actually. about,um…nipple technique.” he stammers, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes still avoiding yours “y'know like…oral stuff. and one of the top comments said it helps to practice on biberon because…it's kind of squishy? and it has resistance…” 

you just stare at virgin!nerdjo, blank and expressionless. he feels so so dump. even dumper than when he cum in two seconds top-chrono in you. “i wanted to do it right!” he blurts, tugging his collar, desperately trying to get himself out of this. “last time i—uh—i lasted like one second. inside you. and you were so nice about it, but i wanna be better. I wanna make you feel good, not just…blow in my pants and cry.”

you walk slowly to him, eyes soft, voice lower. “so you practiced. on a baby bottle.” he nods, mortified. “and did it help?”

“no…it tasted like a melted barbie leg. i almost threw up.”

the next thing virgin!nerdjo knows, you're pushing him onto the bed as you pull off your top—he freezes in place, mouth open, glasses fogging like he's in the middle of a hentai scene he never thought he'd survive. and from where you stand between his thighs, you can see the bulge tenting his pants. poor baby probably got hard just thinking about this moment :(

virgin!nerdjo has his big hands clutching your ass, as your fingers tighten in his white soft hair—pushing his face to one of your nipple. “c'mon, nerd, show me what you've learned.” 

virgin!nerdjo starts so awkwardly. there's too much tongue, too wet and sloppy—his teeth scrape a little too hard and you flinch. “ah—! ‘toru…gentle, you’re not chewing gum.” he recoils instantly, looking like he just failed a final exam. “shit! i'm sorry—i didn't mean to—fuck, i'm such an idiot, i—”

“heyy, baby," you coo, cupping his cheek, brushing his hair from his eyes. "it's okay. try again, would you?” he nods quickly at your words, blinking hard. you swear there are tears building in those pretty blue eyes but you don't have time to think about it as this time he goes slower, sucking tentatively, trying to remember the tutorial steps : tongue flat, lips soft, light suction—add it progressively. he's shaking with focus, sweat dotting his brow as if he's taking an exam worth his entire GPA.

but it seems to work because your whimpers grow louder, virgin!nerdjo's tongue turns messy, fast. he's drooling and panting as his hand clutch to your ass like he might float off the bed. every gasp you make goes straight to his cock. he grinds on your lap helplessly, every moan from you like a five-star rating on his progress. he groans, mouthing at your other nipple, “you taste so much better,” he muffle, tongue flicking on the neglected nipple.

virgin!nerdjo is leaking through his boxers, one hand going to the nipple covered in spit—massaging with his thumb, watching it shine. the other hand drops to your upper thigh, where he humps like a dog in heat.

“you're doing so good, such a good boy, aren't you?” virgin!nerdjo moans your name like a prayer, sucking harder, hips stuttering against your thigh—he's leaking all over himself, so desperate and clumsy.

your sweet virgin nerd couldn't help himself. he had to make a sticky mess in his boxer :(

✩*:.⸝⸝>o<⸝⸝.:*✩

then and now — gojo satoru

synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, mentions of pregnancy, time travel inaccuracies probably, not proofread :x

you’re not quite sure how you ended up here.

one minute, you were curled up in bed, fighting a wave of nausea courtesy of the growing child of the strongest inside of you. the next, you were wandering toward the kitchen, wondering what was taking your husband so long to bring you the damn breakfast he promised — only to find him standing rigid in front of the stove, staring down…

himself.

you blink.

twice.

“satoru, what’s taking so long—”

your voice dies in your throat the second your eyes land on him. no — not him, but a younger, wide-eyed, hopelessly awe-struck version of him. standing in your kitchen, mouth parted, face pale, and gaze locked entirely on you.

you freeze.

he stares.

you stare back.

and then—oh no—he starts to smile. bright. dopey. disbelieving. there might actually be drool.

the younger gojo looks at you like you’re made of stars and everything he’s ever wanted in life, and you’re only in your husband’s oversized tee shirt. 

he looks like he’s about to fall in love with you on the spot.

then comes your gojo.

he appears behind you like summoned by jealousy itself, pressing flush against your back, arms encircling you. his chin hooks over your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at his teenage self with all the warning.

