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[cottonkendi]

🖤 Candy | any pronouns | 22 | Filo🖤

🖤🖤 Rules | Masterlist 🖤🖤

🖤🖤 AR 60 | Asia Server 🖤🖤

🖤🖤 EBL 41 | Asia Server 🖤🖤

Coming Soon:

tags:

candy wrapper = asks

candy.reblogs = reblogs

candy.rewrapped = self reblogs

candy.bits = rants

candy public announcement = official announcements

[indiewritesxoxo]

friday night flicks!

a special preview for an extra special event coming to a blog near you!

showtime information

to celebrate all my favorite fic-readers out there, I wanted to plan something a little different than my usual content, where you get a say! I'll be dropping a feature-length oneshot Friday nights for the month of May based on moves you suggest! drop some of your favorite flicks and which jjk men you'd like in the starring role in the comments and we'll run a week-long poll starting April first, and the top three will receive one shots! there will also probably be a few drabbles/head cannons as well to for movies that don't make the cut. I'd also like to open this up to other creators as well if anyone else would like to participate or contribute any oneshot/drabbles/headcanons of their own!

get your tickets now!

comment to be tagged and let me know you want to see

now playing . . .

how to lose a guy in ten days . . . starring satoru gojo

tbd . . .

tbd . . .

tbd . . .

additional showtimes (featuring a few of your other favorite creators)

mamma mia! starring satoru gojo, ryomen sukuna and kento nanami, directed by @kunareads

to all the boys I've loved before starring satoru gojo, directed by @deathofacupid

not just anybody starring ryomen sukuna, directed by @yenayaps

just friends starring satoru gojo, directed by @madamechrissy

one day starring ryomen sukuna, directed by @cherryblossom-heart

tbd . . .

divider by @bronzewasp

some examples to help offer ideas for anyone brainstorming, could be anything, not necessarily a rom-com, even a book/show if you are really interested :p

the secretary, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, enchanted, roman holiday, pride and prejudice, just let me know what characters you want <3 p.s. if it has a tragic gut-wrenching I will be changing it lmfao

[indiewritesxoxo]

friday night flicks!

a special preview for an extra special event coming to a blog near you!

showtime information

to celebrate all my favorite fic-readers out there, I wanted to plan something a little different than my usual content, where you get a say! I'll be dropping a feature-length oneshot Friday nights for the month of May based on moves you suggest! drop some of your favorite flicks and which jjk men you'd like in the starring role in the comments and we'll run a week-long poll starting April first, and the top three will receive one shots! there will also probably be a few drabbles/head cannons as well to for movies that don't make the cut. I'd also like to open this up to other creators as well if anyone else would like to participate or contribute any oneshot/drabbles/headcanons of their own!

get your tickets now!

comment to be tagged and let me know you want to see

now playing . . .

how to lose a guy in ten days . . . starring satoru gojo

tbd . . .

tbd . . .

tbd . . .

additional showtimes (featuring a few of your other favorite creators)

mamma mia! starring satoru gojo, ryomen sukuna and kento nanami, directed by @kunareads

to all the boys I've loved before starring satoru gojo, directed by @deathofacupid

not just anybody starring ryomen sukuna, directed by @yenayaps

just friends starring satoru gojo, directed by @madamechrissy

one day starring ryomen sukuna, directed by @cherryblossom-heart

tbd . . .

divider by @bronzewasp

some examples to help offer ideas for anyone brainstorming, could be anything, not necessarily a rom-com, even a book/show if you are really interested :p

the secretary, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, enchanted, roman holiday, pride and prejudice, just let me know what characters you want <3 p.s. if it has a tragic gut-wrenching I will be changing it lmfao

[indiewritesxoxo]

snowed in

thinking about ... yeti!Gojo and his new pet friend, researcher!reader

You'd probably starve to death before your name was ever published on a research paper.

The bills were piling up on the counter of the apartment you hardly get to do more than catch a few hours of sleep at, scrounging through the scraps of food in your pantry and the few foods you could afford with your measly paycheks. One more missed payment and you know what'll be next, a bright red eviction notice slipped through the crack of the door.

That was how you ended up on some snowy rural mountain in a foreign country, accepting a sketchy solo assignment no one else wanted to study the flora and fauna that grew in its own microclimate at such high altitudes. Potential medicinal purposes, or keeping an eye on extinct species, whatever they wanted, you'd do it as long as they paid you more than the pennies you'd been receiving to survive on at your previous lab job.

It couldn't be that bad, a few months freezing your ass off and staying in some rickety cabin while you collected samples and data.

And it was fine, at first.

Scribbling notes and clicking photos, putting up trail markers to not get lost in the thick snow-capped trees and dense forest, branches hanging low and heavy with ice. But there were still plants, places where bushes and shrubs sprung up, cataloguing what felt like every leaf you saw before retracing your steps back to where you were residing for the next sixteen weeks.

Food was stocked in the pantry, a satellite radio set up in the tiny living room in case of emergencies, enough toiletries and supplies to last you till the day someone would show up to take you back to society. A heavy duty taser you kept on you when you left the cabin, although you were sure you would probably accidentally use it on yourself before you'd ever run into a wild animal considering everything was so frosted over.

You were starting to think of it as a mini-vacation, curled up on the practically ancient recliner in the evenings and slowly making your way through reading the books you'd brought with you, dozing off by the fire and waking up to the soft pink sunrise.

Sometimes, though?

You felt a little on-edge.

Skating on thick ice that thinned out when you least expected it, like everything might give way from under you feet the second you weren't looking. You told yourself it was just the loneliness, a bit of cabin fever creeping in.

The hair on the back of your neck would stand up, your skin itching with the feeling of being watched when you were out walking through the woods.

It was stupid, considering you knew you were alone, that this was the sort of remote wilderness where no one was near, but you still found yourself glancing over your shoulder, squinting through the trees.

All there was to see was white.

It was still your little slice of winter wonderland.

That was before your heater stopped working though.

You checked it ten times, fingers trembling in the cold as you give up and kick it like it'd magically start back up again. a faint little sputter as it tried to kick on, but nope, nothing. In hindsight, you should've called then. Shouldn't have tried to tough it out or wait for your problem to solve itself.

The fire you managed to get started helps, but bundled up in blankets and shivering on the floor wasn't exactly sustainable.

The idea of spending three more months like this suddenly made your empty stomach back home seem more appealing when you at least had a warm bed to sleep it away in.

You could call, but there was no telling when they'd be able to fix it, and maybe you weren't a weather reporter, but the clouds overhead had been growing darker, hanging oppressively over the treeline like a threat waiting to strike. They probably wouldn't even bother sending someone to help until it passed.

There was firewood for a few more days, your palms hastily patched up with your meager supply of bandages in the bathroom's first aid kit after getting calloused and cut up from your attempts to chop enough to last you through the storm brewing.

It hadn't been enough.

And the satellite phone wouldn't do anything other than ring, refusing to connect while you paced back and forth across the creaking wooden floors attempting to reach, well, anybody.

You could scream from sheer frustration, well, you did actually.

It just didn't matter.

No one could hear you anyway.

Throwing on yet another layer of clothes and wiggling your toes in your thick thermal socks to make sure you could still feel them before trudging out into the several feet of snow piled outside the door, hoping for a better signal to get you through to another human being.

Phone pressed to your ear, wind burning and nipping at your nose while you shielded your face from the blinding snow and walked deeper into the woods, thinking of a clearing not too far from your cabin you might have better luck at. Snow was sticking to the hood of your winter coat, shivering and sniffling as you hoped and prayed for something to happen before you died of hypothermia.

You probably should've been more specific.

Because one second, you were seeing the little huffs of your breath hang in the air, and the next you were in the air, the world flipped upside down. Disoriented and confused, thick snowflakes fluttering down on your face while you furiously blinked them away, struggling to process what happened until you realized you were caught in some kind of primitive trap. Something thick was snared around your ankles, stringing you up to a tree and dangling you down from a dizzying height.

The horror hadn't even set in that you weren't alone out here when you saw him.

You thought he was a man at the first glimpse of his face, vision swaying and snow clinging to your lashes casting everything in harsh shades of white.

It was his height that gave it away.

He was looking down at you, your brain short-circuiting trying to do the math to figure out if any human could be that tall without holding a fucking world record for it.

The natural conclusion was one that made you nauseous.

You forgot the fucking taser too, reaching for it by your side just to find empty space.

It was only then you noticed the rest of him.

The thick white fur covering his arms, his wide frame that could easily crush you if he wanted, but he made a soft grunt, your attention snapping to see he was almost pouting at you.

Maybe you were dying, or this was some insane dream, but no, the blood rushing to your head felt very much real.

You opened your mouth to speak, scared to make a noise in case it'd spur him to do anything other than stare, but then he was snapping the tie that bound you to the tree, your body sent into free fall.

But he caught you, warm and soft arms wrapping around your waist and tossing you over his shoulder, like you were just a piece of game he'd snared.

God, were you about to seriously be eaten by a fucking yeti?

"Please don't hurt me," You murmured into the tufts of his white fur, throat hoarse and raspy. You hardly recognized your own voice after so many long days of near silence, but it could've been the undercurrent of fear that'd burrowed into your bones.

He made a noise that sounded almost offended.

As if he could somehow understand you.

Like he wasn't carrying you away into some unfamiliar corner of the forest, taking dark paths you'd never ventured. For a wild thing, he had the awareness to duck through the twisting trees before any icy branches could get caught in your hair or smack you in the face.

You weren't sure when it struck you.

When he first deposited you in a pile of thick fur pelts inside a deep corner of a cave you supposed was his home, wrapping one around you with a furrowed brow? Or maybe when he pulled out a familiar MRE and gestured for you to eat the second your stomach started to growl?

He'd been studying you while you studied the plants.

Probably thought you were just a helpless little animal who couldn't take care of herself.

Saving you from driving yourself to extinction.

He watched you eat, his icy expression melting into a smile once you finished it, fighting to keep your fingers from trembling when you pushed the empty packaging forward. He made another noise, one you couldn't decipher. But you thought he was pleased.

In another life, this was the sort of find that would make you famous.

A yeti, or whatever he was, would be subject to headlines and studies plastered over the news, all over the world.

Or, would've if you'd stumbled on him, scribbled down his schedule and diet, watching him in his natural habitat rather than being stuck as his captive in it.

You weren't dead yet though.

Spring would come.

If you could survive until the day they discovered you weren't at the cabin, if you could make it until they sent a search party to comb through the woods. And even if they didn't, you might be able to make it back to the cabin once some of the ice and snow started to thaw, grab the taser and find the phone to make it back to civilization.

You sure as fuck weren't spending your life (or what was left of it) in a cave.

But maybe, you'd just found a new research subject.

[revolvingsaturn]

𝜗𝜚 your (hot) psychology professor, Geto, Pavlovs you into orgasming in class

more like this

ೃ࿔*:･

“M’gonna cum-“ you wail, nails clinging to your professor’s back as he fucks into you, cock stretching you out perfectly just as it always does.

And, just as he always does- he denies you.

“Oh no, gorgeous,” Suguru Geto purrs into your ear, “I believe you haven’t been given permission. Have you?”

You moan, hips bucking futilely. This happens every time- you’re right there, right on the precipice of an Earth-shattering orgasm, and he makes you wait. Makes you count.

“Five.”

“I can’t hold it-“

“You will. Four.”

You soak his base, strings of glossy slick snapping midair.

“Three, two… and one.”

“Oh, fuck!” You cry, tears streaming into your hair as your body caves in, cunt spasming around him as you ruin the ironed, white sheets of his bed.

That was last week, but now you’re staring at him again. Not from below, no, or even from above, grinding your hips down- but from the distance of a lecture theatre as Geto speaks on and on about psychological advances and studies.

“So, to preface the idea of the multi-store memory model, we must return back to Bartlett’s idea of rationalisation. Page 32-“

Geto blinks, textbook in hand and glasses perched on his nose. Then, he smiles. “Ah, well, I suppose this is your final class of the semester.”

There’s a flurry of confused nods and exhausted smiles, students slumped in corners with battered headphones lying on crowded desks.

“I should give you a rest… how’s this, hm? I think I’d be cruel if I didn’t let you all leave a tad early… how’s ten seconds?”

A flutter of agreement, disbelief shadowing faces already heavy with eyebags from relentless studying. Yours included- you’re confused; Geto has never ended class early, not once, no matter how many times you may bite your lip at him or suggest it with a cheek resting on his bare thigh.

“I'll count, then.” He directs casually, perching on the corner of his desk. “Let me begin! Ten…”

You freeze. Oh my god. Not now, please, please not here-

“Nine.”

Your panties flood automatically, thighs clenching unwillingly below the desk as classmates start packing textbooks into their backpacks, unaware of the slight issue you’re having.

“Eight.”

His tone is steady, grounding in the usual way he lectures on the brain and ethical debates and Milgram’s Agency Theory- and the way he breathes into your ear in the dark, fingers sliding between your thighs coolly. The thought makes you squeak behind your palm.

“Seven.”

You jolt forwards accidentally, and the girl next to you shoots you a quizzical look.

“You okay? I’m just glad he’s letting us go early, I’m like, totallyyyy behind on all this.” She says, plugging her headphones into her ear.

“Mhm, y-yep, me too.”

“Six.”

You snap back to the front of the theatre immediately, Geto looking anywhere but your flushing face. There’s a twinkle in his eye that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing, yet he’s refusing to acknowledge it.

“Five.”

He’s refusing to acknowledge the psychological toll he’s taken on you, wiring your brain to associate countdowns with orgasms. You almost laugh in delirium- your psychology professor has permanently changed your brain chemistry: with his dick. How funny.

“Four.”

You’re struggling to relocate the humour in it, however, when you feel a bead of slick pool in your underwear. Your clit catches on the seam of fabric below your jeans just right, and you almost gasp- it’s quickly stifled behind a hand, nails clawing at your thigh.

“Three.”

You’re going to cum. You are going to actually orgasm in the middle of a lecture theatre, surrounded by peers and students who have no clue about the reason for your sudden violent twitching.

“Two.”

He looks at you then, violet piercing into your heart-shaped pupils as you tremble in your seat, pussy clenching around nothing but the soppingly wet fabric of your ruined panties. Your nails dig into the denim of your jeans, indenting the skin below with the force of it all, and Geto just smiles. Because he knows.

“One.”

Your vision almost whites out. Thighs smack together under the desk, unable to unglue themselves as your classmates slowly trickle towards the exit. Some thank Geto, some just rush out without glancing twice at him, hellbent on sleeping as early as possible.

Until it’s just you and him, the last student finally meandering out of the door. Beneath your sweater, your chest heaves in an attempt to catch any breath you can.

“Do you need to ask any follow up questions, my favourite student?” Geto’s voice drips with humour, his mouth quirking into an unabashed grin. “Perhaps about… Pavlov?”

“No-“ you gasp, voice a little wobbly as you come down from the aftershocks. “Jesus, I can’t believe you.” You’re embarrassed, cheeks pink and panties ruined, still slumped breathlessly in the chair.

Geto just tilts his head, waves of inky black careening over his shoulder as he begins to walk towards you. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and you flinch like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Good.”

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: I HATE my psychology course atm i just don’t care about PET scans and oxyhaemaglobin

tags (open):

@yvannaille @f33bs @loverofladybugs @p3stop3sta @arabellasolstice @dreamcastgirl99 @starsandni7 @sharkiethrts @what-the-jams @likstars @elenathriel @gyusheadphones @savagecatsuga @sxpernova @wqsrs @kakuthefish

[getosurya]

❦ caleb might be busy, but he'll never be too busy for you when you need him. [1.2k] masterlist

caleb is a busy man. you know that.

so how is it that he always, always, picks up when you call? every time. there's never any question of 'i'll call you back', or 'not right now.'

just 'if you holler, i'll be there.'

and for a long time, it never even registered to you as something out of the ordinary, how odd it could seem to some people. because for so long, he was always there. beside you, like it's where he's meant to be.

(he would argue that it is, it is where he's meant to be.)

it first occurs to you sometime in your final year of college, not long after caleb himself had graduated. he's off in skyhaven, now, too far for the same comfort he's always brought you, but you're his biggest supporter nonetheless, truly, you are, and he is your rock. steadfast and firm.

it's late when you collapse face-first into bed, the squishy apple plushie he won for you wrapped in your arms as you press your face into it.

college is exhausting. living with relative strangers is exhausting. everything is fucking exhausting, especially without him by your side.

your fingers find his contact (not that it's hard - you have him pinned, after all) and hit call before you can even try to convince yourself to stop them. it rings twice before he picks up with a yawn.

"hey, pipsqueak, you okay? it's late, thought you'd be headin' to bed by now."

"i was- i am, i... i don't know..."

words choose not to grace you with the ability to use them any further. you groan dramatically, something that resembles his name.

you can practically hear his worry through the phone, see the little crease between his brows forming.

"pips, talk to me." he says, softer now, talking like he would if you were in his arms right now, taking on that gentle tone no one besides you has experienced the pleasure of hearing. "what's wrong?

"everything sucks." you say with a small hmph, a little childish and you know it. you put him on speaker so you can curl up on your side, your plushie tucked against your chest as you hold it tight.

"even me?" he says, that lilt in his voice that soothes your mind just a little. you like to visualise it, the up-down of the waveform mapping each intonation in his words, the affection seeping into them made tangible through the dips and curves of a line.

"everything except you, caleb, you know that." you say with a little sigh.

"good, good, just checking. so, what happened?" he asks.

"people." you huff, making him let out a soft laugh. "why does no one know how to use the kitchen like a normal person? they're making me feel experienced, and i've had you cook for me my whole life." you continue, your voice lowering for the sake of the thin walls in your building. "maybe it's just me, but i thought it was common sense not to leave noodles in the fucking sink for like, days on end."

you can almost hear him grimace. "jeez. you're surrounded by idiots, huh?"

you blink, long and slow, letting out a dragged-out "mmhm."