“oi,” your husband growls low, “eyes off my wife, you brat.”

the trance breaks instantly.

“what the hell—she’s my wife too!” younger gojo snaps, voice cracking in disbelief.

“like hell she is,” your husband shoots back, his hand sliding possessively down to cradle the swell of your belly. “i put a baby in her.”

you choke on air.

teen gojo’s eyes drop down—

—and bug out.the younger gojo is practically gaping, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he stares between you and your husband. "y-you let this man impregnate you?!" he blurts out, the crudeness making you flush with heat.

you feel the immediate rush of embarrassment. “i—how— satoru, explain.”

both of them whip their heads around at the mention of his name, as if they were no more than dogs waiting for a command.

your husband rubs your back, “i guess my younger self must have managed to travel to the future.”

you’re gaping at the two men.

the younger version of him is practically wagging his tail, a wide grin tugging at his lips like he’s just won first place in something that actually mattered. he looks completely lost in his own world to understand his future self’s subtle jab, and you could swear you hear him whispering under his breath, breathless and giddy—“i did it, i did it, i did it.”

“ah,” you slowly try to rationalize. “satoru, i know this might seem strange, but—”

“no, no,” your husband cuts you off with a tight squeeze around your waist, leaning slightly into you. “i’m satoru. he’s just gojo.” his tone makes it clear who he thinks should have the honor of the name, but his attention never leaves his younger self, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

the younger gojo squints, confused, then his face contorts with a mix of irritation and amusement. “since when did i become so uptight?”

your husband snorts. "yeah, well, you have a lot of growing up to do."

the younger gojo mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, his posture almost defensive. "i get it. you put on the blindfold and suddenly you're mr. 'i've got it all figured out.'"

the tension in the room thickens, palpable between the two men.

"yeah," the older gojo retorts, voice steady but tinged with a bit of pride. "and i also got the girl of my dreams."

the younger gojo’s eyes narrow, his voice rising, "she’s my dream girl too!"

the older gojo shifts, locking his gaze on his younger self. his expression hardens, becoming a little sharper. "she’s my wife. not yours."

you sigh, exasperated, stepping between them. “oh, for heaven’s sake. you’re both the same person. you’re arguing with yourself.”

younger gojo leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on you. “i could love you just as much as he does, you know.”

your husband scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “please. you don’t even know what to do with her yet.”

“try me.”

“enough!” you snap, your glare cutting through the air like a blade. there’s no mistaking the warning in your eyes, a silent promise that things are about to escalate if they don’t stop.

both satorus fall silent in an instant as they both straighten at your words.

“me and the baby are starving,” you declare, your tone laced with a hint of challenge. “and if neither of you plans on helping, i guess i’ll have to do it myself.”

the younger satoru’s eyes flicker to your growing belly, then back to you.

in an instant, they’re both at your side, moving in synchrony like two halves of a whole, each hand hovering near you, as if they could protect you from something, but you know the truth. it’s not about protection. it’s about proximity—about the excuse to touch you.

“you know,” the younger satoru murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes, “you’re even more beautiful now. who would've thought you could get hotter?”

your breath catches at the unexpected compliment, and before you can stop it, your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the room. “t-thank you,” you mutter, not quite looking at him, trying to hide the effect his words have on you.

your husband, who’s been standing just behind you, makes no attempt to hide his irritation. his gaze sharpens, but his voice remains smooth, controlled—too controlled. “it’s no surprise, of course,” he says, his hand sliding around your waist in a possessive gesture, pulling you a little closer, a subtle but undeniable claim. “you’ve always been breathtaking. she’s glowing, don’t you think?”

you feel his lips brush against your temple as he says it, and though his words are directed at the younger satoru, they’re meant for you—just the two of you, wrapped in this small, intimate moment. his grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent declaration of ownership that you can feel in your bones.

“thank you, dear,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s a flicker in your chest that betrays you—something more than just appreciation for the compliment.

as you open the fridge, you don’t notice the younger gojo’s subtle frown at the pet name, nor the way your husband’s chest puffs just a little, satisfaction practically radiating off him. but you do feel it. the electricity. the unspoken challenge. and you can’t help but wonder which of them will break first.

the clink of chopsticks and the sound of your satisfied hums fill the room as the three of you eat breakfast, the tension at the table simmering beneath the surface. the younger gojo eyes the older version of himself from across the table, suspicion flickering behind his sharp gaze.

he sets his bowl down slowly.