"have you, i dunno, talked to them?"

"why should it be my responsibility to teach other grown adults common sense?" you say pettily, fiddling with the fabric on your plushie.

"it shouldn't be," he agrees, "but... it might resolve the problem."

you sigh.

he's right.

why is he always right?

"i hate you." you mumble.

"no, you don't." caleb says, that annoyingly endearing grin creeping through his voice.

"no, i don't." you concede, letting out a heavy exhale, letting the quiet settle for a few moments. "i miss you." you whisper, pressing your cheek into your pillow right next to your phone in a weak attempt to feel closer to him. you sniff, blinking hard like it'll help you convince yourself that tears aren't pricking your waterline.

but he can tell. of course he can tell.

"oh, pips, no, don't cry." he whispers, something painful twisting in his chest. "i'm coming back for the weekend in a couple weeks, remember? i'll be back before you know it." he tries to comfort you, but it's no use, not at this point.

"it's not... caleb, it's not the same." your voice comes out a broken whisper, each breath more unsteady than the last.

"i know it's not, angel." he whispers, pausing. "i miss you, too, you know that, right? i miss you so, so much." he says, voice low, shakier than you expected.

"i don't know if i know how to do this." you confess, trembling. "i hate being so far from you."

"i hate it too." he whispers, sucking in a breath. "and they have the audacity to call us codependent, huh?" he says, letting out a shaky little puff of a chuckle. he smiles, just a little, when you let out a tiny teary laugh of your own. "are you really doing okay, pipsqueak?" he asks, gentle, coaxing you to speak, even as a lump jams the words in your throat.

"i haven't been sleeping great." you confess in a whisper. "that's... that's why i called you. i just- i'm so tired all the time, caleb, i don't know what to do." without you are the words that go unspoken from that sentence - you don't need to say it for him to know.

"you should've told me. i would've-" but then he stops. because what can he have done from so far away? "i need you to tell me these things, okay? please tell me, please." there's a sense of begging to his voice, now, a tremor to his voice that's a little scary in it's foreignness.

"i don't want to bother you, you have more important things to deal with, i know you do-" you try to explain, before he cuts you off with your name.

"nothing is more important than you, you hear me? nothing is more important than you." he says it twice, like it'll help convince you.

"but i don't... i don't know what you can do about it, when you're so far- you're not even here, what are you meant to do?" it comes out harsher than you mean, and you can feel the sting of regret on your tongue as soon as you hear him inhale shakily. "i didn't mean- i know it's not your fault..." you try to recover, fresh tears welling in your eyes as you tremble.

"i know, angel. i know. but i still want you to tell me things like this, alright? i'll find a way, i'll find a way to get to you so i can fix it, you know i always will. always."

"you can't fix everything for me, caleb." you say quietly.

"has that ever stopped me from trying?" he says softly, making you let out a tiny laugh, an immense win in his eyes.

"i guess not." you say softly, yawning as you turn to your other side.

"you should really get to bed, pips. you said you have a lecture early tomorrow, right? we can video call after, or on saturday, if you want." he offers, like there's a choice to be made, like there's a universe where you wouldn't want to.

"mhm. okay, goodnight, caleb. i love you." you whisper, tucking your legs up towards your chest.

"goodnight," he says, your name falling softly from his lips. "i love you too. so much. i'll see you soon, okay? sweet dreams, pipsqueak."

a/n: my first caleb piece !! ngl guys at first i didn't fw him that hard but he's crept his way into my heart i love his whole protector vibe okay i hope you enjoyed mwah

[dkrafs]

caleb likes how—for lack of a better word—clingy you are. scratch that, he loves it. he even takes it for granted sometimes. truly, he indulges in your constant need to be physically glued to his presence like a leech.

mornings are spent with you hanging off his back as he moves around the kitchen, making breakfast for the two of you. most times, you don’t even make it to the dining room because caleb just drops you onto the counter, slots himself between your legs, and feeds you toast while your arms are wrapped around his neck.

lunch is spent in the living room. caleb’s famous braised pork belly sits at the center, with a lot of side dishes spread out across the coffee table as the two of you sit beside each other on the floor, shoulders touching. he watches you with eyes full of love as you enjoy the food he prepared wholeheartedly. the little hums you let out after each bite are enough to make his heart flutter. once you’re done eating, cleanup is spent with him washing the dishes while you stay beside him, drying them off with a towel.

afternoons mean nap time—caleb’s second favorite time of day. naps are taken on the couch, not exactly ideal for his height, but he bears with it because cuddling with you makes up for the back pain he’s sure to have later. you’re laid on top of him as he lies flat on his back, your face tucked between his pecs. his arms slip around you, one resting on your waist and the other grabbing your thigh, dragging it up along his hip.

affection at nighttime varies from innocent cuddles and pampering to more intense activities that involve more than just skin-to-skin contact. but it all ends the same way—caleb, shirtless and in only his boxers, lying on his side and hugging you. you’re dressed in just your underwear and his old daa shirt, tucked close to his chest. one of your legs is hiked up over his side, your arms somehow looped around his neck despite the awkward angle.

caleb loves your clinginess because it makes him feel better about his own need to be close to you at all times. he feels validated, knowing that you accept whatever he has to offer—and that you even initiate, instead of leaving everything up to him.

[sugarplumpearl]

Fraternity member!Caleb x innocent!reader

Warnings: mean!caleb, degradation, dubcon, reader is described as having glasses, nerdy!reader, innocent!reader, crybaby!reader, tummy bulge, pnv, squirting, spitting, piss kink?, lemme know if i missed anything

Series masterlist

Your glasses were foggy and with every breath pushed out by the cock bullying your cervix, you had to swallow the lump in your throat. Though your tears blurred your vision, you didn’t need to see to know large hands were caressing your bare thighs.

You felt hands cup the back of your knees before they were pushed against your chest, baring your sopping cunt to the gluttonous eyes of the fraternity member. Your folds were puffy and glistened under the light of the desk lamp in Caleb’s bedroom.

Caleb relished the sight.

Not only a nerd, but the epitome of a good girl, here you were in his bed with your legs wide open. Granted, he had coerced you into giving him what he wanted and shoved his broad form between them to prevent you from hiding your cunt away from him. If he didn’t know any better, he would think you weren’t a virgin by the way your pussy greedily sucked in his cock.

Your whines and cries as he speared you open would forever be burned into his memory. The sounds you made were too sweet to forget.

There was no way you could look him in the eye, too afraid you’d see your tear-stained face reflected to you in his pretty amethyst-colored eyes. You could only turn your face to the side, your glasses digging into your skin as they had become skewed. Besides the condensation forming on the glass, your tears clouded your vision which you were suddenly thankful for.

“Holy fuck, honey. You’re taking my cock like a champ. Not even the campus slut felt this good. Keep slipping out the whole time cause she was so damn loose.”

Your hands would’ve covered your face, if they hadn’t been tied up with the chains he wore daily. You were mortified by the words coming from his mouth. If he had no problem taking bad about someone in his friend group, you couldn’t imagine what he’d tell others about you. You should’ve stayed at the library. You shouldn’t have agreed to study at his place.

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” His order was sudden, catching you off guard.

You let out a whine, too embarrassed and ashamed to look him in the eye. Though you didn't have a clue as to why he was asking that of you, there was no way you could do what you were being told.

At your lack of obedience, Caleb felt a surge of anger, his cheek twitching in response.

Had it been any other girl ignoring his command, they would’ve been flipped onto their hands and knees before receiving a rough fucking. He wouldn’t even care if they came or not. His only worry was about spilling into the condom. After he did, he’d leave them alone in whatever room in the fraternity house they had slipped into.

But he couldn’t bring himself to treat you that way.

The sweet loner girl from his human anatomy class. The girl who worried about arriving to class on time and making sure her notes were a perfect copy of the day’s lecture.

Still, it didn't mean he couldn’t get what he wanted by the use of a little pain.

Leaning over your trembling frame, he nuzzled the underside of your tit before trailing up and biting onto the hardened bud. Your hips bucked as a yelp came from your bruised lips.

“Do as I say or I’ll keep playing with your nips until they’re bruised and swollen. You’ll have to walk around campus with your tits out. Might even keep you locked away so that no one can see what’s mine.” His fingers dug into the flesh of your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Be a good girl and stick your tongue out. Now.”

Your bottom lip wobbled before you did as you were told. Your actions were hesitant, completely unsure of the reason behind what was about to happen.

A grin broke across his face. Without hesitation, he made sure you wouldn’t be able to close your mouth before his warm spit met your tongue.

Your eyes widened. You tried to pull your face free from his hold, but he wouldn’t budge. The taste of your cunt from when he ate you out earlier lingered.

The saliva that had gathered inside your mouth escaped through the corners of your lips when he forced your mouth closed. The warm liquid stained the skin of your chin and neck.

“Swallow.”

You grimaced at the request, but did as you were told.

Though frightened and caught off guard, the warmth in your belly was growing, aided by his thrusting hips. For the first time in your life, you were experiencing something you had only read about in the dirty books you kept hidden from prying eyes. You would be lying if you said Caleb wasn’t making you feel good.

As his hips slowed down, the pace now a smooth gyration so that you felt his thickness stretch you, the mushroom tip kissed your cervix. When a hand came to press down on the bulge showing through the skin of your tummy, your body jerked as you nearly sat up.

The multiple cups of juice he had you drink during your study session under the guise of being a welcoming host, the weight of his hand on your belly, plus the pressure of his dick inside of you had a familiar full feeling erupting from deep within.

“S-stop…” You said, your request long ignored as the thumb from the hand resting on your tummy stretched down to play with your clit. “Caleb, p-please.”

A groan came from the male before you, his jaw flexing as your cunt squeezed his dick. When his eyes found yours, he noted a hint of nervousness. From how your gummy walls held onto him, he had an idea what was causing this sudden apprehension.

“What’s the matter, pips?”

“P-p-please…” You whispered, fear overcoming your pretty features. “I’m gonna p-pee.”

“Ah shit, y-you’re just the cutest thing, honey.” He replied, fixing your glasses so that they sat perfectly on your nose. He caught you off guard by pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “Come here, sweets.”

He brought your arms over his head, your clasped hands resting on the back of his neck, before he sat up, bringing you with him and settling your weight on his thick thighs. This allowed his cock to reach further inside you.

“Go ahead and make a mess all over me like an untrained pup in heat. I don’t mind.”

Continuing his ministration from before, you clung to him, crying as your cunt quivered and clenched around him. He could feel your walls spasming as you came, thighs trembling from the mere force being exerted as your slick shot out from around his length. He could feel your tears land on the heated skin of his neck.

He followed shortly after, his cum settling deep in your cunt. What couldn’t fit inside of you spilled out onto Caleb and his once neat bedsheets.

With your face tucked against his sweaty neck, he held you, one hand on the back of your head while the other caressed the expanse of your back. You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, too embarrassed about what had just happened between the two of you.

“Good girl…knew you would do as you’re told. Seems like you just need some roughening up, don’t cha?”

Feel like this is all over the place but oh well

[asiatic-apple]

Severing fate

Stalker!Caleb x female reader

Word count: 5.9k (I got carried away)

Content: soulmate au, caleb is your stalker, he is an unreliable narrator and very much unhinged, he breaks into your home and sets up cameras, possessive and obsessive behavior, he kills someone but it's non-graphic, smut, L-bombs, oops reader is a little unhinged too, talk of marriage, marathon sex, somnophilia (with prior consent given)

➢ Read on AO3

From a young age, Caleb has always had a knack for seeing patterns. He makes mathematics look easy, he breezes through things like puzzles or building model airplanes, and he observes everything in life with a quiet calculation that unnerves most people.

His family calls him special. People who meet him for the first time call him a bit strange yet charismatic. Since childhood, he knew there was something different about him. Caleb has a gift no one else has: he can see fate.

Fate is beautiful. Connections and relationships are woven throughout the universe in the form of deep red threads. Some are thick cords, strengthened by a bond that's been realized early on in life. Others are thin, fraying, and tangled when someone touches a body they aren't meant to be with but want anyway.

These threads aren't exclusively for romantic bonds. Some destined relationships are lifelong friends, platonic life partners, or anything in between. A few people even have more than one if they're lucky. No matter the type of soulmate, everyone has a thread tied to them. Everyone except Caleb.

It's a cruel thing, seeing everyone else's destiny but being blind to your own. He doesn't even know if he has a soulmate at all. As a teen, he convinced himself it was a test—maybe he just needed to work harder to find his soulmate. He spent far too much time researching old mythology about destiny and fated lovers.

Growing into young adulthood, he spent even more time watching people, searching for someone else who might be missing their own thread. With Caleb's good looks and charming personality, he's always been spoiled for choice when it comes to a potential partner. Many people throw themselves at him, not realizing their threads tug them back toward someone else entirely.

It's not like he needs to reject his admirers. He knows he could just be another passing tangle or knot in someone's connection with a true soulmate. But that doesn't appeal to him. He wants to feel that undeniable pull, that intimate connection that comes with finding the person who was made for him. So he continues waiting—and watching for patterns he can study.

He soon learns how to guess people's whole life stories just from the way their threads are woven. It becomes second nature to figure out someone is having an affair or if they've lost a loved one or are desperately trying to escape fate altogether.

When he bumps into you at a café, he initially thinks nothing of it. He plasters on his usual suave smile while reaching down to grab your fallen bag. And when he hands it back to you, he freezes in place.

Caleb has never believed in sparks flying or love at first sight. Especially not when he's witnessed firsthand how every connection is planned by some higher power. But when he sees your face—your apologetic smile and the way you look at him with genuine kindness—he thinks fate becomes inconsequential.

His eyes land on the red thread tied around your left wrist like a shackle, and his heart drops. For a fleeting moment, he hoped you'd have no thread like him. He almost turns away, until he notices the wrongness of it.

Your thread is…ugly. A weak, dull color as it yanks at your wrist like an incessant child, trying to tug you toward something you don't seem to have any interest in.

The moment you turn your back on Caleb to resume your order, his eyes never leave you. You become an obsession—half because of that immediate flicker of something he felt when he saw you, and the other half because he has to find out why fate feels different around you.

His feet carry him mindlessly behind you when you leave the café. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he follows you all the way to your apartment. And imagine his surprise when he realizes you live right down the hall from his own apartment.

Caleb doesn't believe in coincidence. So he takes it upon himself to learn even more about you.

Clearly, the universe is sending him a sign. Maybe it messed up when writing your destiny. Maybe some cosmic being needs his help in fixing the mistake. Either way, he's the only one who can correct that dreadful thing holding you back from having a true soulmate. He's the only one who could be your soulmate.

He watches you for weeks, taking his time to collect as much information about you as he can before he makes his next move. People, normal people, are hilariously predictable. Not only are they beholden to fate, but they also desperately cling to routine. Just another pattern that Caleb picks up on with far too much ease.

It barely takes him a month to have your entire schedule mapped out and memorized. Even on the rare occasion when you do something spontaneous, he's able to intuit where you might go, who you might be with, and what time you'll decide to head back home.

He takes advantage of one of the moments you're not home, picking the lock on your front door with ease. Knowing exactly how much time he has before you return, he's planned the perfect opportunity to plant hidden cameras in each of the rooms of your apartment.

He's so well-prepared that he even has a few extra minutes afterward to go through your most precious belongings. It's hard not to steal a caress of your soft bed, rifle through the diary hidden underneath it, or gingerly smell one of your hoodies hanging on the couch.

If you were here now, you would freak out. Caleb's not insane enough not to know that. But he also believes if you gave him a chance to explain—you're meant to be with him, duh—maybe you wouldn't be too mad. That's why he does something completely unplanned and leaves with your hoodie after double-checking that all the cameras work.

Luckily, you don't notice the missing item or the added tiny red dots peeking out from strategically placed spots. One of the things Caleb loves about you is how sweet and trusting you are. It's something anyone else could easily take advantage of, though. And he doesn't like the thought of that.

Being a guardian angel isn't enough for him. Watching from afar won't mean much if someone gets too close to you when he's unprepared or turns his back for a moment. He needs to make sure no one else slides into your life. Especially if that someone could be whoever is on the other end of that counterfeit bond wrapped too tightly around your wrist.

So Caleb manufactures more accidental meetings with you. You're neighbors, after all. When you take out your trash, Caleb times his exit perfectly, turning a corner just fast enough to bump into you. His charming apology makes you a bit flustered, and he thinks you're even cuter when you're within arm's reach.

The second meeting happens at a bookstore three blocks down. The one you frequent every Saturday around lunchtime to read a new book while snacking on something salty. He’s already browsing the shelves when you walk in, glancing at you with feigned surprise when you notice your neighbor likes one of the books you read last week.

After that, it becomes easier. He embeds himself into your routine until he's impossible to ignore.

First, he's a simple stranger who you notice every once in a while. Then, an acquaintance who happens—coincidentally—to love the same cafés, the same obscure novels, the same quiet walking paths you prefer at dusk. He laughs at the right moments. Listens when you speak. Remembers little details you share that you think anyone else wouldn't bother paying attention to.

Finally, he becomes a friend. A staple in your daily routine. A shoulder you cry on when days are hard and you need someone to rely on.

In those moments, Caleb wants nothing more than to confess his feelings for you. Everything is going so well, and he can sense that you'd reciprocate his confession.

With every cozy hangout, conversation that stretches past midnight, and shared meal where your knees brush his under the table, Caleb watches the subtle shift in your body language. The way you lean closer and your voice softens. You're falling for him.

But that grotesque thing around your wrist begins to thrash in protest whenever he gets too close. His teeth grit every time he sees its blatant disapproval.

Why is the universe resisting him now? You are his other half. He's never been so sure of anything else in his life. Is this the real test he mistakenly thought he'd been put through as a child?

At night, he lies awake and dissects every possible next step. No matter the scenario, he arrives at the same conclusion. There is only ever one outcome with fate.

He's seen it before in past observations: no matter how much fate veers off course, it always finds a way to correct itself. But perhaps that's only because no one with Caleb's gift has ever tried to intervene.

People believe fate does not bend for desire, or that it doesn't reward patience and effort. They believe it simply is. But when you grow up seeing its physical manifestation and the way people fight against it, it's hard not to come to the conclusion that even something preordained can be manipulated by someone strong enough.

If Caleb's been given such a gift…then it would be a shame not to use it.

He'll make sure there is no possible way the universe could pull you into someone else's orbit. Which means he needs to find the parasite at the other end of your tether. He needs to measure their worth. Even though deep down, he already knows what answer lies at the end of his calculations.

And he's proven right when he finally does find your dead weight. Your so-called soulmate doesn't seem to treasure true love or fate at all. Even worse, the man doesn't even add up to a quarter of the exceptional person you are.

Your destined counterpart spends his days slouched at a bar that smells like stale beer and desperation. Caleb watches from across the street first. Then from inside. Then a day later, from a camera discreetly installed in the man's messy home.

He scowls as he watches your fated half drown in cheap booze and women that barely stay the night before being kicked out onto the street like trash. One could barely call this a routine when it's more like a never-ending rut for a loser who thinks he's the shit when he actually just smells like it.

This is what pulls at your wrist every night? This is what dares to fight when Caleb leans into you with a look full of yearning?

The knowledge taunts him for three days. That's all it takes before he ponders something brand new about the universe while watching a belligerent idiot snore facedown on a stained mattress.

Can fate defend itself?

Caleb makes sure what he's about to do will look like a freak accident. It's just something that happens to a drunkard who no one will miss anyway.

It turns out it's easy to sever the very thread of fate that he always admired as a kid. In fact, he's a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony. There's no bolt of lightning striking him down, no divine intervention or a voice booming from above in anger of what Caleb has taken into his own hands.

Fate is weak and pathetic as it tries to resist its new order from a power more determined than a fickle thing like the universe. It bleeds and whimpers before the last rush of air leaves its lungs.

Caleb stares down at the broken thread, now unattached from the man you were never meant to meet.

It feels like a stupid thought now, but he knows he has to attach it to himself. He doesn't believe in its power anymore, but you might. You might feel its loss if it decays, the same way he's seen remnants of other people's bonds that ended when their lovers passed away too soon. Besides, he wants there to be no question that there is an unshakeable bond between you two—even if you can't see it for yourself.

Caleb works quickly, tying a knot around his left wrist a bit too tightly, like he's scared it might come undone if he isn't meticulous enough. Some strange bit of life still left in the thread resists him at first, stubbornly recoiling from the wrongness of what just transpired. But familiarity is a powerful thing. He has already watched you, memorized you, and diligently shaped his life around the edges of yours. He makes fate recognize effort now.

It stings for a few minutes, feeling like forcing a shape into the wrong space. Fortunately, his lack of a thread becomes an advantage. There is nothing to conflict, nothing to reject the intrusion other than your own thread trying to hold onto something irrelevant.

And after a few heart-pounding moments, the knot finally holds—and your thread stills. Caleb exhales for the first time in minutes. He leaves the unmoving body on the dirty mattress, smiling when he thinks of the next time he'll see you with a strengthened bond.

Your neighbor—and new best friend—is the sweetest man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You never thought you'd find someone like him in this day and age. A true gentleman, he makes you feel seen in a way that feels inevitable. Like he was always waiting for you to run into him on a busy day at your favorite café.

Lately, you've been unable to stop yourself from flirting with danger. And it really is a dangerous thing to fall in love with a neighbor. If things don't work out, then you'll have to bump into an ex every day just to go in and out of your apartment.

But if the only dangerous thing about wanting a man like Caleb is the possibility of a constant heartache, then you'll take your chances. Besides, your chest already tightens painfully every time he smiles at you. Your heart really does skip a beat when he laughs at your jokes, or hugs you when you're sad, or when his hands wander just a bit while he cuddles up beside you on your couch.

Caleb is different than any men you've ever met. He's better. Maybe he's the best you might ever get. And you're not going to let someone else snatch him up.

That's precisely why you've already put so much faith in him. Someone as gentle as Caleb could never hurt a fly, so you happily gave him a key to your apartment for emergencies. You let him come over even when you're looking like a mess after tiring days at work. You even fall asleep on him sometimes, so trusting that he would always protect you even in your most vulnerable states.

His easygoing charm and innocent puppy-like eyes make your heart beat only for him. But you're also a bit annoyed; no matter how much his touch might wander at times, he always holds himself back.

You've tried baiting him with shorts that "accidentally" ride up a bit between your thighs when you bend down in front of him. You've even let your hands trail his chest and abs while watching movies beside him.

It takes all your willpower not to jump him right then and there the moment your fingertips trace the quivering lines of his lower stomach. His breathing always turns heavier with cute little gasps of air when you touch him. But still, he doesn't take things further.

It's for this reason that you decide to take a leap of faith and ask him on a date. You're not usually this bold with your crushes, but something about Caleb makes you want to be brave. When the two of you meet up at your usual café for lunch, you take advantage of a quiet moment.

"Caleb?" you say, trying to keep your voice steady as he looks up at you over the rim of his coffee mug.

He sets the cup down, giving you his full attention like he always does. You stammer for a second, and he smirks, as if he can guess what you're about to say. That cockiness is what makes you turn a nervous question into a headstrong declaration.

"I want to go out on a date with you."

Immediately, you feel a bit stupid for the phrasing and the way you looked at him like he had no say in the matter. But Caleb—always the type to play along with your every whim—smiles, his dimples making you swoon a bit. You notice a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it's too fast to put to words.

"You do?" he asks with a chuckle, far too calm when you're over here sweating buckets and waiting for a proper response. "Well, I could never say no to you."

The warmth that spreads through you is immediate and dizzying. You laugh in relief, feeling ridiculous for ever doubting yourself or his feelings for you. Caleb wipes away any residual doubt the second he gets up from his chair and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

He promises to plan everything for your date, even though you were the one who asked him out. The next weekend, he meets you at your apartment promptly on time, with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small box of treats from that dessert place you love visiting.

Everything is perfect and effortless. Even more so than how it usually feels being by his side. He picks a restaurant you mentioned wanting to try weeks ago—one you hadn't expected him to remember. He holds doors open for you, rests his hand lightly at your back while leading you to the table, and looks at you like you're the only person in the room.

As always, conversation with Caleb flows easily. Since you've known him, he's always been able to guess what's on your mind, what might be bothering you or making you nervous. It's uncanny just how much he can stay in sync with you, as easily as breathing.

But this time, there's something just a bit different about your dynamic. Something charged with a heightened tension.

When your fingers reach across the table to brush against his hand, he doesn't pull away or avoid eye contact. He looks at you like what you've just done has sealed something he's been waiting to finalize for a long time.

It should scare you, that dark look in his eyes. Because for a second, he looks a bit unrecognizable. But all you feel is a sensation like something clicking into place.

You intertwine your fingers with his and ask, "Do you believe in soulmates?"

For the first time since you've met him, Caleb looks surprised. Nothing ever catches him off guard. Yet somehow, this simple question does the trick.

Wondering if maybe your question was a bit embarrassing, you backtrack. "I know it sounds silly. But—"

"Yes," he interrupts with a whisper. "I mean…I'm not sure if I did before meetin' you." His thumb rubs your knuckles back and forth as he holds your hand just a bit tighter. "But now I know."

If it was anyone else, you might have been amused by how cheesy his words are. But when Caleb is the one saying them—so earnestly, too—all you feel is a rush of heat through your body.

The rest of the date happens in a bit of a blur. Both of you can't seem to keep your hands off each other, even opting to skip dessert if it means getting back home quicker.

You really aren't the type to invite a first date inside your home, no matter how well the night goes. This time it's different because it's Caleb, the man you've already shared so much with. He's been inside your home before. He's seen you in every way but one. And you're desperate to show him that missing piece now.

As soon as you unlock your door, you push him inside, all pretense forgotten the moment your shoes and coats come off. You crash into him, feverish kisses stealing his breath away as he chuckles between them. You don't care how eager you seem, you just want his lips on yours.

Using his tie as a leash, you tug him backwards with you, blindly stumbling to your bedroom. But even when you think you might bump into a wall, Caleb redirects you with his eyes closed, like he's memorized the route you need to take without so much as parting from your lips. If you weren't getting drunk off his kisses, maybe alarm bells would ring in your mind—you've never taken him to your bedroom before now.

Nothing matters anyway. Nothing except getting him out of these stupid clothes and showing him just how much you've wanted him all night. When Caleb gently pulls you down onto your bed, you move with more roughness, your frenzied kisses pausing so you can shove him to sit back against the headboard and straddle his lap.

His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he lets you manhandle him. The realization makes your stomach flutter. Testing the waters further, you use his shoulders as leverage before grinding down on him. Caleb's hands fly to your hips with a gasp, but he doesn't control your movements. He just lets you rock at your own pace, basking in the weight of your core rubbing against his clothed erection.

His compliance encourages you, making you needy for leaving more kisses along his Adam's apple and neck. He moans for you while his hips buck instinctively beneath yours, and it makes another flood of arousal pool between your thighs.

"Mm, is this okay?" you mumble against his skin while grinding with more pressure, desperately chasing friction.

His fingers tighten on your waist, but he still doesn't stop you. "Y-you can use me however you want, baby," he replies through another breathy moan. "I'm yours. All yours."

How did you get so lucky, you wonder before biting down on his neck. You make sure to suck a mark worthy of being on someone who gives himself to you so eagerly. It's the least you can do for how sweetly he whimpers and claws at your hips while you hump him until you're nearly coming on his lap.

In the midst of your greed, you've undone his tie and ripped a few of the buttons on his shirt, making room for more licks and bites. When you lean back to look at your handiwork, both of you are panting, not nearly satisfied yet but needing a moment to catch your breath. And your sweet friend, no, boyfriend now, looks at you like he's ready to worship you.

He slides one hand up your body, taking his time to feel every curve until his fingers gently wrap around your left wrist. He holds his breath and glances at you with hesitation, like touching your arm is a sin.

It's cute how even after your frenzied touches and kisses, he acts like he still needs permission to reciprocate them. You nod, and then he carefully lifts your hand to his trembling lips before kissing the inside of your wrist.

The gesture seems deeper than you can understand, especially with the way he keeps glancing at you as if you know its hidden meaning. But you're lost for words, only feeling that aching throb between your legs and needing him to soothe it. He notices your confused expression but presses another kiss to your hammering pulse before smiling up at you.

"Let me take care of you now," he says, tugging you by the wrist to reposition you beneath him.

It's your turn to be maneuvered, and you let him. He kisses down your body, fingers still tickling that wrist he seems fixated on before he pins it to the mattress.

The two of you pull at each other's disheveled clothes until you're both bare. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lower belly as Caleb continues showering you in love. But before you can feel it inside you, he seems to have other plans.

His kisses travel across your chest, against stiffened nipples, along the softness of your tummy, then finally between your thighs. When he pushes your legs apart, you shudder, feeling the cool air kiss your soaked folds a second before his warm breath does. Then he drags the flat of his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

The sound you make is obscene. Your hips jerk up before you can stop them, accidentally shoving your cunt harder against his mouth. But Caleb's only response is a needy moan, like he’s the one being pleasured, the vibration humming straight through your core.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your swollen clit as he speaks. “Let me hear you, baby. You're mine now—those sounds are mine.”

You barely have time to let the certainty of his words sink into your fluttering stomach before he dives in like a man starved. No teasing anymore. Just hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy.

It's like he knows exactly what pace to set and how much pressure his tongue should apply to make you wail for him. Could it be possible this man was sent from Heaven to satisfy all your cravings? You swear you might become religious after this.

His tongue nudges against your clit before his lips suction around it, and your back arches off the bed while you moan for him. One hand flies to his hair while your other fists the sheets, and still he doesn’t let up. If anything, the way you yank his hair only makes him moan louder against you.

There's a faint rustle of movement, and you glance down to see Caleb gently rocking against your mattress, so lost in the taste of you that he needs to hump your bed.

"Oh my god, I think I'm gonna come," you cry, feeling overwhelmed by how quickly he's able to pull this much pleasure from you. You fuck his face with more fervor now, shamelessly bucking your hips and pulling on his hair with a tightness you'll only regret after you come down from this high. "Caleb, please…need your fingers. Wanna come around them," you whine with each buck.

You peek down at him, and he's watching you with dark eyes, a scary determination in them while his hand snakes in between your legs. His fingers slide inside you with ease, curling in a rhythm that matches how he laps up your slick.

The soft smacks of his lips against your skin and the squelch of your wet pussy fill the room, mingled with your growing screams. And then you gush around his thick digits—coating his lips, chin, and palm with your orgasm. Caleb takes it all with a look of reverence on his flushed face, licking every drop you give him and gasping for air when he finally parts from your twitching body.

When he slides up your body to look at you with a satisfied grin, your pussy clenches again at the sight of his glistening mouth and pupils blown wide. He looks dazed, proud. His cock slides against your still-twitching pussy, smearing precum against the mess you already have between your legs—but he doesn’t rush you. Instead he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “More, I need more. Need you inside me.”

He exhales a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Yeah…yeah, baby. I’ve got you, don't worry.”

Reaching down, he nestles the head of his cock between your folds and then finally pushes in. It's slow, so fucking slow, but you revel in the jolt of pleasure that shoots down your body as he stretches you out cautiously. He's bigger than any man you've had before, but every thick inch slides inside easily, filling you all the way until his hips are flush with yours.

Caleb curses beneath his breath, head falling to rest against yours while he pants and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him. His eyes meet yours, locked and unable to tear away when he starts to move.

You both groan from the feeling, gripping each other tighter and starting to build up a faster rhythm. It's easy to get lost in this feeling, and you lose track of what you mumble and chant while Caleb picks up the pace. But while you struggle to keep your eyes on him, he can't stop staring.

He also can't keep his hands off you while fucking you nice and deep. His fingers toy with your nipples, rolling and pinching them to get more sounds out of you. And then they caress your stomach, pushing down slightly right above your mound to elevate the feeling of how he fills you up. You stutter and shake, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a breathless kiss.

His lips find yours again and again between thrusts, sharing his breath with you before he whispers, "Fuck, I love you."

That sentence sends your thoughts to a screeching halt, but your pussy clenches even harder around him. You should be appalled that he's saying such a thing so soon. You should reconsider this whole relationship and how quickly you've allowed it to escalate.

You should, but you don't want to. In fact, you think you love him too.

Feeling your second orgasm barreling toward you too fast, you crash your lips against his again, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving little red crescents.

“Hm, I…love you too,” you babble, after breaking the kiss. Your brain practically short-circuits with how close you are to coming. You can't stop the words spilling out of your mouth. “Love you so much. Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop—”

The second those words leave your lips, a switch seems to flip in Caleb's brain. His whole body locks up for one heartbeat, buried deep inside you, cock throbbing hard enough that you feel it pulse against your walls. Then he exhales a ragged sound against your mouth, and the slower, careful rhythm he’d been holding onto shatters. His hips snap harder, punching the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back.

“You can't take that back now,” he growls, his voice alarmingly different from the sweet, hesitant Caleb who kissed your wrist like it was sacred.

He’s moving faster, rougher, but still so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into you permanently. Your foreheads stay pressed together, making it impossible to look away from the wild, glassy look in his eyes.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he groans, like it's a fact and not a hypothetical. “I'll put a ring on this finger"—he snatches the same hand he’s been obsessed with all night and brings it to his lips to kiss the bare spot where a ring would sit—“and make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”

This is so wrong, god this is so wrong. Everything is moving so fast. You shouldn't like this. You can't tell if this is just dirty talk or something more serious, but that look in Caleb's eyes is a little terrifying.

And yet? Your cunt flutters hard around him at the words, more of your arousal gushing down and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Oh, fuuuck, that's it," he says with a manic laugh, folding your legs higher until your knees are pressed up against your sweaty chest. "I can feel how much you like this, baby. It's okay if you do," he coos. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. You’re mine—only ever gonna be mine. Say it again for me, sweetheart." His voice cracks, and it's the only thing making you refocus on his words while your ears ring from the pleasure. "Say you love me while I fill you with my cum.”

You’re beyond proper speech now, just broken whimpers and gasps, but you manage to choke out, “Love you—I love you, Caleb.”

He slams in one last time, hips grinding flush against yours, cock pulsing as he comes with a choked sob that makes your toes curl. Your pussy spasms and clamps around him, milking him dry as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Turns out you're just as crazy in love as he is. And you don't have it in you to be ashamed right now.

Caleb's counting his lucky stars that he spent all those nights watching you touch yourself through the flickering camera feeds he set up. It's what helped him learn all the ways you like to be caressed, the speed you prefer when you have a silicone cock deep inside you, and the fantasies you'd whisper to yourself when you imagined someone above you.

You won't need fantasy anymore, though. He knows everything about you. That's why he's able to make you cream on his cock over and over again, while his hips move at a speed even he didn't know he was capable of.

The gravity of this moment—of finally claiming the person he's going to keep for the rest of his life—is heady. It makes Caleb insatiable and greedy for more. More of your addicting sounds, more of your shaking orgasms, more of his cum spilling deep inside you.

More, more, more. Caleb can't stop chanting it each time you melt and rake your nails against his back and allow him to take everything from you.

You're so pretty, so perfect, all his. It goes straight to his head, and his cock, when you beg for all that he's giving you even when your body is so weak that it can't hold itself up.

You like being pushed to your limit, it seems. Right when you become too exhausted to keep your eyes open, you sleepily tell him he can keep going if he wants to. He can't help but come inside you again just from hearing your whispered permission to use you while you fall asleep.

The fact that you trust him so readily…god, he knew you were made for him. He doesn't keep you awake too long, even though his cock already throbs insistently for more of your warmth after he pulls out with a groan.

Caleb is no stranger to patience. He's glad he waited to find you. Because now he'll never let you go—and there will be many more days to spend reminding you of that if you ever forget.