“so tell me,” he says finally, chopsticks tapping against ceramic. “how’d you do it?”

the older gojo raises a brow. “do what?”

younger gojo tilts his head pointedly in your direction. “get her. my [name] doesn’t want to do anything with me.”

your husband doesn’t miss a beat. he smirks, annoyingly smug, and drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy. “i charmed the living daylights out of her. obviously.”

you give him a flat look. 

your husband ignores you. “she thought i was endearing.”

“i thought you were desperate,” you add with a sly smile.

he turns toward you, hand over his heart like he’s been shot. “desperation? is that what we’re calling devotion now?”

“you were on both knees when you proposed,” you point out, smug.

“i really wanted you to say yes,” he mutters, now clearly sulking. he stabs at his food like it personally offended him.

across the table, the younger gojo leans in, chin propped in one hand as he watches the two of you. there's something soft in his eyes now, envy tempered with awe. 

“don’t listen to him,” you say with a playful smile, your gaze softening as you turn to your husband. “i only gave you a chance when i realized how big your heart is. how much you really care. your dedication to reshaping jujutsu society—that’s what made me see you weren’t just a nuisance.”

both gojo's eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting that.

your husband, though, pouts, his usual smugness replaced with playful mock hurt.

“aww~” he whines, a teasing lilt to his voice. “i think you’ve got a little crush on me!”

you narrow your eyes, a warning simmering beneath your words. “satoru, i’m about to bite your head off.”

he grins, leaning in with that signature mischief. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

the younger gojo’s eyes dart between the two of you. perhaps his future wasn’t too bad.

mating season!

bad pup! - 1.5k w.

cw.: dog hybrid!caleb, afab!reader, knot mentioned, masturbation, cunnillingus, caleb is stupid and i hate him, panty sniffing obviously. caleb is desperate and kinda pathetic. not proofread... again.

note: this was supposed to be a joke. tf went wrong dawg.

puppy!caleb who's the biggest sweetheart ever. he likes belly rubs, headpats and blueberry treats. he likes roughhousing and chewing on the baby teethers you give him so he doesn't destroy everything in your apartment while you're gone.

puppy!caleb who's the sweetest pup around <3 he waits for you to get home by the door and when you do, his tail wags so fast, his heart beats quickly and you can see the tears of relief pricking in his lilac eyes. 

puppy!caleb who can't stand that you leave for work everyday. who's going to play with him?!

puppy!caleb who's usually very obedient but has been acting up lately. you brush it off at first but caleb isn't one to growl when you try to get close to his food. bad dog!

puppy!caleb who sniffs you head to toe when you come home tired from work. and if he finds something he doesn't like? his fluffy ears drop down to the back of his head and he growls.

you try to search up online what's wrong with your pup and all you can find is rutting season, which is pretty weird since his last owner swore he was neutered.

puppy!caleb who gets sosososo anxious and stressed when you're not home:( he needs something- anything with your scent to calm down!

puppy!caleb who goes through your laundry basket. he knows it's bad and he made a mess but he'll clean it up later! the only thing important right now is that he found the white frilly panties you wore on monday.

puppy!caleb pupils dilate as his eyes stare at the discharge stain on the delicate fabric and something snaps inside him. He brings the panties to his face, giving it a first, innocent whiff and fuuuuuuuck

you’ve always smelled good, puppy!caleb likes your shampoo and bodywash and cologne and- but this? this is heaven. caleb gives it a whiff again. there’s a hint of sweat, it’s not nasty, it smells like  you and that does it for your sweet pup.

puppy!caleb who doesn’t know why he has been so pent up lately:( he likes being good for you! you smile and praise him and let him have a spoon of peanut butter! but his brain feels fuzzy and there’s a knot growing bigger and bigger on his lower stomach and he feels like he’s gonna pop like a balloon and he’s anxious and he’s alone and you’re not here to help him!

puppy!caleb kicks his wet boxers — which he did pee a little from anxiety but he’d rather die than accept that he is that desperate — and whines loudly when his sensitive cock hits his tummy.