No matter what happens now, you're bound to him forever. Fate made sure of it.

a/n: thank you all for the 2k celebration votes 💕 I hope I made good on our wish for more scaryleb teehee

and none of this would be possible without my ride or die @heartyluv, who constantly inspires me with her takes on scaryleb and toxic!caleb. everyone say a big thank you to her bc she let me yap about this fic to her and she beta read it for meeee, ilysm Jay 😘

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[asiatic-apple]

Severing fate

Stalker!Caleb x female reader

Word count: 5.9k (I got carried away)

Content: soulmate au, caleb is your stalker, he is an unreliable narrator and very much unhinged, he breaks into your home and sets up cameras, possessive and obsessive behavior, he kills someone but it's non-graphic, smut, L-bombs, oops reader is a little unhinged too, talk of marriage, marathon sex, somnophilia (with prior consent given)

➢ Read on AO3

From a young age, Caleb has always had a knack for seeing patterns. He makes mathematics look easy, he breezes through things like puzzles or building model airplanes, and he observes everything in life with a quiet calculation that unnerves most people.

His family calls him special. People who meet him for the first time call him a bit strange yet charismatic. Since childhood, he knew there was something different about him. Caleb has a gift no one else has: he can see fate.

Fate is beautiful. Connections and relationships are woven throughout the universe in the form of deep red threads. Some are thick cords, strengthened by a bond that's been realized early on in life. Others are thin, fraying, and tangled when someone touches a body they aren't meant to be with but want anyway.

These threads aren't exclusively for romantic bonds. Some destined relationships are lifelong friends, platonic life partners, or anything in between. A few people even have more than one if they're lucky. No matter the type of soulmate, everyone has a thread tied to them. Everyone except Caleb.

It's a cruel thing, seeing everyone else's destiny but being blind to your own. He doesn't even know if he has a soulmate at all. As a teen, he convinced himself it was a test—maybe he just needed to work harder to find his soulmate. He spent far too much time researching old mythology about destiny and fated lovers.

Growing into young adulthood, he spent even more time watching people, searching for someone else who might be missing their own thread. With Caleb's good looks and charming personality, he's always been spoiled for choice when it comes to a potential partner. Many people throw themselves at him, not realizing their threads tug them back toward someone else entirely.

It's not like he needs to reject his admirers. He knows he could just be another passing tangle or knot in someone's connection with a true soulmate. But that doesn't appeal to him. He wants to feel that undeniable pull, that intimate connection that comes with finding the person who was made for him. So he continues waiting—and watching for patterns he can study.

He soon learns how to guess people's whole life stories just from the way their threads are woven. It becomes second nature to figure out someone is having an affair or if they've lost a loved one or are desperately trying to escape fate altogether.

When he bumps into you at a café, he initially thinks nothing of it. He plasters on his usual suave smile while reaching down to grab your fallen bag. And when he hands it back to you, he freezes in place.

Caleb has never believed in sparks flying or love at first sight. Especially not when he's witnessed firsthand how every connection is planned by some higher power. But when he sees your face—your apologetic smile and the way you look at him with genuine kindness—he thinks fate becomes inconsequential.

His eyes land on the red thread tied around your left wrist like a shackle, and his heart drops. For a fleeting moment, he hoped you'd have no thread like him. He almost turns away, until he notices the wrongness of it.

Your thread is…ugly. A weak, dull color as it yanks at your wrist like an incessant child, trying to tug you toward something you don't seem to have any interest in.

The moment you turn your back on Caleb to resume your order, his eyes never leave you. You become an obsession—half because of that immediate flicker of something he felt when he saw you, and the other half because he has to find out why fate feels different around you.

His feet carry him mindlessly behind you when you leave the café. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he follows you all the way to your apartment. And imagine his surprise when he realizes you live right down the hall from his own apartment.

Caleb doesn't believe in coincidence. So he takes it upon himself to learn even more about you.

Clearly, the universe is sending him a sign. Maybe it messed up when writing your destiny. Maybe some cosmic being needs his help in fixing the mistake. Either way, he's the only one who can correct that dreadful thing holding you back from having a true soulmate. He's the only one who could be your soulmate.

He watches you for weeks, taking his time to collect as much information about you as he can before he makes his next move. People, normal people, are hilariously predictable. Not only are they beholden to fate, but they also desperately cling to routine. Just another pattern that Caleb picks up on with far too much ease.

It barely takes him a month to have your entire schedule mapped out and memorized. Even on the rare occasion when you do something spontaneous, he's able to intuit where you might go, who you might be with, and what time you'll decide to head back home.

He takes advantage of one of the moments you're not home, picking the lock on your front door with ease. Knowing exactly how much time he has before you return, he's planned the perfect opportunity to plant hidden cameras in each of the rooms of your apartment.

He's so well-prepared that he even has a few extra minutes afterward to go through your most precious belongings. It's hard not to steal a caress of your soft bed, rifle through the diary hidden underneath it, or gingerly smell one of your hoodies hanging on the couch.

If you were here now, you would freak out. Caleb's not insane enough not to know that. But he also believes if you gave him a chance to explain—you're meant to be with him, duh—maybe you wouldn't be too mad. That's why he does something completely unplanned and leaves with your hoodie after double-checking that all the cameras work.

Luckily, you don't notice the missing item or the added tiny red dots peeking out from strategically placed spots. One of the things Caleb loves about you is how sweet and trusting you are. It's something anyone else could easily take advantage of, though. And he doesn't like the thought of that.

Being a guardian angel isn't enough for him. Watching from afar won't mean much if someone gets too close to you when he's unprepared or turns his back for a moment. He needs to make sure no one else slides into your life. Especially if that someone could be whoever is on the other end of that counterfeit bond wrapped too tightly around your wrist.

So Caleb manufactures more accidental meetings with you. You're neighbors, after all. When you take out your trash, Caleb times his exit perfectly, turning a corner just fast enough to bump into you. His charming apology makes you a bit flustered, and he thinks you're even cuter when you're within arm's reach.

The second meeting happens at a bookstore three blocks down. The one you frequent every Saturday around lunchtime to read a new book while snacking on something salty. He’s already browsing the shelves when you walk in, glancing at you with feigned surprise when you notice your neighbor likes one of the books you read last week.

After that, it becomes easier. He embeds himself into your routine until he's impossible to ignore.

First, he's a simple stranger who you notice every once in a while. Then, an acquaintance who happens—coincidentally—to love the same cafés, the same obscure novels, the same quiet walking paths you prefer at dusk. He laughs at the right moments. Listens when you speak. Remembers little details you share that you think anyone else wouldn't bother paying attention to.

Finally, he becomes a friend. A staple in your daily routine. A shoulder you cry on when days are hard and you need someone to rely on.

In those moments, Caleb wants nothing more than to confess his feelings for you. Everything is going so well, and he can sense that you'd reciprocate his confession.

With every cozy hangout, conversation that stretches past midnight, and shared meal where your knees brush his under the table, Caleb watches the subtle shift in your body language. The way you lean closer and your voice softens. You're falling for him.

But that grotesque thing around your wrist begins to thrash in protest whenever he gets too close. His teeth grit every time he sees its blatant disapproval.

Why is the universe resisting him now? You are his other half. He's never been so sure of anything else in his life. Is this the real test he mistakenly thought he'd been put through as a child?

At night, he lies awake and dissects every possible next step. No matter the scenario, he arrives at the same conclusion. There is only ever one outcome with fate.

He's seen it before in past observations: no matter how much fate veers off course, it always finds a way to correct itself. But perhaps that's only because no one with Caleb's gift has ever tried to intervene.

People believe fate does not bend for desire, or that it doesn't reward patience and effort. They believe it simply is. But when you grow up seeing its physical manifestation and the way people fight against it, it's hard not to come to the conclusion that even something preordained can be manipulated by someone strong enough.

If Caleb's been given such a gift…then it would be a shame not to use it.

He'll make sure there is no possible way the universe could pull you into someone else's orbit. Which means he needs to find the parasite at the other end of your tether. He needs to measure their worth. Even though deep down, he already knows what answer lies at the end of his calculations.

And he's proven right when he finally does find your dead weight. Your so-called soulmate doesn't seem to treasure true love or fate at all. Even worse, the man doesn't even add up to a quarter of the exceptional person you are.

Your destined counterpart spends his days slouched at a bar that smells like stale beer and desperation. Caleb watches from across the street first. Then from inside. Then a day later, from a camera discreetly installed in the man's messy home.

He scowls as he watches your fated half drown in cheap booze and women that barely stay the night before being kicked out onto the street like trash. One could barely call this a routine when it's more like a never-ending rut for a loser who thinks he's the shit when he actually just smells like it.

This is what pulls at your wrist every night? This is what dares to fight when Caleb leans into you with a look full of yearning?

The knowledge taunts him for three days. That's all it takes before he ponders something brand new about the universe while watching a belligerent idiot snore facedown on a stained mattress.

Can fate defend itself?

Caleb makes sure what he's about to do will look like a freak accident. It's just something that happens to a drunkard who no one will miss anyway.

It turns out it's easy to sever the very thread of fate that he always admired as a kid. In fact, he's a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony. There's no bolt of lightning striking him down, no divine intervention or a voice booming from above in anger of what Caleb has taken into his own hands.

Fate is weak and pathetic as it tries to resist its new order from a power more determined than a fickle thing like the universe. It bleeds and whimpers before the last rush of air leaves its lungs.

Caleb stares down at the broken thread, now unattached from the man you were never meant to meet.

It feels like a stupid thought now, but he knows he has to attach it to himself. He doesn't believe in its power anymore, but you might. You might feel its loss if it decays, the same way he's seen remnants of other people's bonds that ended when their lovers passed away too soon. Besides, he wants there to be no question that there is an unshakeable bond between you two—even if you can't see it for yourself.

Caleb works quickly, tying a knot around his left wrist a bit too tightly, like he's scared it might come undone if he isn't meticulous enough. Some strange bit of life still left in the thread resists him at first, stubbornly recoiling from the wrongness of what just transpired. But familiarity is a powerful thing. He has already watched you, memorized you, and diligently shaped his life around the edges of yours. He makes fate recognize effort now.

It stings for a few minutes, feeling like forcing a shape into the wrong space. Fortunately, his lack of a thread becomes an advantage. There is nothing to conflict, nothing to reject the intrusion other than your own thread trying to hold onto something irrelevant.

And after a few heart-pounding moments, the knot finally holds—and your thread stills. Caleb exhales for the first time in minutes. He leaves the unmoving body on the dirty mattress, smiling when he thinks of the next time he'll see you with a strengthened bond.

Your neighbor—and new best friend—is the sweetest man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You never thought you'd find someone like him in this day and age. A true gentleman, he makes you feel seen in a way that feels inevitable. Like he was always waiting for you to run into him on a busy day at your favorite café.

Lately, you've been unable to stop yourself from flirting with danger. And it really is a dangerous thing to fall in love with a neighbor. If things don't work out, then you'll have to bump into an ex every day just to go in and out of your apartment.

But if the only dangerous thing about wanting a man like Caleb is the possibility of a constant heartache, then you'll take your chances. Besides, your chest already tightens painfully every time he smiles at you. Your heart really does skip a beat when he laughs at your jokes, or hugs you when you're sad, or when his hands wander just a bit while he cuddles up beside you on your couch.

Caleb is different than any men you've ever met. He's better. Maybe he's the best you might ever get. And you're not going to let someone else snatch him up.

That's precisely why you've already put so much faith in him. Someone as gentle as Caleb could never hurt a fly, so you happily gave him a key to your apartment for emergencies. You let him come over even when you're looking like a mess after tiring days at work. You even fall asleep on him sometimes, so trusting that he would always protect you even in your most vulnerable states.

His easygoing charm and innocent puppy-like eyes make your heart beat only for him. But you're also a bit annoyed; no matter how much his touch might wander at times, he always holds himself back.

You've tried baiting him with shorts that "accidentally" ride up a bit between your thighs when you bend down in front of him. You've even let your hands trail his chest and abs while watching movies beside him.

It takes all your willpower not to jump him right then and there the moment your fingertips trace the quivering lines of his lower stomach. His breathing always turns heavier with cute little gasps of air when you touch him. But still, he doesn't take things further.

It's for this reason that you decide to take a leap of faith and ask him on a date. You're not usually this bold with your crushes, but something about Caleb makes you want to be brave. When the two of you meet up at your usual café for lunch, you take advantage of a quiet moment.

"Caleb?" you say, trying to keep your voice steady as he looks up at you over the rim of his coffee mug.

He sets the cup down, giving you his full attention like he always does. You stammer for a second, and he smirks, as if he can guess what you're about to say. That cockiness is what makes you turn a nervous question into a headstrong declaration.

"I want to go out on a date with you."

Immediately, you feel a bit stupid for the phrasing and the way you looked at him like he had no say in the matter. But Caleb—always the type to play along with your every whim—smiles, his dimples making you swoon a bit. You notice a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it's too fast to put to words.

"You do?" he asks with a chuckle, far too calm when you're over here sweating buckets and waiting for a proper response. "Well, I could never say no to you."

The warmth that spreads through you is immediate and dizzying. You laugh in relief, feeling ridiculous for ever doubting yourself or his feelings for you. Caleb wipes away any residual doubt the second he gets up from his chair and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

He promises to plan everything for your date, even though you were the one who asked him out. The next weekend, he meets you at your apartment promptly on time, with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small box of treats from that dessert place you love visiting.

Everything is perfect and effortless. Even more so than how it usually feels being by his side. He picks a restaurant you mentioned wanting to try weeks ago—one you hadn't expected him to remember. He holds doors open for you, rests his hand lightly at your back while leading you to the table, and looks at you like you're the only person in the room.

As always, conversation with Caleb flows easily. Since you've known him, he's always been able to guess what's on your mind, what might be bothering you or making you nervous. It's uncanny just how much he can stay in sync with you, as easily as breathing.

But this time, there's something just a bit different about your dynamic. Something charged with a heightened tension.

When your fingers reach across the table to brush against his hand, he doesn't pull away or avoid eye contact. He looks at you like what you've just done has sealed something he's been waiting to finalize for a long time.

It should scare you, that dark look in his eyes. Because for a second, he looks a bit unrecognizable. But all you feel is a sensation like something clicking into place.

You intertwine your fingers with his and ask, "Do you believe in soulmates?"

For the first time since you've met him, Caleb looks surprised. Nothing ever catches him off guard. Yet somehow, this simple question does the trick.

Wondering if maybe your question was a bit embarrassing, you backtrack. "I know it sounds silly. But—"

"Yes," he interrupts with a whisper. "I mean…I'm not sure if I did before meetin' you." His thumb rubs your knuckles back and forth as he holds your hand just a bit tighter. "But now I know."

If it was anyone else, you might have been amused by how cheesy his words are. But when Caleb is the one saying them—so earnestly, too—all you feel is a rush of heat through your body.

The rest of the date happens in a bit of a blur. Both of you can't seem to keep your hands off each other, even opting to skip dessert if it means getting back home quicker.

You really aren't the type to invite a first date inside your home, no matter how well the night goes. This time it's different because it's Caleb, the man you've already shared so much with. He's been inside your home before. He's seen you in every way but one. And you're desperate to show him that missing piece now.

As soon as you unlock your door, you push him inside, all pretense forgotten the moment your shoes and coats come off. You crash into him, feverish kisses stealing his breath away as he chuckles between them. You don't care how eager you seem, you just want his lips on yours.

Using his tie as a leash, you tug him backwards with you, blindly stumbling to your bedroom. But even when you think you might bump into a wall, Caleb redirects you with his eyes closed, like he's memorized the route you need to take without so much as parting from your lips. If you weren't getting drunk off his kisses, maybe alarm bells would ring in your mind—you've never taken him to your bedroom before now.

Nothing matters anyway. Nothing except getting him out of these stupid clothes and showing him just how much you've wanted him all night. When Caleb gently pulls you down onto your bed, you move with more roughness, your frenzied kisses pausing so you can shove him to sit back against the headboard and straddle his lap.

His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he lets you manhandle him. The realization makes your stomach flutter. Testing the waters further, you use his shoulders as leverage before grinding down on him. Caleb's hands fly to your hips with a gasp, but he doesn't control your movements. He just lets you rock at your own pace, basking in the weight of your core rubbing against his clothed erection.

His compliance encourages you, making you needy for leaving more kisses along his Adam's apple and neck. He moans for you while his hips buck instinctively beneath yours, and it makes another flood of arousal pool between your thighs.

"Mm, is this okay?" you mumble against his skin while grinding with more pressure, desperately chasing friction.

His fingers tighten on your waist, but he still doesn't stop you. "Y-you can use me however you want, baby," he replies through another breathy moan. "I'm yours. All yours."

How did you get so lucky, you wonder before biting down on his neck. You make sure to suck a mark worthy of being on someone who gives himself to you so eagerly. It's the least you can do for how sweetly he whimpers and claws at your hips while you hump him until you're nearly coming on his lap.

In the midst of your greed, you've undone his tie and ripped a few of the buttons on his shirt, making room for more licks and bites. When you lean back to look at your handiwork, both of you are panting, not nearly satisfied yet but needing a moment to catch your breath. And your sweet friend, no, boyfriend now, looks at you like he's ready to worship you.

He slides one hand up your body, taking his time to feel every curve until his fingers gently wrap around your left wrist. He holds his breath and glances at you with hesitation, like touching your arm is a sin.

It's cute how even after your frenzied touches and kisses, he acts like he still needs permission to reciprocate them. You nod, and then he carefully lifts your hand to his trembling lips before kissing the inside of your wrist.

The gesture seems deeper than you can understand, especially with the way he keeps glancing at you as if you know its hidden meaning. But you're lost for words, only feeling that aching throb between your legs and needing him to soothe it. He notices your confused expression but presses another kiss to your hammering pulse before smiling up at you.

"Let me take care of you now," he says, tugging you by the wrist to reposition you beneath him.

It's your turn to be maneuvered, and you let him. He kisses down your body, fingers still tickling that wrist he seems fixated on before he pins it to the mattress.

The two of you pull at each other's disheveled clothes until you're both bare. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lower belly as Caleb continues showering you in love. But before you can feel it inside you, he seems to have other plans.

His kisses travel across your chest, against stiffened nipples, along the softness of your tummy, then finally between your thighs. When he pushes your legs apart, you shudder, feeling the cool air kiss your soaked folds a second before his warm breath does. Then he drags the flat of his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

The sound you make is obscene. Your hips jerk up before you can stop them, accidentally shoving your cunt harder against his mouth. But Caleb's only response is a needy moan, like he’s the one being pleasured, the vibration humming straight through your core.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your swollen clit as he speaks. “Let me hear you, baby. You're mine now—those sounds are mine.”

You barely have time to let the certainty of his words sink into your fluttering stomach before he dives in like a man starved. No teasing anymore. Just hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy.

It's like he knows exactly what pace to set and how much pressure his tongue should apply to make you wail for him. Could it be possible this man was sent from Heaven to satisfy all your cravings? You swear you might become religious after this.

His tongue nudges against your clit before his lips suction around it, and your back arches off the bed while you moan for him. One hand flies to his hair while your other fists the sheets, and still he doesn’t let up. If anything, the way you yank his hair only makes him moan louder against you.

There's a faint rustle of movement, and you glance down to see Caleb gently rocking against your mattress, so lost in the taste of you that he needs to hump your bed.

"Oh my god, I think I'm gonna come," you cry, feeling overwhelmed by how quickly he's able to pull this much pleasure from you. You fuck his face with more fervor now, shamelessly bucking your hips and pulling on his hair with a tightness you'll only regret after you come down from this high. "Caleb, please…need your fingers. Wanna come around them," you whine with each buck.

You peek down at him, and he's watching you with dark eyes, a scary determination in them while his hand snakes in between your legs. His fingers slide inside you with ease, curling in a rhythm that matches how he laps up your slick.

The soft smacks of his lips against your skin and the squelch of your wet pussy fill the room, mingled with your growing screams. And then you gush around his thick digits—coating his lips, chin, and palm with your orgasm. Caleb takes it all with a look of reverence on his flushed face, licking every drop you give him and gasping for air when he finally parts from your twitching body.

When he slides up your body to look at you with a satisfied grin, your pussy clenches again at the sight of his glistening mouth and pupils blown wide. He looks dazed, proud. His cock slides against your still-twitching pussy, smearing precum against the mess you already have between your legs—but he doesn’t rush you. Instead he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “More, I need more. Need you inside me.”

He exhales a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Yeah…yeah, baby. I’ve got you, don't worry.”

Reaching down, he nestles the head of his cock between your folds and then finally pushes in. It's slow, so fucking slow, but you revel in the jolt of pleasure that shoots down your body as he stretches you out cautiously. He's bigger than any man you've had before, but every thick inch slides inside easily, filling you all the way until his hips are flush with yours.

Caleb curses beneath his breath, head falling to rest against yours while he pants and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him. His eyes meet yours, locked and unable to tear away when he starts to move.

You both groan from the feeling, gripping each other tighter and starting to build up a faster rhythm. It's easy to get lost in this feeling, and you lose track of what you mumble and chant while Caleb picks up the pace. But while you struggle to keep your eyes on him, he can't stop staring.

He also can't keep his hands off you while fucking you nice and deep. His fingers toy with your nipples, rolling and pinching them to get more sounds out of you. And then they caress your stomach, pushing down slightly right above your mound to elevate the feeling of how he fills you up. You stutter and shake, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a breathless kiss.

His lips find yours again and again between thrusts, sharing his breath with you before he whispers, "Fuck, I love you."

That sentence sends your thoughts to a screeching halt, but your pussy clenches even harder around him. You should be appalled that he's saying such a thing so soon. You should reconsider this whole relationship and how quickly you've allowed it to escalate.

You should, but you don't want to. In fact, you think you love him too.

Feeling your second orgasm barreling toward you too fast, you crash your lips against his again, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving little red crescents.

“Hm, I…love you too,” you babble, after breaking the kiss. Your brain practically short-circuits with how close you are to coming. You can't stop the words spilling out of your mouth. “Love you so much. Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop—”

The second those words leave your lips, a switch seems to flip in Caleb's brain. His whole body locks up for one heartbeat, buried deep inside you, cock throbbing hard enough that you feel it pulse against your walls. Then he exhales a ragged sound against your mouth, and the slower, careful rhythm he’d been holding onto shatters. His hips snap harder, punching the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back.

“You can't take that back now,” he growls, his voice alarmingly different from the sweet, hesitant Caleb who kissed your wrist like it was sacred.

He’s moving faster, rougher, but still so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into you permanently. Your foreheads stay pressed together, making it impossible to look away from the wild, glassy look in his eyes.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he groans, like it's a fact and not a hypothetical. “I'll put a ring on this finger"—he snatches the same hand he’s been obsessed with all night and brings it to his lips to kiss the bare spot where a ring would sit—“and make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”

This is so wrong, god this is so wrong. Everything is moving so fast. You shouldn't like this. You can't tell if this is just dirty talk or something more serious, but that look in Caleb's eyes is a little terrifying.

And yet? Your cunt flutters hard around him at the words, more of your arousal gushing down and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Oh, fuuuck, that's it," he says with a manic laugh, folding your legs higher until your knees are pressed up against your sweaty chest. "I can feel how much you like this, baby. It's okay if you do," he coos. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. You’re mine—only ever gonna be mine. Say it again for me, sweetheart." His voice cracks, and it's the only thing making you refocus on his words while your ears ring from the pleasure. "Say you love me while I fill you with my cum.”

You’re beyond proper speech now, just broken whimpers and gasps, but you manage to choke out, “Love you—I love you, Caleb.”

He slams in one last time, hips grinding flush against yours, cock pulsing as he comes with a choked sob that makes your toes curl. Your pussy spasms and clamps around him, milking him dry as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Turns out you're just as crazy in love as he is. And you don't have it in you to be ashamed right now.

Caleb's counting his lucky stars that he spent all those nights watching you touch yourself through the flickering camera feeds he set up. It's what helped him learn all the ways you like to be caressed, the speed you prefer when you have a silicone cock deep inside you, and the fantasies you'd whisper to yourself when you imagined someone above you.

You won't need fantasy anymore, though. He knows everything about you. That's why he's able to make you cream on his cock over and over again, while his hips move at a speed even he didn't know he was capable of.

The gravity of this moment—of finally claiming the person he's going to keep for the rest of his life—is heady. It makes Caleb insatiable and greedy for more. More of your addicting sounds, more of your shaking orgasms, more of his cum spilling deep inside you.

More, more, more. Caleb can't stop chanting it each time you melt and rake your nails against his back and allow him to take everything from you.

You're so pretty, so perfect, all his. It goes straight to his head, and his cock, when you beg for all that he's giving you even when your body is so weak that it can't hold itself up.

You like being pushed to your limit, it seems. Right when you become too exhausted to keep your eyes open, you sleepily tell him he can keep going if he wants to. He can't help but come inside you again just from hearing your whispered permission to use you while you fall asleep.

The fact that you trust him so readily…god, he knew you were made for him. He doesn't keep you awake too long, even though his cock already throbs insistently for more of your warmth after he pulls out with a groan.

Caleb is no stranger to patience. He's glad he waited to find you. Because now he'll never let you go—and there will be many more days to spend reminding you of that if you ever forget.

No matter what happens now, you're bound to him forever. Fate made sure of it.

a/n: thank you all for the 2k celebration votes 💕 I hope I made good on our wish for more scaryleb teehee

and none of this would be possible without my ride or die @heartyluv, who constantly inspires me with her takes on scaryleb and toxic!caleb. everyone say a big thank you to her bc she let me yap about this fic to her and she beta read it for meeee, ilysm Jay 😘

Want to be added to my tag list?

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[sylxst]

bully! sylus and bully! caleb make you squirt during lecture

tags: dubcon, fingering, public foreplay, forced squirting, petnames very brief mention of daddy, sylus + caleb are ragebaiting besties,

“Saved us a seat eh? How nice of you pipsqueak."

Sylus and Caleb unceremoniously enter lecture hall. They stalk down the row heading straight to you. They invade your space with a certain level of ease at the back of the hall where attendance is sparse. It's the last three rows occupied by the people who will disappear like they were never there before the semester is over. No one pays any attention to Sylus or Caleb as they make themselves at home beside you, removing your personal items to retire them to the floor.

Sylus on your left, Caleb on your right. Their knees widen to manspread over you, pushing your legs together with their knees.

“Wasn’t saving them for you..” You mumble as a weak offense fidgeting.

Caleb leans forward with an ear pointed in your direction like you're a kid that said a very nasty word.

“What was that?”

He spares you a look with it too, one that tells you nothing you say would make a difference. So you say nothing.

Like a hit of static, you jolt when fingers graze your calf muscle. It’s Sylus hiking up the tiny desk to have it rest above your thighs.

“Class is about to start soon kitten, get your stuff out” He suggests with one of his I know what you are smiles, “You didn’t do so great last exam remember?”

The worst part of it all is that you're all alone in your poor performance. You saw their grades. Exam 2 from last week came out to be a 98% and 99% for them. They compared their answers, they argued, they gloated. Then they hounded you for your score and wouldn't take no for an answer. Sylus took your computer and Caleb typed in your password as if he thought about it himself. All that to reveal a whopping 69%. And yes they made sure to tease you with every joke they could think of.

“Bet you’re blaming us for that aren’t you?” Caleb says, unzipping your bag. He fishes out your tablet, “If it weren’t for these two dummies I’d be straight A student.”

He mocks your voice at a completely different octave on purpose to rile you up. To make sylus laugh because it’ll just further piss you off.

"I think she's smarter than that" Sylus defends, and something in your chest flutters as a silent betrayal. “She knows we had nothing to do with it. If we did, the numbers might’ve been flipped.”

Assholes. Both of them. You bite your frown as you avoid their line of sight.

"Poor thing" You hear sylus coo as he studies the irritation deeply settled on your mouth. They both stare into your eyes that look ahead to watch the Professor set up his computer.

Sylus comes close, lays a thick meaty arm along the back of your seat like you’re his. You're instantly consumed by the crisp scent of leather, the kind of scent that hints a good looking man is nearby.

No one notices the way he gets really close to where you retreat by leaning the other way. Towards Caleb.

"Lucky for you, you have the two top performing students at your disposal" he promises and his smile is so kind it startles you, "S no need to look so pouty, you'll get wrinkles."

"You leave us with no choice” Caleb adds with a shrug, “You’re GPA's gonna tank without our help."

His knee knocks into yours, "Man pipsqueak..where would you be without us?"

A thousand of responses that you’d never say generate in your brain. Something about if it wasn't for caleb constantly distracting you, you'd be able to take notes. Maybe you would've made a friend or two instead of sylus scaring everyone off.

You definitely would no longer dread entering the lecture hall or start sweating the moment you sit down, waiting for the chaos to arrive.

The room lights up with the neutral color of the professor's slideshow. Big and small black font spell out on the massive projector in front and on the two side screens. The professor’s voice fills the room and he's the type of lecturer that never idles. He goes straight into the lesson after a basic greeting.

"Good afternoon. Is everyone alright? Yes? Good. Let's continue where we left off…"

At the same time you feel another touch on the side of your kneecap. It's Caleb tracing a knuckle in a straight line over the side of your thigh. Instantly, you regret wearing a skirt today.

“Interesting choice of outfit today pips” He comments and it’s dry. His cheek lays in his hand that’s propped up, “you notice that too right Sylus?”

“I’m not blind” He responds like a deep purr. “She has a great body”

You swallow at that, the emphasis and the implications of it. He makes you sound like a meal, and you’re tensing up below your skirt.

“Why wouldn’t she want to show that off?” He questions

You decide to distract yourself with your tablet, downloading the slideshow as they blatantly talk about you. You try to make yourself feel like a real student despite everyone around you doing the opposite.

Caleb’s touch doesn’t depart from your knee, in fact it rises, but you’re only glad they're not messing with your tablet like last class. Caleb trying to get into your hidden photos, Sylus creeping through your search history.

“But during the winter though? Nah" Caleb counters and Sylus hums like he makes a good point, " Pips gonna catch a cold.”

You sharply inhale through your nose when you feel his knuckle expand to a full hand, big and warm smoothing over the fat of your thigh. He coasts over you like a new car, shifting your skirt with the graze of his fingers. You know he catches the way your muscle firms when you squeeze.

Somehow they’ve found a new way to amp up their antics, and to your horror it works effortlessly.

You grip your pen and write down a word from the presentation. Just a single word, and you attempt to direct your brain to the concept as Sylus's voice drops into dangerous territory.

“Maybe we should keep her warm then”

By the middle of class your pencil is down and your tablet is asleep.

You’ve long abandoned the intellectual journey of electromagnetism. The professor and the rest of the class leave you stranded while you feel as though you're slipping back and forth from reality.

It's hard to remember that you're still in a lecture hall and there's people around. That the hall is quiet except for the professor. You can even hear the rumble of someone's stomach in the near distance.

And yet caleb whispers, and it's a mockery of a inquisitive tone.

“Hey Sylus.." He asks slowly, "What’s that noise?”

You’ve got an elbow on the side desk to bury your mouth into your palm. It helps to stifle the sounds they pull out of you with every flex of their thick fingers rubbing deeply inside your pussy.

Sylus whispers back to Caleb at your left,

“Not sure..” He goes just as taunting, and you feel the long stretch of his middle finger. It curls like it's sweet to press deep. The ice silver of his ring kisses your hole smeared in your arousal that they use to their advantage. The same ring that costs the amount as your tuition without aid, rubs your slit at his finger settles in. Your cunt drools exactly how your mouth does in your palm.

Sylus’s voice is a low hum, “Sounds familiar though doesn't it?”

He thinks aloud, and the two grin like they exchange words telepathically.

There’s another timid squelch..! as they push, “It kinda sounds like somethin' really wet" Caleb ponders,

The girl sitting in the row ahead, three seats down glances over. Her face reflects her doubt, surely she didn't hear that right?

Sylus and Caleb don't stop (why would they?). They ride out your frightful squeeze inside that pulls them in like quicksand, and don't say anything until her head turns back to her game. You feel them quiver with internal laughter as you try to recover from the humiliation.

"Huh. I wonder what could that be?" Sylus whispers

Caleb hums like he’s stumped too, and you want to tell the both of them to shut the fuck up but you don't.

“You hear that too, right pips?” Caleb asks you

Duh and you’re dizzy about it. It’s absolutely ridiculous how full you feel with just two fingers. Two different sizes and heat, but they're both so big and too good to you. Sylus and Caleb move in perfect tandem that you can hardly believe it. Knuckles sticky with your juices brush against each other as they fondle the feel of you dripping in their hands. It's like they just so happen to know what buttons to push, where and how to find them as they slide along where you're most sensitive. Because of that you’re body is more than willing to give them what they want even if your mind isn't. They both softly inhale as your tight gummy walls clutch around them, pressing their fingers together.

You try to keep it quiet by shutting your thighs. You shake your head as your final answer. You hear nothing but the rattle of your heart as it lubs quickly in your chest. They stifle their laughter again but fail poorly.

“Really?” Sylus sings in a melodic voice, and by the bass in his vocal cords it sounds hollow. In your peripheral you can see his crooked smile like the thought of sin, “You sure?”

His grin grows wider and more smug. He moves his finger faster than the slow aching drag they both settled on. He pumps into you earnestly, like he would if he was fucking you. It purposefully makes the noise from your cunt louder. You twitch inside again and again and squeal into your hand biting the fat of your palm.

“Don’t start lying now” Caleb murmurs lowly, honest advice and a threat wrapped in one. Alongside sylus, he's shameless and you tremble. Your thighs collapse to spread like a whore. There's another disgusting squelch! that dribbles out “Nah no way..you know exactly what that is” He says with a slow convincing nod

You shake your head in admittance, despite how it burns your face iron hot to acknowledge this highly unnecessary fact to point out. In a way it’s your last desperate attempt to get them to slow down before someone hears and says something. You want to go back to the way they were carving your insides to memory. It was their strange way of playing nice.

“You do?” Sylus says like he's mildly impressed. He's still not done with this stupid interrogation. His breath fans over the side of your face like a thirst, “That’s good. As punishment for lying, why don't tell you us? We're very curious."

You swallow, your pride keeps your lips shut. The words you know but god you can’t say it. The girl on a crossword game would hear, and saying it aloud is so stupid within a space meant for learning and not whatever this is.

It's too much and they know it, you feel them move your skirt way up. Chills roll over down your spine as cooler air kisses the mess between your thighs.

“Pipsqueak..” Caleb voice sends another sharp current to your stomach, his voice and his finger is scolding, precise and mean against your sweet spot, “Tell us what’s making all that noise.”

“It’s-” You shut your mouth and briefly inhale another moan less quiet as Sylus follows after Caleb, when one pushes in the other pulls back. Sylus even flexes his hand, the side of his thumb putting emphasis on your clit instead of the subtle teasing.

“It’s what pips?” Caleb presses, “We can't hear you”

He frowns as if you're the one way out of line. And Sylus looks so elated, eyes shining dangerously.

The embarrassment of it all makes your lips tremble like you’ll cry. They know it well and little do you know that’s one of the things about you that gets them off. You're so small compared to them, you just can't help but be so cute, so stubborn and angry. Even so, you always end up giving in.

Your head raises a little to whisper so low they hang off every word,

“It’s my pussy..”

Caleb's lips fall apart while Sylus softly inhales like you touched his cock.

“Oh is that right?” He whispers, your face further stings from the condescending tone layered in their voices,

“It’s this slutty little cunt actin’ up again huh?” Caleb bites to your ear, “Makes sense. You're leaving a mess everywhere tsk tsk..”