puppy!caleb who paws his cock on a miserable attempt to relieve himself. his hand wraps itself around the shaft, his thumb presses down on his angry red, leaky tip and another loud whine escapes his lips.

puppy!caleb who sniffs your panties again, now gaining enough confidence to lick the patch of arousal and discharge left on the fabric. at the taste, his fluffy tail wags excitedly, thumping on the ground hard enough you’d definitely hear an earful from your neighbor downstairs later.

puppy!caleb who can’t help but sink his itching canines on your panties- sorry! he panicked! 

wet squelches fill the bathroom walls as his hand works up and down on his sensitive cock. melodic, obnoxiously loud moans and whimpers leave his throat as his already creamy dick finally shoots out strings of thick, milky cum and the base of his cock forms a big, swollen knot.

puppy!caleb ears perk at the sound of your keys unlocking the front door and he barely takes time to put his boxers back on before he runs to the entryway. oh you’re finally home! you’ve been gone for so long- too long!

he doesn’t give you any time to scold him for not wearing anything but underwear- or to question him why his heart is beating impossibly fast or why he’s whining so much. puppy!caleb who brings you down to the floor in a harsh pull, ignoring your complaints.

“s-sorry! ‘m sorry! so hot- you smell so good!” the pup cries, his breath tickles the sensitive skin of your neck as he takes a good whiff, drowning in what's left of your perfume and natural musk.

and it’s not like you can pull him away:( first of all you don’t have the heart to leave your pup crying like that, especially when you don’t know what happened and he’s just stupidly strong! 

“ah! b-bad dog! get off caleb- you’re heavy!” your nagging falls deaf in his ears. you shudder at the moment his tongue licks the skin where your neck and jaw meet, twitching at the weird feeling.

puppy!caleb who is so fucking dumb and can’t seem to figure out how to unbuckle your belt and unbutton your pants. you squirm under him and a raspy squeal of surprise leaves your throat. 

“bad dog! argh- what has gotten in you today?-” — “please! promise it’ll feel good- jus’- jus’ needa taste you, please? need it? i’ve been nice and didn’t chew on anything- can i get a treat? please? please please-” he asks- no- begs.

you don’t give him a proper answer, just accepting that there’s not much you can do under him. with some struggle, stupid puppy!caleb gets you out of your tight jeans.

a string of whines and sniffles come out of him. you feel overwhelmed- his hands are everywhere, puppy!caleb has always been the anxious type, if he can’t touch every bit of skin in your body and mark you as his then what else is he going to do?!

even in so much distress, puppy!caleb’s tail still wags excitedly behind him as he kisses your tummy and licks a stripe from your belly button to the hem of your panties. a different pair, he notes. this time, a pretty lacy red design barely covers your fat folds.

he takes a whiff first, of course, before licking the wet stain forming where your slit would be. “fu-uck- caleb! you- aha- bad fucking dog!” you moan, covering your face with your now sweaty hands. caleb doesn’t pay attention to your curses, only trying to dig deeper on the fabric in hopes to get to his meal faster.

frustration bubbles on his dumbed down brain. bothered by the fabric getting on the way, puppy!caleb’s teeth rip the delicate lace and pull it to the side, finally able to get his prize.

“c-caleb- are you fucking kidding-? what has gotten- h-hey no teeth! bad dog!” you chastise in disbelief. you don’t really know what’s worse, caleb non stop whining and the fact that you can’t pull him away from your cunt or that you find it hot.

puppy!caleb who licks a stripe from your slit up to your clit before diving in for a little snack!!! you taste so much better than your panties:( he really tries to be gentle and start slowly, kissing the hood that protects your clit but it just isn’t for him! he needs it now!!!

sucking harshly on your folds, he lets go with a loud ‘pop!’  before teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue attempting to get a positive reaction from you. seeing you squirm on the floor only makes it harder for him to think properly:( 

puppy!caleb whose tongue’s swirls on the sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that makes your head spin- how does he even know how to do all of that?

puppy!caleb who can’t help but rut his hips on the cold floor as his tip grows redder and leaks more pre cum than before:( he feels so good though… he can’t really stop right now to take care of himself! you’re basically overwhelming his every sense and his puppy brain can’t really focus:(

puppy!caleb who accidentally nips on your clit, making you jolt and curse at him. “s-sorry! ‘m sorry!” – he cries out as his ears drop and he spits on your cunt.

it’s messy, you feel ashamed for doing something like that with him of all people and what’s worse is that you can’t deny that it feels fucking good. puppy!caleb’s tongue slurps everything he can get leaking out your slit before digging in impossibly close for more. shoving his tongue as deep as he can to taste you better, his nose hits your clit for the nth time, the constant sniffing making you squeal in pleasure.