Sylus chuckles, “I wonder why though.. I thought you hated us kitten" He muses, "But it looks like you really” his fingers stroke your pussy with every word, “really like us. Am I right?"

You nod and it’s easier this time. There's no hesitation because despite the anxiety of getting caught (again), you really need this. They pull deep levels of pleasure from your core you’ve never experienced, even with your own toys and a dorm to yourself. All with just their fingers and you squeeze at the thought of their cocks.

But then they slow down, one after the other. They hold you right on the edge and your body settles out of relief and utter disappointment.

Sylus spares you bright eyes with an even brighter grin. He whispers against you, shaky as if he’s somehow connected to your leaking pussy, “I’ll play with your clit if you beg nicely for me.”

Caleb snorts, watching your thighs where you clench bashfully against their fingers , “Please..” you whisper and Sylus shakes his head.

“You know what I like kitten” He gives you an unimpressed look, “Say it for me.”

You find yourself rocking at their torturous speed. You try again, wiggling, and his eyes are fiery when you mewl, “Please daddy..”

You’re horrified when the two look mildly taken aback as if you suddenly spoke another language. But both of them duck their heads down as they contain a hard laugh.

Snickering, Sylus slides achingly slow out of your hole, and smears the wetness from your pussy over your clit, “Daddy huh?.. I wanted you to say my name kitten, but I guess that works too."

"B-but-"

“Knew you were a dirty girl and you just keeep provin' me right.” Caleb cuts you off, "What about me? What's my name?"

Sylus fingers twirls a point under the hood of your clit for extra incentive. He and caleb force it out of you incredibly easily, "C-caleb.." You whine, you hear hear him curse under his breathe , " 'leb-"

“Yeah that’s it” He murmurs as your hips buck into their hands. Sylus hums like you said something profound. Your eyes momentarily shut as Caleb slows to slide in another finger.

"Fuck you're gettin even wetter baby" He whispers lowly, it's rushed and the ghost of a lustful groan, "God you feel so good.”

You can't help but nod in agreement, head bowing, eyes shutting. It’s too much especially with sylus twirling over your clit, just like the way you would when you need to get off really bad. You don't have the will power to make it stop. Instead your hand holds his wrist, completely dwarfed by the utter size of him. There's something deep and strange that's emerging, and they’re the cause of it you know it. Sylus playing with your pussy and caleb fucking his fingers into you. They're both dragging something that shouldn't come out. Not here at least.

Your blood runs ice cold then searing hot from it. “wait..s..stop” your lips covered in drool, you whisper without squealing.

“What’s wrong this time?” Caleb sighs slightly vexed, staring into your face with a bone straight expression, “Don’t say you’re not enjoying this, my fingers are getting all pruny because of you”

You miss the way that girl on the crossword game flinches and goes to text her friends.

"Something's gonna c-come out" You try to say and it takes them a moment before Sylus goes, "Oh"

It triggers something inside the both of them. Makes them more eager and even more relentless. You’re completely helpless between them.

“Don’t hold back kitten” Sylus assures you again, “Make a mess for us.”

“Do it already..” Caleb murmurs at your other ear, eyes narrow, dark with possession, “Come on..make your pussy squirt in your seat”

“I can’t-please ” You writhe under his seedy gaze, and sylus who whispers your praise.

“Yes you can"

They grab your thighs to keep them spread wide before you sealed them shut. Fingernails digging into your skin persistent as they pull where you legs try to flee from them. Their persistence is enough to make you break and it comes all at once and hard.

You can barely brace yourself at the peak and caleb slides his fingers out just as a water clear wave bursts from your pussy and slides over the curve of the seat, leaving a glistening trail that drips.

“Fuck yeah..” Caleb rubs against your hole before sliding in again. Your lips form to say the words no and stop but you can’t trust yourself to keep quiet enough.

“Just a little more sweetie” Sylus says, his fingers still toying with your clit, the overstimulation makes you shake your head again no no but he shushes you softly, “Trust us, you can handle it. Besides..class isn’t quite over yet.”

[amortoru-deactivated20260523]

`ঔঌ₊⊹ former prude virgin a.k.a. firelord! zuko officially finds out how nice it is to have his wife in cowgirl | 18+

this all started when he met you, his beautiful wife-to-be/now wife.

of course, before he married you, he wasn’t a prude or anything… right?

okay, fine. he was.

zuko hates to admit it but it's true how he was such a prudish virgin before he married you. as soon as he became fire lord, he’d cringe at how the council would suggest marriage for the sole purpose of consummation.

he didn’t see the appeal due to fighting for a great majority of his life. sure, he’d like kids in the future to raise and take care of—maybe one child—but that was it.

but when he finally got betrothed to you, his friend since childhood and a “fine lady of a fine fire nation family” (as said by the council when reviewing bachelorettes/marriage candidates), and mentioned his dilemma to you, you offered to help relieve his views on sex. so you had little sessions before your wedding, specifically on foreplay.

the two of you hadn't done penetrative, saving it for the night of your wedding, but you've taught him an abundance of things: eating a woman out, how to properly receive head, how to finger, et cetera.

until the night of your wedding. and the first position you started with was; the first thing you even did…

“and this… is called cowgirl,” you murmured, pressing down on his lower stomach as you lined his cock to your dripping slit, all ready for him.

when the reception finally ended and the two of you got ready to meet at his chambers, you immediately pounced on him. the both of you agreed that you'd take control, and this position was the easiest for you to do so.

zuko's liked you since forever, but just seeing you in that pretty red lingerie did something to him; that sheer red babydoll slip with gold hardware...he felt like a pervert just wanting to rip it off you like a wrapper covering sweet candy.

he was nervous—a complete opposite of how he’s usually like. the great fire lord? terrified of losing his virginity?

"you keep looking at my breasts, my lord," you teased, tilting your head and bucking your hips as you began grinding on his aching tip.

zuko hissed. “i-i was?"

he mentally cringed. here he was, thinking that after all your lessons on making him more brazen, he'd actually get used to your flirting.

you're such a fucking tease.

"mmhm...you okay?" he breathed out shakily, nodding slowly. "okay, then..."

and the moment you sank down on him, zuko felt a bliss almost comparable to if paradise was a feeling.

and for you? the feeling was mutual.

it's true that zuko was shy and prudish when it came to sex, but that wasn't to say that he didn't have a huge dick. in fact, the day you taught him how to receive head, you had to step out for a moment to regain composure. the guy's dick was fucking huge.

not to mention his cute little attitude made him even more attractive.

you could feel how deep he was in you, how his dick was brushing against your cervix and you weren't even moving.

"'m gonna move, okay?" he nodded, groaning and how deliciously your pussy was squeezing him. you rocked your hips slowly before digging your nails on his shoulders for balance as you bounced yourself on his cock.

zuko’s eyes were on you, stuck on your expression, your breasts, the way your hips connected with his. but really, the moment his eyes laid on that cute little bump forming on your lower tummy, he lost composure.

zuko's hands grabbed at your hips roughly, causing you to gasp and then be slammed on him. "hnghhh—fuck-!"

“zu-zuko—shit—slow d-down!” you cried, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you clung to him tighter, breasts pushed against his lean chest and nails clawing at his skin, drawing blood in their wake. but he didn’t care; your cunt was too good, too intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ tight—shit—” he felt like he was out of his mind, practically rutting into you like he was in heat after getting a taste of pussy for the first time.

zuko grabbed at your ass, his hips beginning to piston into your sopping cunt and feeling your muffled whines against his flushed neck.

were you crying? shit, he was too but you?

if this was how sex was, how this specific position was… he wouldn’t mind doing it forever.

now all zuko can think about at that moment was how he'd love to have you like that any time, anywhere…

clearly, you've taught him well.

.

.

.

i need this man biblically and this is the result. #letsnottalkaboutthefactthiswasdoneinhalfanhourandathought

i really wanna make a fic where he’s like this but i need an excuse to… i’m a proud #loservirgin zuko truther anyways

[sakunai]

italian-american ! jason as your boyfie. pairing ! jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 1.2k warnings ! fluff to smut. nasty cunnilingus, reader!orgasm, shitty italian. 🗒️ me and my thing about italian american men in media, pls restrain me also if any native italian speaker comes across this i am sorry i only know my catholic hymns in italian 😬

art creds : @/stefphe

now playing ! teach me tiger — april stevens 🎧

italian-american! bf jason whose mom was sicilian. he grew up watching her straighten her hair dead and bleach it blonde, all the while she would scold him with a ma che fai or a non dire cavolate whenever he was acting out with the other punks in their neighborhood.

italian-american! bf jason who still utters little sicilian words and phrases every now and then, barely noticing when he stubs his toe and lets out a madonna that sounds like marone, and carries over this habit to the way he pronounces certain words — coffee starts to sound like caw-fee when he’s tired, mozzarella is mootz-a-rell when he’s hovering behind you in the kitchen and dictating the steps to his favorite recipes.

italian-american! bf jason who you never get tired of hearing speak. the way he talks is so old world, something completely new but a perfect amalgamation of the lilted ease that is so upper east side — park row by way of little italy type diction and that cool, ever-charming cadence of bristol county, which makes him sound like a mediterranean bruce wayne half the time.

italian-american! bf jason who calls you amore, ragazza cara, bambolina, and most times bambina, other times only bambi. nothing truly makes him relax more than when he comes home to you, shoulders heavy and tense from a world of noise and violence where he can wrap his arms around your middle and burrow his nose into the crook of your neck with a soft grumble of, “missed you, bambina.”

italian-american! bf jason who tans so easily. nothing is more attractive than watching him run around outside in the summer with the kids who live on your block. he plays soccer — or maybe bocce — on hot asphalt streets flooded from water hydrants while tiny fists cheer him on and he laughs carelessly, the sun kissing the chub of his cheeks and his thick biceps. he comes home to you later, his skin warm all over and browned like a million kisses.

italian-american! bf jason who is a community man above all else. people adore him, he keeps it tight knit. watching him go from little italy to crime alley to the bowery is like watching the city’s prince go on tour. the deli a whole train ride over knows his and yours regular order. he hosts a bi-weekly book club over at the community center near leslie’s clinic. he drops by every now and then by the church his mom used to take him to for mass.

italian-american! bf jason who makes your jaw drop when you see him for the first time in a ribbed white tank with a gold cross necklace nestled at the uppermost curve of his autopsy scar, his hair wet and nearly slicked back with that gel he uses that you like so much, and his eyes all hung low and hungry.

“you look like a greaser,” you say to him. he only grins and pulls you in by the loop of your jeans with a hushed, “c’mere, you.”

italian-american! bf jason who thought the way you stared at him all starry-eyed when he spoke just meant that you were hungry to add a new languge under your belt.

italian-american! bf jason who only now realizes just how much you like it when he speaks italian while his head is buried between your thighs.

he leaned over you, bracing himself on his his forearms planted on either side of your body. “so pretty...” he kissed your cheek, then your hairline, the line of your jaw. “say it to me, and i’ll do it for you, whatever you want.”

you trembled, arms snaking around the bulk of him, your nails scraping down his back as you pulled him down further. “kiss me,” you whispered. his bare cock twitched against your thigh and his lips grazed the corner of your mouth.

“where?”

“everywhere,” you answered.

his hands teased up your sides. “say it to me properly,” a peck to your cheek again. “baciami,” a tickle of warm breath against your collarbone. “da—” a vulgar lap of his tongue behind your ear. “—pertutto.”

“ba—” you gasped, the warmth of the tip of his tongue grazing your folds with a kitten lick had you shivering.

“keep going, doll.” he cooed. “doin’ so good.”

with a shaky breath you soldiered on. “baci—ami... hah—” you squirmed, or tried to but his palms met the back of your thighs, spreading you open and still for him. “dappertu— fuck, fuck, oh my god, jason!”

“uh huh, it’s okay... just make a fuckin’ mess for me, doll.” your thighs shook and moved to squeeze shut but a light slap from him to your searing flesh had you squealing in time with each swirl of his tongue over your pulsing clit. “show me how you look when you want it that bad... yeah, cosí?”

“c-can’t— fuck,” you cried. “wanna cum so bad, jay...”

“aspetta,” he shook his head, dissatisfied. he ground the heel of his palm just to watch you buck your hips forward in an attempt to chase it once he pulled away. “be nice, you can be nice... sweetest girl in the whole world,” jason punctuated the end of his declaration by gliding his tongue from the tip of your bud to your weeping hole, easing his tongue in and out before introducing his middle fingers to your insides.

“mi fai impazzire,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to you. his palms pushed the back of your thighs forward to fold you further and keep you open. “you drive me crazy. i could eat you up, doll... just too goddamn pretty.”

“all yours, jay,” you moaned like ecstasy was murder. “keep talking to me...”

“y’like it?” came muffled from his mouth making out with your pussy, all messy with open mouthed kisses and suckles against your heat. when he rose his head, he grinned, the swollen tip of his cock was flushed red and leaking against the sheets. “sei tutta bagnata... you really love it when i speak all foreign?”

your back arched harshly as he worked his fingers deeper into you, the sickening squelch! sound of your cunt making a mess had you keening with shame. “mhm! love it, love you—”

“don’t cum yet,” he warned.

“m’ trying— o-oh!” his thumb circled your clit as he spat a fat glob of saliva to your folds, the spit mixing with your cream and turning frothy. he curled his middle finger in a come hither motion, and cum hither you did. “i’m cumming, i’m cumming, wait—!”

“look at that, fuuuck” jason withdrew his fingers with a wet pop! your orgasm crashing over you and slick gushing from your swollen pussy in a hot rush of wetness. “minchia, che bella.... look at you, baby.” he ground the heel of his palm over your used pussy to smear the mess you made and you whined, twitching against him.

“bellissima.” he stated, grinning wolfishly. then he looked up at you, baby blues darkened with that pleasure filled haze but dimples peeking out playfully. “when’s our next class?”

italian-american! bf jason who drives you crazy.

[sweethearticism]

It's been five years since your husband passed.

"I can be him."

One year since you returned to the jujutsu world.

"If you just let me. I can be him. You can call his name. Pretend he's touching you."

Six months since 𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 started pursuing you.

The setting sun over jujutsu tech glared you down as your back pressed into the bridge's wooden beams. Was Satoru's glare in the horizon? Was his judgement in the sky? Were his chastises whispered in the wind that kissed your cheek?

His eyes were above you.

His hair tickling your forehead.

His hands on you.

His. But not his. Not your husband. Not Satoru.

Just the man who wore his skin.

Yuta shedded his a long time ago. A miscalculation. A medical horror. Returning to his body became impossible and so, he remained in the man who was once yours. Now twenty three, and all he wanted?

You.

Before you, he stood. Looming over you the way that Satoru did. Caressing your cheek the way that Satoru did.

Whispering to you the way that Satoru did.

"I have his memories," he said, thumb tracing a familiar line on your cheekbone. "I know how he touched you. I know how he loved you. I can love you the same."

He leaned closer. Diminishing both the space between you and your shame.

"We can play pretend," he promised.

The same way Satoru had promised that he would come home.

The same way you had promised him that no one else would ever hold your heart, your body, your soul.

You broke your promise.

All it took was a kiss. From lips you remembered. From a mouth that worshipped you every day of your short marriage.

Your downfall were his hands. Familiar. Once yours. The wedding ring he still wore out of reverence for his sensei.

A kiss. A touch. A memory. That's all it took.

All it took for the sheets to welcome your back. For your thighs to welcome his head. Your hands greeting white hair that you once stroked so tenderly when the world caved in on him.

Your Satoru.

Not your Satoru.

Satoru's body.

Your Satoru's body.

Between your legs. Worshipping you. As he always did. With big, scarred hands spreading you apart. With a tongue that knew every inch of you. A voice that praised you.

The same way your husband would.

"So sweet, taste so so good, sweet girl," the groan soaked into your slick. An aphrodisiac of its own. Seeping into your veins. Dizzying your mind.

"Toru," you whimpered.

Toru.

Satoru.

Your Satoru.

He's not your Satoru.

But you moaned for him as if he was.

Tugged onto his hair. Ground into his face. Whimpered his name— as if he was.

Two orgasms on his tongue alone. Yuta proved that he had committed to his sensei's memories. He knew exactly how to fuck you on the pink muscle. Where to touch. What pressure.

His thumb stroked along your slit. Tracing the quivers as his lips occupied your clit. Sucking on its pulses and worming out another devastating orgasm out of you.

Three. You came three times.

The same number Satoru worked you up to before he kissed you. Held you. Fucked you.

Yuta committed to the routine. Kissed you. Spread your thighs.

Pressed his dick to your twitching cunt.

Shushed your cries.

Held you.

Fucked you.

Your body forgot, but your mind didn't. The stretch burned and tears pricked at your eyes— but your mind keened. Slipped. Soaked in the memory of him.

Of your husband.

Of Satoru.

As Yuta's hips engraved new memories into your thighs.

As his fingers blossomed new bruises.

As his mouth kissed you with a new hunger.

Your arms hugged around his neck. Breath stuttering. Voice breaking. Every plunge of his cock stroked the fire deeper into you. Unravelling your mind into a messy heap of tears and needy.

Rough pants fanned above you. His brows pinched at the centre. One hand gripping your thigh and the other cupped beneath your head. Yuta's thrusts were as nasty as Satoru's. Deep, fast, taking you apart from the inside out.

"That's it. There you go," he huffed, white lashes fluttering. "There's my girl."

"Sat— toru," you sobbed. Because maybe crying would make it real.

Maybe it'd wake you up from this terrible nightmare.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart." His voice slipped into your ear. Clenched your heart. Squeezed your cunt as your nails raked down his back.

"Toru," you whimpered. "T-Toru, toru please. I need— I need you. I need you."

His thumb found your clit, your back bowed into the pleasure. Another sob shook from your lungs. Reaching out for him. Not Yuta. Not his body. Him.

But it was Yuta who cupped your face. With Satoru's hand.

Yuta who bottomed out. Fucked you deeper. With Satoru's cock.