“a-ah! fuck! f-fuck caleb- gonna cum, can you keep going pup? be obedient for once, y-yeah? please- shit- mghh!-” at the sign to keep going, caleb’s eyes roll to the back of his skull. he shifts to suck on your clit again and that finally breaks you. your back arches and an embarrassing loud moan escape your glossy lips, your legs twitching and closing around his head. 

puppy!caleb who apparently is insatiable and doesn’t stop licking you clean until you scold him – again – and pulls his head  back by the hair. bad dog!

“did you cum on your boxers?-” — “sorry!”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading! (*´▽`*)

dilf!kento thinks it's odd just how hot and bothered you get when he does the most mundane of things.

for example, he'll be getting dressed in the morning: hair mussed and eyes dark from the lack of sleep that parenthood brings. fingers working his belt through the loops in his slacks and fastening the buckle just to be startled by you, having leapt out of bed to drop to your knees before him and suck him off right there in the walk in closet.

or, later on, when he's cleaning up the kitchen after sending the kids off to school, and you walk in to find his sleeves rolled up, humming away to himself as he washes dishes in the sink. of course, the look on his face when he turns to find you already sat on the countertop and beckoning him over is as priceless as it is arousing.

or god forbid he starts paying bills. sitting at the dining table with papers scattered in front of him, pen held in his strong hand as those glasses of his slide down the bridge of his nose. god, he's so pretty when he's concentrated, working with numbers like a whore! he shouldn't be surprised when you weave your way between him and the papers to sit on his lap and start working at hooking him out of his pants. so you can sit on his cock and get your fill.

"keep acting like that, sir, and you're gonna be a daddy again."

he's gruff. tired. so fucking sexy. "i'm going over the credit card statement. did you spend five hundred dollars on—"

"mmm stop talking and fuck another baby into me, ken."

and, because you married the right man, a pair of strong arms are already hoisting you up and carrying you to the bedroom. "as you wish, love."

It's Like a Reward

You hear clattering and thumping from outside your room. Rolling your eyes, you continue to lounge in bed and scroll on your phone. This whole thing had been such a pain — what was he thinking getting a girlfriend to make you jealous?

Did he seriously think it’d make you cave?

God, he must have lost his mind. Thank goodness he found it. Only because you didn’t like someone else in your space, of course. Totally not because his stupid plan was actually working. You remember the shock you felt walking into your living room to see some girl on top of your roommate in the living room. The ridiculous smile on his face that washed away his usual completely bored look alerted you to the games he was playing immediately. 

Introducing her to you, you could only smile, nod, and get comfortable in the living room. After blah blah blah small talk, a quietness settled over the room and you chose to focus your attention on your book rather than the movie they were playing after they both insisted you stay. You could have chosen to read your book in your room, but some sick part of you — a really, really sick part you don’t want to confront right now— wanted to see where it would go. How far he would go. 

And God did he go far. His long fingers were digging into the thigh she had hooked over his lap. Spare hand pulling her hair back as their lips met in a messy clash, smacking sounds hitting you like sharp notes. She was practically humping his leg and moaning like crazy with little to no regard for you. Touching him all over, they were pressed so tightly one would have thought they were actively trying to fuse their bodies together permanently.

All while he had his eyes on you.

You knew what he was doing so you ignored him. Though you could see them writhing in your peripheral, you never wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to you. Of course you knew one day this would happen, that he'd grow braver and bolder, find new buttons to push, but you never thought it'd be so soon. Still, something about the whole thing didn't piss you off as much as it should have.

She was in his lap but you had him in the palm of your hands.

You were sure that if you had told him to, he would have ripped her clothes off and plunged inside her. He would have bent her into shape, moulded her into a pliable little plaything, rendering her stupid and useless, making a mess on the couch, on the coffee table, by the door, wherever you goddamn wanted him to. He would have done as you asked with a snap of your fingers because he's Choso and you're you.

A frantic knock jolts you from your thoughts. 

He’s finally here. 

You’d forgotten you have a lock on your door now. Wonder how long that’ll last. 

“I missed you” is the first thing he says when you let him in. And you believe him. How could you not when his hair is disheveled and there are dark circles under his eyes? His hands, riddled with silver rings, reach for your hips and pull you to him, groaning at your warmth, and when he takes a long inhale of your neck, his face falls in the crook of it. 

What a pain in the ass.

"Please get rid of the lock," he shamelessly requests. "I don't like not being able to come in here when I want. What if you get hurt? What if I need you?"

Scoffing, you snark, "You mean my panties."

One of his hands wanders behind you, under your shirt, and grips an ass cheek tight, fingers tracing the line of your panties until they’re at the gusset. You smack him away. Always pushing it. 

"No — well, yes, I want your panties too. But you come first, y'know. I'd much prefer getting what I need right from the source so I need you alive and well, roomie."

Sitting down on the bed, you give him a firm look. “Don’t touch me up, weirdo. I’m not even supposed to be rewarding you after the stunt you pulled.”

He gives you a sheepish smile, hand running through his messy but silky hair. 

“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you dinner for a month. Or whenever you want. In fact, I’ll do whatever you want forever.”

That’s not a fair exchange, considering he already does that, but you keep your mouth shut. You want to get this over with. “Alright. Get on your knees and take it already.”

Eyes darkening, he loses that smile. There’s something animalistic taking over his demeanour now. It should frighten you, the way he flexes his hands, veins popping, and how his black eyes are focused solely on the apex of your thighs, but truthfully, you’re not. You’ve seen this side of him so often it only makes you sigh. 

Kneeling on the floor in front of you, he clutches your knees, thumbs caressing your skin, drawing a barely audible gasp from you, but somehow, he hears it. Only half-dressed, Choso pushes your thighs open and slowly, like he might scare you off; he lays a kiss on the inner side, all while keeping eye contact. He loves doing that. Doing something depraved and immoral with no shame or remorse. 

Like last month, when you barged into his room and shoved him off his bed to search through his pillows for your missing panties, all he did was shrug and say, “Take the pink one; your smell's practically gone. But leave the blue for me. Please.”

You left him the pink and take the blue just to spite him, but he just shrugged again and laid back down, clutching the panties in his fist and inhaling deep, eyes rolling back and spare hand rubbing his hard-on through his joggers. Then, he gave you a sweet smile and asked what’s for dinner.

You hate him.

“You’re wearing the yellow with white polka dots today. Did you have a nightmare again?” He mutters against your skin as he kisses the other thigh, obviously concerned the other one will get upset if he shows favouritism. 

Leaning back on your palms, you hook one leg over his shoulder. “Yeah. Just a stupid zombie apocalypse one. God, we really gotta stop watching The Walking Dead.”

He hums an agreement before he dives face-first into your clothed pussy. 

“Ah, fuck! Choso, don’t do that.”

Of course, he doesn’t listen. Instead, he’s sniffing at your panties like a mouse. It’s so pathetic, but you don’t push him away. The sensation is kinda nice. You blame the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in far too long, and well, anytime you try to bring over someone, Choso chases them away with his weird vibes. Or if he senses you’re going out to get fucked, he’ll basically handcuff himself to you. 

“Aw, you just showered. That’s no fun,” he grumbles, lips skimming your slit through the material. You moan and he tightens his grip on your thigh, hiking up the other leg over his shoulder. Squashed between your thighs, he makes no complaints about the bruising on his knees as he kneels on the floor. You’re not even sure he feels the ache. “I like it better when you haven’t yet. Did I ever tell you I sometimes break the shower so that you can’t wash for a day or two?”

Breathless, you respond, “N-no, but you didn’t need to. I already knew.”

"I'd like to go longer. Would you ever go longer?"

"No, dumbass. Do that, and I'll kill you."

Frowning against your pussy, he grouches, "But just once? I'll be good."