Yuta who whispered to you. With Satoru's voice.

"I'm here." He lied, so sweetly.

As his hips drove faster— and faster. Grinding into all of the sweetspots that Satoru knew. That were now at his disposal.

"I'm here, I'm right here, sweetheart." He lied, so gently.

As he hugged you close. Took you higher— and higher. Perfectly choreographed to the memory he committed to.

Playing with your clit, with Satoru's fingers.

Praising you, with Satoru's words.

Kissing you, with Satoru's lips.

"I'm gonna cum," you cried, and he licked your tears away. Cradled your face. Whispered tenderly.

"Cum," eyes so blue, eyes once yours, stared deep into your soul. Deceived you with promises that had already been broken. "Cum for me. Cum for 'toru, baby. C'mon."

The heat, the need, the memories— they all rushed into a knot that snapped in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes rolled back. Body arched. Tensed.

"Satoru— t-toru. Toru, miss you. I miss you."

You sobbed his name when you came.

Clung to his shoulders.

Squeezed his cock.

But you knew.

That it wasn't him that held you.

Wasn't him that smacked his hips into yours.

Wasn't him that groaned deep, even if it was his voice.

Wasn't him that stilled, that moaned your name, that filled you to the brim and kept pumping as you shook with whimpers.

Eyes so blue. Eyes once yours.

But in your heart, you knew. Satoru was dead.

Knew that the thing wearing his skin wasn't him.

And that the only one who caressed your face, kissed you, told you that he loved you— wasn't your husband.

But Okkotsu Yuta.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised.

[reignpage]

By The Powers Vested In Me,

I Compel You To Cum

Synopsis: in which Choso's uber religious parents caught him masturbating and decided he must have been possessed by a demon. so they call on the Church for help.

experienced exorcist that you are, you're no fool. you know immediately what's really happened. but you still want to help. perhaps by reassuring poor, pent up Choso that there's absolutely nothing wrong with giving in to temptation.

especially when it feels so good.

Warnings: porn with a lil plot, dubcon - corruption kink and power imbalance, bondage, reader is a nun, mentions of Choso facing parental abuse (controlling behaviour, socially stunting him, drugging him, shaming him, forcing religious beliefs/practices on him etc.), heavy on breastfeeding, femdom, masochist!choso, sub!choso, whimpery Choso, virgin!choso, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus/face sitting, blowjob, 69, dacryphilia, face slapping, pussyjob, cowgirl, missionary, mating press, creampie/unprotected sex, belly bulging, briefest rimming, squirting, sacrilegious and offensive I already know — christians beware, Choso fanart by @mochikuyo on X, not proofread Word Count: 9.4k

“Thank you so much for coming, Sister,” a trembling mother says as you step into her home. She cowers beside her husband, who looks pale and stricken with fear.  

You cast your gaze around the interior of the house. In many ways, it’s just as it looks outside: pristinely kept, neatly arranged, flawless. From the perfect hedges to the carefully polished floors, the thoughtfully positioned paintings and books on shelves, it’s clear everything has been tended to with diligence bordering on obsessiveness. 

Nodding, you politely reply, “Of course. The Church takes every report of demonic possession very seriously.” 

The house isn’t silent — there’s the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house, harmonising with the low hum of appliances in the background — but it’s not full of life, as one would expect from a family with many children. 

Sons. 

Immediately putting to use your training, you try to feel for any otherworldly presence, for something dark, something insidious. 

Nothing.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean this is another false case of paranoia. 

Demons can be tricky. They can obscure themselves from the senses very well, to the point where exorcists even more experienced than you wouldn’t be able to notice them at all. They can hide in plain sight, tricking those around them with a facade of passive harmlessness. 

“Please take me to him.”

They jolt at the command, as though they hadn’t expected you, a woman much younger than them, to be so forward, so commanding. Still, they nod faithfully. 

The two of them lead you down the hallway. Closer to the pictures hanging on the walls now, you see the children mentioned in the file: most of them are older than the Afflicted (or should you say, ‘potentially’ Afflicted’), certainly past living at home. The youngest is a toddler. He must be at school at this hour, or with relatives. 

The Afflicted, on the other hand, is around your age. He should be college aged. Yet, the file states that he lives at home, has no friends, no hobbies, no reason to be out and about. Which is why his parents were so concerned; they cannot fathom where he could have come into contact with a demon. 

That’s not always how it works, you wanted to tell them in your letter correspondence; demons can come to you. But the less they know the better. It wouldn’t help anyway. Not when they’d already made their minds up about what was going on with their son.

Soon, you come face to face with a door. It’s weighed down by thirteen locks. You cock a brow at that. Clinging rings out as the husband fumbles with a busy keychain. With a glance back at you to double-check that you’re really there or to make sure that you’re sure about this, he unlocks each padlock after your confirmatory nod, undos every chain, and loosens all the bindings. 

The door swings open slowly, creaking.

“Please be careful, Sister,” the wife warns, hand reaching out to clutch your elbow. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are small compared to t-that thing. It may overpower you.”

Reassuringly, you place your hand over hers and give her a small smile. “He, Mrs. Kamo.” She blinks. You clarify, “Not ‘thing.’ Not ‘it.’ Your son is still here. It will help to fight off evil forces, if any lingers, if you remember a pure, innocent soul remains, waiting to be saved.”

She nods frantically, pale with guilt or shame or another thing entirely. Her husband places a hand on the small of her back, just as disturbed by all of this. 

You lead the way down the stairs. 

It seems they’ve kept the ‘Afflicted’ in the cellar. If he is indeed possessed, that would have been a good decision — having a vessel freely walking about, when there is a child around, is dangerous. If he is not…

Well.

The bulb above you flickers, buzzing. 

Only when your feet touch the floor do you finally see him. 

A man lying on the bed, fully clothed, with his limbs spread and bound to the bed posts. Lazily, his eyes drag to the staircase, expecting his parents, but not you. He stiffens. 

“A nun?” he says, frowning. “You brought a nun?”

Mr. Kamo snaps, “You do not speak to us, demon!”

The metal restraints clink and clang as he tries to sit up, to no avail. He just groans, banging his head against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. “For the last time, I’m not possessed.”

“That is for me to ascertain,” you say, looking around. “Choso, yes?”

He huffs an affirmative. “Look, Sister, I’m sorry my parents made you come all the way here, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not possessed. I’m fine. Truly.”

You smile at him when your gazes meet. Something flashes in his eyes before he looks away, clearing his throat. Sweetly, you reply, “Even if you aren’t possessed, it is clear you need help. And as a son of our Heavenly Father and a member of our Church, it is my duty to see to it that you get everything you need to continue living a life of faith.”

Your words make him grimace. 

It seems the files are accurate, at least pertaining to one thing: he is not a believer.

The cellar smells faintly of damp concrete and something sharper beneath it. Sweat, maybe, or nerves left too long to settle. The space itself is sparse. A large bed which he lies on, a small table pushed to the side, a bare bulb overhead casting uneven light that leaves corners in shadow, and a thin blanket that covers most of his body.

Setting your bag down on the table, you move with practiced efficiency. 

One by one, you take out what you need — candles placed at intervals, a small vial of holy water, a worn book whose spine has seen years of use. A match strikes. Flame flickers to life. Then another. Warm light begins to bloom across the room, softening its harsh edges. 

A sweet, herbal scent wafts into the air. It overtakes the damp smell. 

“I’m not possessed,” Choso reminds you, frowning harder. He’s watching your every move.

“Silence, demon!” his mother snaps. She turns to you. “Please, can you do something? His evil influence is spreading to his brother; no longer wants to go to church or pray. Soon they’ll take control of the household!”

The file mentioned those symptoms: refusal to partake in prayer, reluctance to attend mass, marking his face and violating God’s temple, disrespect shown to mother and father e.g. talking back and questioning their orders. 

It’s obvious from the file alone that he’s simply being rebellious. Thinking for himself, and choosing to disassociate from a religion, a community, that’s never brought him joy. From their witness reports, it seems like he hadn’t even done any harm. Not harm commonly associated with demonic activity anyway. 

Choso merely displeased them.

You know what kind of people his parents are. Judgmental, controlling, misusing the word of God to spread fear, to subjugate, and showing no kindness in their actions. You see them every day. They come in different shapes, yet their spirit remains the same; damned. 

To have lived under their roof all of his life, to have felt the suffocation, the misery…

It must have been Hell on Earth.

Telling them he is not possessed would not suffice. They already made their minds up. In many ways, you were invited for them, not for their son. But you came for him. And, under your guidance, he will come for you. 

That is what it means to be a servant of God.

“Let us see, shall we?” you say. You open the lid to the vial and spray his body. Most land on his face. 

He hisses.

“See!” both parents yell, hugging each other tightly and backing away from the bed. “Demon!”

Choso grumbles, “It was cold.” 

Biting back a smile, you turn to the two and inform them, “You are right. He is possessed. It appears to be a Grade B demon. Nothing I cannot handle, but certainly not something you can face. So I urge you to leave the house. Go to a neighbour’s. Pray. I will call for you when I am done.”

Their son makes a noise. “What? No. I’m not possessed!”

His voice cracks with indignation, cheeks flushed deep with embarrassment, eyes darting between you and his parents as though searching for someone — anyone — to side with him.

“He lies,” you confirm, urging them out of the room. Then, making a show of praying, you look up and say, “Forgive him, Father. He is not himself.”

Mrs. Kamo nods enthusiastically, shoulders dropping in relief at being proven right as she lets you usher them both out. “Yes, thank you, Sister. Please, save our son. Bring him back to us.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take very good care of him.”

Your word is law; they cannot and will not argue with a Divine Servant. Their footsteps fade gradually, the front door creaking open and then shutting with a dull thud, followed by the faint murmur of their voices as they retreat further away, leaving the house steeped in a burdensome, expectant quiet.

Finally alone, you return to the cellar and face Choso, who looks less than pleased with you. 

“I’m not possessed,” he repeats, huffing in frustration. “I’m not possessed and you know it.”

Choso Kamo is a handsome young man in a way not many in this town are — lean yet not gangly, tall, exuding a darker energy to him what his brooding exterior and unimpressed eyes. Most of the men his age are pimply, clumsy, arrogant. He’s calmer and simultaneously clearly with a penchant for getting carried away and too excited. 

This’ll be a fun one, you think to yourself.

You come to sit on the bed, right by his hip. He stills and grows even more so, if it was possible, when you pull the blanket off his body. “No, Choso, you’re not possessed. But you’re also not well. A powerful force has taken over you, blinded you, taken you deeper into the dark. But I’m here now. I will save you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he grits out, growing more and more tired by the constant need to repeat the truth.

Tenderly, you say, “Then explain why you’ve permanently marked your face.”

“It’s a form of self-expression. My body is my own,” he answers haughtily. “No one owns me. That might offend you, Sister, and for that I’m sorry. But I refuse to conform to religious conservatism. And neither should my brothers, especially Yuji.”

You smile. “That doesn’t offend me at all; I’m a firm believer in self-expression.”

Choso rattles his chains as he adjusts on the bed. “I find that hard to believe when you’re wearing a uniform.”

“Oh? You like?” 

The candles you lit waft a sugary scent in the air. It makes your mouth water. Warmer down here now, you shrug your top layer off: a shawl. It reveals your habit. Black, ironed fabric covers most of you. It’s tight around the chest and waist, falling to your ankles, with slits up your both thighs. You feel the heat of his eyes on your breasts. They zero in on the imprint of your hardened nipples. 

“See? A pure soul would not be salivating at the sight of a Sister’s breasts.”

He blanches. Then flushes. Hard. “I-uh-I wasn’t…” he stammers out. 

You hum. “It’s alright.”

Choso’s brows knit together. “It is?”

“Yes. The starved energy inside craves flesh. It craves the softness of a woman’s tits.” 

He flinches, like you’d struck him — he’s never heard anyone be so vulgar, and a nun at that. It must be befuddling him to no end.

“Yes, tits, Choso. It’s not blasphemous to say, and so I can.” Cupping your breasts, you show him how they recoil in your hold, how they pudge when you squeeze. Choso’s mouth falls open, entranced. “It is normal for you to want a woman, for you to desire my body, my tits. Natural and expected, even.”

He can’t take his eyes away from the movement of your own hands, how they dig into your own ample chest, how your nipples poke out even more and he can faintly see the shape of your areola through the thin material, and how you gasp when you graze against the buds by accident, or on purpose. 

“You don’t wear bras?” he wonders aloud, breathless. But then he shakes his head, as though he had heard how dreamy his voice sounded and it was nothing short of humiliating. “N-no. No. I’m fine. There’s no ‘dark energy.’ You’re not needed here if you won’t believe me and convince my parents to let me out of here.” It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself. He sounds so troubled too. 

Bless his heart.

“If you’re fine and free from any ailments, then explain to me why you’re pitching a tent with your cock.”

Panicked and horrified, Choso’s eyes flit down to his pants. Just as you had said, there’s a noticeable, undeniable bump at his groin. Chains rattle louder when he reflexively pulls his legs up to cover himself. He can’t. He can only lay down helplessly, vulnerable to your judging eyes. 

“I, um…I—Fuck!” he curses, beyond flushed now. He exhales through his nose. “Sorry. Please ignore it. It…It keeps happening. Ever since I stopped taking this tea my mother would give me, that keeps happening to me. It’s not a demon. I looked it up in the library. It’s puberty. It’s hormones. Urges. Biological urges.”

A hand placed on his thigh has him staring at you suspiciously. The muscles under your touch flex. You can tell he really wants to snatch his leg from you, if only because he’s unsure of what your intentions are and what the touch means. Maybe also because no woman has ever touched him there, and it’s frightening.

You nod, smiling. “Yes, you’re right. What you have is an erection. Science explains it as biological urges, yes. But we, at the Church, know it can also be caused by malignant energies.”

“It’s not anything,” he yells. Gritting his teeth, he glares up at the ceiling. “I thought you’d be different. I thought you’d see reason, despite your beliefs. I thought you would actually help me. Even just for a second, I actually believed someone would be on my side, would understand — I’m not a bad person. I’m not possessed. There’s. Nothing. Wrong. With. Me.”

Placing a hand on his chest, you firmly say, “I am on your side, Choso. I do understand. I am here to help. But we do things my way. Open your mind up. Listen and hear me out. I promise, you will soon come to see.”

He’s about to argue. You cut him off. 

Sharp nails walk up his clothed thigh, savouring their sudden tensing. His breath hitches. The moment your fingers touch his erection, his hips jerk. “W-what are you doing?”

“Cleansing you. Purifying your body. You may not be possessed, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t afflicted.”

“A-afflicted?”

The glint in your eyes has him gulping. You vaguely say, “With sin. One of the Cardinals. The worst of the worst.”

You lightly grip the chubby thing. 

“Sister!” he cries out, hips jolting and back arching. 

It’s hot. And big. One of the bigger ones you’ll be facing. Through the layers, you can feel the ridges of his cock. You palm it, watching how his eyes widen before he bites his lips. 

Oh, he must be so confused — all his life, he’s been taught pleasure is bad. Any hint of hedonism and sensuality must be condemned. Yet here you are, a representative of the Church, indulging in debauchery and convincing him it’s alright. How can he possibly tell right from left, up from down, wrong from right now?

“You were caught touching yourself, weren’t you?” you ask though it’s really not a question. “Was it your first time?”

He’s far too focused on the feeling of your hand stroking him to answer. You squeeze too tightly. Choso sucks in a sharp breath. “N-no,” he replies. “It was my, um, second. The -hah- first time, I was too scared by the sensation. I’ve never felt my…my… p-penis like this. I kept obsessing over it, and eventually tried again. I -ngh fuck!- could feel something building and building, and that’s when they caught me.”

“I see,” you hum, continuing to stroke him. “It felt good?”

Choso hesitates for a second. He’s gauging how honest he can be with you; honesty isn’t something commonly practiced in his home, obviously. But you are touching his erection through his pants so maybe you’re to be trusted. He nods. “Yes.” And despite his embarrassment, he adds, “This feels better though. You do it better. Your h-hand feels better.”

A small spot begins forming on his pants, right where his cockhead is hidden. You prod it. The chains rattle. His hips lurch.

“This is evidence of your possession,” you tell him. The glistening of the pad of your finger is all he can see after you bring it up to his face. “Taste your sin, Choso.”

Shaking his head, he tries to avoid your descending finger. “No, p-please. It’s dirty.”

“Yes, yes, it is. But if you complete this step of the ritual, then we can move on to the next, and it’ll taste so much better.”

That seems to entice him. He stops evading your finger, allowing it to rest upon his plump lips, not quite tasting just yet. Choso echoes, “Better? What tastes better?”

You grin mischievously. “Your reward.”

The slightest adjustment of your legs answers his question too — his eyes dart to the slither of skin showing, to the smoothness of your thigh. It’s a sight he’s never been allowed to see. A sight he knows instinctively he wants so badly. He knows if he ventures up your thighs, there’ll be something there waiting for him. 

It’s really a thing of wonder, how biology leads the way. 

Choso keeps staring, watching how candlelight dances on the shininess of your skin. Surrounded by boys all his life, he’s never known an adult’s skin to be so supple-looking. He only knows roughness, coarse hair, calluses, and scars. You promise so much more. 

His lips fall open, whether intentionally or absentmindedly. You dip the sullied finger inside his mouth, encouraging his tongue to reach for the droplet. 

He makes a face that can only be described as disgust when the taste registers. 

You laugh. “It’s salty, isn’t it?”

“I want my reward,” he petulantly grumbles, spitting out your finger.

Not wanting to drag it out any longer, you come to kneel on the bed.

The mattress dips beneath your weight. You cast a shadow over his body with yours. Choso observes every move you make, cautious and suspicious. He’s still not convinced that you’re on his side, that you know what you’re doing. 

Under your short guimpe, you unbutton the top part of your dress. Your breasts springs out, released from their tight constraints. 

“Oh, god,” he breathes out, shocked, appalled, and entranced in one fell swoop. 