You bundle a handful of his hair into a fist and force him to look at you. With a sickly sweet smile, you warn him, "Choso, sweetheart. If you do that, I'll knock on one of our neighbours. What about that hot, blond salaryman downstairs? Hmm? Would you like me to be all wet, naked, and vulnerable in his apartment? 'cause you know I'll do it."

Eyes rolling back and lips parted, he practically fights the urge to vomit at the thought just as he lets the pleasure of the pain you're inducing at his scalp overwhelm him. Shaking off the disgust and your grip, he dives back in to nuzzle your panties with his cheek, a much-needed comfort you suppose. 

Certain, he mutters with petulant pauses, "I won't do it...He's not even that hot...I was just asking."

Standing abruptly with your legs still clutched in his hands, you fall back onto the bed, watching him tower over you, face between your ankles. 

"I felt like I was going crazy without you," he confesses. "I haven't been able to touch you, to feel you, barely even talked to you. It's horrible."

You roll your eyes. "And, do tell, Chosito, whose damn fault was that?"

Once and twice, he ruts his boner into your bare legs, the hot and hard length tickling you. Through his joggers, you can feel that impressive length at max hardness, and if you close your eyes and really pay attention, you can even feel a growing spot of wetness on the material. "Mine. But I just wanted to get you riled up a little."

"Sorry to be such a disappointment."

He looks stupid with his hair flopping about and his hands clutching your legs to his torso like they'll leave, but the feeling of his bare chest, sculpted and muscular, burning your own skin, leaves you somewhat breathless. Brows furrowed, he asserts, "No, you're perfect. Always -ha- so perfect."

Rightfully, you're surprised he's even wearing any clothes. Too often have you had to tell him off for wondering around just in his boxers. He lounges with his hair all mussed, semi-hard cock outlined in the thin material as he scratches his abs. He cooks in just his boxers too. What he doesn't do is wear boxers at all when he comes out the bathroom after a steamy shower.

You don't really fight him too hard on his dressing habits.

"Was she a good kisser, Choso?"

He grunts, eyes fluttering open as he continues rutting on your legs. "W-who?"

"Your ex."

Groaning right before he sucks the skin on your ankle like he just can't help himself, he replies, "No. I hated every second. I imagined it was you. But it was -ngh- h-hard 'cause her body's all wrong. Your tits are bigger and you smell better."

Frustrated, he practically growls and roughly adjusts you on the bed to make space for his large body. He lays down with you, head at your pussy once more.

Now, he's rutting into the bed as he skims his lips on your panties, the sensation tickling you. You're fighting the urge to writhe on the bed and show him how good he's making you feel by barely doing anything; he'd never shut up if he realises this is as much for him as it is for you.

“You know your panties will be useless to me if they’re fresh, right? Maybe you should be nice and give me something else.”

“I shouldn’t e-even be rewarding you for breaking up with -ngh Choso slow down- your girlfriend. You used her, and that’s a fucked up thing to do, Choso.”

Face pressed to your panties again, he rubs the tip of his nose up and down your clothed slit, pressing harder where your clit is. Your hands fly to his hair. God, it’s so unfair how good he is at making the most of what little he’s being given. 

A thumb pushes in on your panties, circling your hole over the material. Then, with an irritatingly arrogant tone, he muses, “You say that, but you’re wet. Bet you were wet, too, when you watched us make out. Be honest, that was the real reason you hid in your room, wasn’t it? I got into the bathroom after you showered and your panties were soaked. Had a lot of fun with that one for hours. You wanted me to find it, didn't you?”

No way is he taking control of the situation. Cocky bastard. Like always, give him an inch, he goes all the way across the solar system. Shoving him off, you ignore his petulant, “Hey! No fair.”

In a flash, he’s being pushed out of your door, panty-less and looking like he’s in near tears. 

“Wait, I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. I promise.”

Cruelly, you smile. “Too fucking late, Kamo. Go jerk off the natural way, like God intended. Oh, and here’s your present for being a good boy and not fucking some other bitch.”

You smear the collected wetness from between your legs onto his lips, smirking at the desperate tongue that tries to capture as much of it as possible before you withdraw. 

“Bring another whore around here, and that’s the last of me you’ll ever get, mark my words. Say you understand.”

Eyes cloudy from delirium and licking his lips, he promises, “No one else. Only you.”

“Good.”

The door gets shut in front of his face. And locked for good measure. 

Later in the night, you walk out to get a glass of water from the kitchen and could only hear shameless moaning and whimpering coming from his room. You curse the tingling of your nipples and force your way back into your room. But even later, you get up and pad over inside. 

Under the glow of his bedside lamp, he lays there, sweaty, chest and hands soaked with drying cum, and asleep. You see his unlocked phone and sigh at the picture of you on there. It’s not even a suggestive one. You’re just hugging him from behind with a grin. 

Like you’ve done many times before, because he has the self-control of a ball of lint, you clean him up and tuck him in. He’ll catch a cold otherwise. Just as you turn to leave, however, his hand flies up and captures your wrist, fingers ringless. 

Half-conscious, he mumbles, “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have used her. Just want your attention. Want you to want me.”

“Oh, Choso.”

Placing his arm back onto his chest, you push his hair off of his forehead and lay a barely there kiss on his clammy skin. You say, “Nice try, weirdo. You’re still not getting my panties.”

“Aw, you’re so mean,” he huffs out, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

Then, you leave, feeling much lighter than when you dreamt of hands that weren't yours holding him captive and pulling him away. 

“smile for the camera, baby!” ☆

as if you could.

caleb is all too cocky about your inability to do anything but lay beneath him all slack-jawed and shaky as he drills his cock into you despite your overstimulation.

you’re so fucked out that you can’t even muster up the energy or mindpower to regret gifting your boyfriend and polaroid camera for his birthday. you had brought it with romance in mind—he’s away so often for such long periods at a time that you thought a few sweet photos he can carry in the lining of his uniform jacket would be a nice idea.

but caleb, the amalgamation of all things desperate and horny, couldn’t wait five minutes after unwrapping his gift to start unwrapping you as well. each layer of clothing discarded he’d reward with a photo of your revealed skin until he was trying to finesse a way to hold the camera with one hand as the other pumped his fingers mercilessly into your cunt.

now, hours later, you’re laying on a bed of polaroids, each more lewd than the last. one digs into your skin while another is jostled off the bed with the hard thrusts of your boyfriends leaky cock into your (regrettably) still-needy pussy. the effect this man has on you is unreasonable—you’ve cum so many times that you can’t form a coherent thought and still you think you’d cry if he pulled out and denied you the stretch of his cock.

flash. another shot is taken, this one of your glossy eyes and drool-soaked lips.

“you’re so messy,” he teases like his dick isn’t shining with the sweet mixture of your releases—like he’s not spat on your cunt just to rub load after load of cum around your clit in sick circles that make you choke on your breath. what an asshole he is.

“gonna make you cum again, pips,” he grins, dark hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. “i want to see if i can catch you squirting in a pic, hm?”

you part your kiss-swollen lips to protest. “cant—“ is all you can manage though, before your boyfriend, your best friend, is squeezing your cheeks between his long fingers and frowning down at you.

“don’t doubt yourself, pretty, you can do anything if you set your mind to it!”

pep talk of the century. you’d laugh at him if you had half your mind left, but all you have the space to think about is how he’s never gotten quite this deep inside of you before. you don’t even process the way he’s driven your hips up with his thighs to feel even more of you around him.

so perfect, he calls you. and even though he’s fucking you erratically, once he feels the telltale signs of your impending orgasm, he’s all smiles. sweet glossy eyes brimming with needy tears, flushed cheeks, soft brows… the man with his cock so deep inside of you that you’re seeing stars, leans down to press a kiss to your forehead as you orgasm.

it’s too much. you choke on it, you feel it in every bone in your body and still you crave more of him. you squirt around his cock with a moan made for porn and caleb feels like a hormonal virgin all over again.

click. another pic; one that prints to be fanned out immediately—one hand flapping the print through the air as the other one rubs slow circles on your tummy as he tries to feel himself pushing inside of you.

once it finally develops enough to gift caleb with the sight of your spread legs and the mess of lust between them, you swear he grows even harder inside of you.

“yeah,” your idiot of a man grins. “this one’s going on my wall.”

10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.