This’ll be the first time he’s ever seen bare breasts. And up this close? 

He must be out of his mind, must have hit it on his way down as his father dragged him to the cellar.

As though something’s taken over him, his head lunges forward, attempting to latch onto a nipple. You grip his face, preventing him from making contact. “Behave. To be cleansed by a holy instrument is a blessing. A privilege. You must be patient.”

He blushes. “S-sister, forgive me. I can’t think, c-can’t seem to control myself.”

Massaging your own breasts of their aches, you moan out, “It’s alright. You simply need to give me a second to prepare my instrument.” After a couple seconds, when they’re ready, you bring a tit to his lips. “Here. Drink. My milk will begin the cleansing ritual.”

“Drink?” he repeats, surprised. He spots the opaque liquid dripping from the small holes in your areolas. “Oh, fuck. I can’t, Sister. This is too much. This is…this is bad.”

In moments of crisis, at his absolute lowest, he turns to what is familiar, even if he has never believed his parents’ teachings his entire life. He knows what his body wants, but it’s so new, so sudden, that he cannot comprehend how any of this is possible, how this could be the will of his family, of the Church, of the God you serve. 

But he needn’t worry about anything other than following your instructions. Anything beyond the confines of his cellar is none of his concern now.

Cradling his face, you coo, “I know, Choso. I know. Will you just try, for me? I made all this milk for you and it hurts. It makes my breasts ache, makes them so sore. Don’t you want to help me, to relieve me, to make me feel good?”

Choso follows the wasted droplets, which travel down the curves of your breasts and fall to the bed. He licks his lips. “Help…yes…yes, I want to help. I want to make you feel good.”

“Such a good boy, thank you.” You brush his unruly, raven hair from his face. You lean closer. A nipple’s fed to his parting lips. The moment skin touches skin, he dives forward and sucks you towards him. “Ngh! Choso!”

He’s no longer listening to you — his eyes have rolled to the back of his head, lashes fluttering against your breast. The force in which he’s suckling on your tit has milk rushing out, swirling in his mouth for only a second before they travel down his throat and sink to his stomach where warmth pools. 

Moans after moans mingle together. It feels good. Really good. A mix of relief with exhiliration from his flicking tongue. 

This may be his first time sucking on a woman’s breast in his adulthood, but he’s basically a pro. 

Your hand returns to his clothed cock. 

He grunts, the vibrations piercing your chest and whirring down to your core. 

The small damp spot has grown. Shlick! Shlick! noises resound as you stroke him again. His cock throbs in your grasp in time with the waves of milk oozing out onto his tongue.

“We need to -hngh good, such a good boy- n-need to drain the sin from you,” you tell him. “My milk will purify you from the inside, but you need to be empty. We’ll work hard together, yes, Choso?”

“Mmm,” he hums, not quite processing your words. 

Choso’s hands fight against his restraints; he yearns to touch your breasts, to knead the flesh, to squeeze out more milk, to feel even more of you. It’s driving him wild. 

Juices soak the inside of your thighs, leaving a sticky mess. 

To know that his parents are in the next house — worried sick for their son but trusting you to deliver him to salvation, none the wiser that your pussy’s fluttering in anticipation for the devious ways you were going to put their son through it — has you resisting the urge to just take him right here, right now. To hell with the proper means of purification.

This is truly the best part of your job; misusing lost, confused individuals for your own excitement. 

Your body is for pleasure. That is how you will save humanity from sin, by absorbing all of the dark energy with your cunt, by taking the brunt of their frustrations, and feeding your body the salty ploughing of cocks and pussies in dire need of your holy guidance.

There is no greater Church, no greater sisterhood, no greater cause. 

Unable to take it anymore, you pull away from Choso. 

A whine leaves his lips. “No, Sister, please!” 

Milk drips down his chin, leaving his skin and lips glistening. He cranes to take your breast back into his mouth. The chains don’t let him. He moans, head banging against his pillows. His hips are chasing your hand too, throbbing pushing the material of his pants to their limit as his cock bobs uselessly.

“Oh, Choso,” you mewl, tongue licking over your sharp teeth, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

That’s all the warning he gets before his vision is completely obscured by the black of your habit and the shadow of the apex of your thighs. His surprised groans are muffled by your cunt, which you rub all over his face, smearing the wetness everywhere. 

“Sister,” he moans, tongue immediately slithering all over your pussy — through your slit, over your asshole, prodding your clit, wriggling inside your entrance. “Your smell…your taste…your warmth…I think I might pass out.”

Over his shirt, your fingers flick and pinch his nipples. His back arches. “No, Choso. It’s far too early to be tapping out. There’s still so much to do. Be a good boy and hang in there, alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be good. Mm, I’ll be so good,” he mumbles. As you rock your hips against his face, giving him reprieve to breathe here and there, he desperately says, “Tell me what to do. I-I’ve never done this before. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, please!”

You play with your own tits, spreading the milk over your skin. “Drink. Drink my holy water, Choso. Allow me to cleanse your body with my pussy’s juices.”

Your body’s getting hotter and hotter by the second. His breath’s fanning over your sensitive folds, tickling you. It didn’t even take a beat for him to follow your orders so diligently; he’s sipping your juices eagerly and enthusiastically. You squeal, pleased. 

“Do it, Choso! Lick my pussy!”

His tongue swipes through your soaked, puffy folds, gathering as much of your wetness as he can before he gluttonously swallows. With animalistic ferocity, he feasts on your overflowing juices. Sloppy slurrrrrrpsss! and squeeeeelccch!! reverberate. He’s downright drowning in your taste, in the sweetness and tang, and he can’t get enough — you can see how his tied up hands reach for you, uncaring of the metal digging into his raw skin.

“Ngh! You’re so good at this,” you moan out, riding his face. “If only the others could see you like this, could see how devoted you are to serving God. They’d understand. They’d see. They’d be moved to heavenly pleasure too!”

Choso thrusts his long tongue inside you, scooping out your juices. He probably can’t breathe. He definitely doesn’t care.

Squeezing your tits and imagining it’s his, and Father Nanami’s, digging their fingers in the fat mounds, you hop on his tongue. He’s got a sinful tongue, more so than even Lucifer himself. It wriggles against your spongy walls, curling against a spot he doesn’t realise is deliriously pleasurable for you. He only knows that it’s making your juices flood his face. They flow down his neck, soaking into the sheets. 

“My clit, Choso. Suck my clit,” you beg. He pauses, unsure of what you mean. “The small button here,” you say, grinding your cunt on his nose. You tap the bundle of nerves on the tip of his nose. “Suck here, Choso.”

“More juices will come?” he asks, breathless and sounding so innocent, one would think what you were doing was simply Bible study.

With a hum, you answer, “Yes, baby. So much more juices will come.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Choso wraps his lips around your clit, sucking intently. Your eyes widen. Your back arches into an unnatural bend. Your thighs clamp around his head. “Yes!” you cry out. “Yes! So, so good! Oh, your sinful tongue is driving me insane.”

You bend forward, hurriedly ripping his pants and underwear away with your sharp nails. His long, hard cock springs out. It’s so swollen it looks like it’ll burst with the slightest brush of the wind. The cockhead is so flushed it’s purple, and covered with a sheen of pearlescent cream. 

He already came in his pants.

Yet his cock is raring to go again. 

Good, you think.

Salty, swampy air fills your nose when you press your face to it. His sweat. His cum. His musk. It all shoots straight up to your brain. Your tongue lolls out. 

It’s the prettiest, most delicious looking cock you’ve ever seen. So delectably thick and girthy. It keeps bobbing towards you, booping your nose with its slick tip and leaving a dollop of cum there. 

“W-what are you doing?” he asks again, voice muffled by your cunt. 

Always so edge.

“I’m gonna suck out all the impurities.”

Choso makes an embarrassed sound. “But it’s dirty there, Sister.”

“Then allow me to clean it up with my tongue,” you say. Planting a kiss on the bulbous head, you open your mouth as wide as you can and take as much of him into your mouth as possible. 

“Sister!” he gasps. Beneath you, Choso trembles. His body’s straining against his restraints. His reflexes urge him to grab you, to take control, to wildly thrust in your mouth. But he can’t do anything more than lie here and take whatever you want to give him.

His cock is stretching your jaw to the point of soreness. You persist.

The fullness, the taste, the challenge — you want more. Greedily, you gobble his cock down your throat, reaching the base with experienced ease. You gag, throat clenching around his length. 

“Oh, Sister! It feels so good. Your mouth is -fuck!- so heavenly! Oh, god. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Hot cum explodes. 

Choso cries out.

He came so quickly, not that you’re very shocked; it’s his first proper time, after all, and his cock was already so sensitive after he had his accident in his pants from eating you out. You swallow it all, every drop, every spurt. It warms your mouth and throat, settling in your chest. The saltiness stings your throat and your eyes in the very best ways. It’s years of cum that’s been stored in his heavy balls, finally released. 

Spasms wrack his body. The chains rattle so loudly, causing the wood of the bedposts to creak.

Through it all, you keep sucking on his cockhead and tugging on his cock, making sure to get every bit out. 

“What was that?” he asks, so terrified of the phenomenon he’d just experienced.

“An orgasm, Choso. You came. It’s the peak of pleasure, the height of sin, and the purpose of sex. A gift from God. Be grateful.”

At the mention of God, Choso says, sentence punctuated by a sob: “T-this is wrong,” “We shouldn’t do this. I understand now I was wrong, so please, Sister, have mercy!”

The poor thing’s crying. He’s overwhelmed with the religious guilt washing over him. It’s a lot for him to take at once. Perhaps you shouldn’t have started in this position. It’s too late for regrets, however. You simply need to distract him now. 

“Shh, Choso. It’s okay. Trust in me. You are safe.” Rubbing your cunt on his lips, you muffle his cries. The taste of you which seeps onto his tongue halts his tears. As if remembering where he is and what he’s got right in front of him, he hesitantly licks your cunt again. “Thaaaat’s it. Good Choso.”

“You’re so -hah hah- sweet, Sister,” he murmurs between gulps of your wetness. 

“As is God’s will,” you say, shaking your hips. “Just like it’s his will for you to submit to me, Choso. Be not afraid. Listen only to me and your desire. Let it flow out of you. Then and only then will you be saved.”

Desire renewed, he resumes eating your pussy. Hungrily. Like a man absolutely parched. 

Quickly, he builds a rhythm back up — furiously assaulting your cunt with his wet tongue. You moan in time with his monstrous growls. He’s relentless, driven by his need to quell years of repression. “So sweet,” he gasps out in between beastly laps of your cunt. “So, so sweet.”

He slurrrrrrppss! on your clit until your orgasm splashes onto his face. 

“Fuck, Choso!” you squeal. “Yessssssss!”

The man hardly seems to notice you’ve orgasmed. Or perhaps he doesn’t recognise what a woman’s full-body spasms and stuttering hips mean. Your cunt’s swollen and on fire. You crawl away, biting back a smile knowing that the snarl that pierces the air is because he’s not done with your pussy. 

And you’re not done with him either. 

Maneuvering yourself around, you face him. 

Hair a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat and slick. Skin flushed under his face markings. Choso’s face is slippery with your juices. He doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are blown out and glazed over. Despite that, he’s honed in on your tits, which heave with your panting. They’re shiny with your milk too. The two of you are positively soaked. 

“W-what’s the next step, Sister?” he asks, voice deepening to something unrecognisable. Guttural. 

You straddle his hips, lifting your habit to show him how your pussy sandwiches his pulsating length. Choso’s hips rise to meet yours, hissing. You say, “You must give in. You must accept God.”

Choso whines, hips chasing the slow grinding of your cunt on his cock. “I can’t. I don’t believe in it, in Him.”

Stabilising yourself on his chest, you hump his cock mindlessly. It’s so stiff, so hot, and rubbing against your clit perfectly with the prominent veins climbing up his length and the bulbous head. “You will,” you tell him. “If you want to -mm- feel what it’s like to be snug -hah- inside my cunt, to be c-cleansed in and out, to be rid of -ngh!- to be rid of sin and free from your parents' control, you will accept Him.”

He tries to resist. His hands grip the metal of his chains. His wrists and palms are pink — raw from his straining. “No, I can’t.”

Although as he says that, you feel him rutting up at you, stretching as high up as he can go with his legs pulled taut. Lewd, sloppy sounds reach your ears like a symphony. Pouting, you swivel your hips around his cockhead. Your clit kisses his tip, digging into the small hole. 

“MmFuck!” He arches his back, and whimpers noisily. He’s panting faster and faster, throwing his head side to side.

“You can, Choso, and you will. For me?” you whine, grinding on his dick quicker and hastier. Pulling his shirt up to see more of his glorious body, you keep it tucked under his chin. “I want to feel you inside me. I want to help you. Don’t you want to join me? Don’t you want to feel good together?”

His cock spurts more cum, a lighter load than the first couple times; his balls can’t keep up with the rate that he’s emptying them. 

Jaw clenching. Sweat darkening his shirt. Veins on his arms popping. Choso writhes, growing dizzier and dizzier with the waves of his sudden orgasm. You keep grinding and grinding as though you want him to cum again so soon.

“No, please!” he sobs, tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“Aw, without me?” You drag your nails down his chest, feeling the stickiness of his cum which has painted his pale skin, splotchy with blood thrumming under the skin. “That’s not very Love Thy Neighbour of you, Choso. I’m so disappointed. You know, maybe you’re right.”

Choso blinks rapidly, tears coating his lashes. “W-what?”

“Maybe you’re right,” you repeat, hips halting. “Maybe you’re not ready to be cleansed. Maybe you’re better off. I have other cases to see; I should probably get going now, I suppose.”

When you make a move to get off him, Choso yanks on his chains so hard the wood threatens to splinter. He stammers, “N-no! No, stay! Please. I’m sorry. I’m ready. I want to be cleansed. I want to feel you. I want you to purify me. Oh god, I want it so bad. Your pussy’s so warm. You taste so good. You’re so pretty. So, so pretty. Please, I’ll be good. I accept, I accept! Do as you please with my unworthy body.”

In spite of the fact that he’s already cummed 3 times, he’s still ready for more, ready for whatever you think he’s worthy. 

What a good puppy.

You clutch him by the base, angling him to your pulsing entrance. “Oh, I will.”

And in he goes. 

The exact second that his cockhead worms itself into your gummy walls, streeeeeeetching your snug entrance, with a loud squeeeeeelchhhhh! he cums again. 

It’s instantaneous. He doesn’t even know it’s happening until your nails are digging into his abdomen and your moans are stuttering. Meanwhile, Choso’s agonised groans are interrupted by mangled blubbering. He’s barely intelligible.

Hot cum fills your pussy. It paints your insides with magma-like drippings. Juices flood out in response, addicted to the soothing burn of his heat. So much cum. Everywhere. You can taste it in the air.

“Congratulations,” you purr, cupping your leaking tits, “you just lost your virginity to me.”

His eyes have rolled to the back of his head. He’s spasming. Shuddering. Shivering. Trembling. His body is no longer his own. It’s a toy for you to work yourself down on. You force your pussy to adjust, to take all of him, inch by inch, until its cockhead is kissing your cervix and your clit is flushed to the coarse hairs at his pelvis, which are drenched in your combined slop. 

“No, no, no, please! It’s too much. I can’t take anymore. I just c-came.”

“Oh, Choso,” you mewl. “I don’t care if you came; I want to again, and I intend to, so keep yourself hard or we’re going to have problems.”

He agrees with some incomprehensible noises. Drool slips out of his mouth. You collect the wetness and rub it on your needy clit as you start bouncing on his still-hard cock. The bed creaks beneath you, wood complaining. Your claws draw long marks on his clammy skin. Goosebumps rise where you lay your claim. 

So much is happening at once. He can’t keep track. It’s like he feels you everywhere — on his face, on his tongue, on his chest, his hands, burrowing inside of him, nestling in the pit of his stomach, clutching his heart and squeezing as tight as your cunt is around his cock.

You’ve taken a lot. He’s ready to sleep, to give in to the exhaustion.

Choso’s softening. 

You growl. “No!”

SMACK!

His eyes widen. Redness blooms on his skin. 

His cock hardens to full mast quick as lightning. You moan in satisfaction, hips grinding down to swallow the growth in his girth and length. He fills you up even better like this. Perfect, you think. He’s no good to you soft. 

“Give me all -hah- your cum,” you command, the pleats of your pussy milking his cock ruthlessly. Another harsh smack! has his hips rutting up, driving him even deeper inside you. 

“Yes,” he chokes out, cheek welting. “Take it all. It’s yours. Every-ngh!-thing!”

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

He accepts each collision of your soft palm against his face with humble gratitude. Choso’s honoured you’d dirty your hand with him, delirious with the thought that the same heat spreading across his cheek is spreading across your palm, that you’re connected in divine pain, colouring each other ephemerally. You’re a Master deigning to carve him out of flesh and blood, and it’s so wondrous he thinks he’s already died and settled in a corner in Elysium.

The speed and vigour in which you’re fucking up and down on his cock rattles his chains, rocks the bed against the cement wall, and seems to shake the very foundations of the house. 

Earthshattering delight. 

Destructive, undeserving rapture.

Carnal, gluttonous excess of all the joy in the world blossoming from your transcendental pussy. 

You’re a marvellous, mind-melting Monet. A stone-turning marble statue carved by Bernini. A most cursed painting he can’t bear to look at and away from in equal measure. 

Lewd howls and grunts and shrieks pound against all the walls, no doubt seeping through to the outside. Apart from bestial sounds he doesn’t even realise he’s making, Choso’s been driven speechless. All he can hear, see, taste, smell, and feel is you. You’re driving him to heaven and back, and it’s far too much exposure to bliss than he’s worthy. 

“God, yes! Stretch my pussy out! So good, so fucking good!”

Hours must pass. Or maybe mere minutes. 

The muscles in your thighs ache, burning with the exertion. Sweat drips down your back. Your habit sticks to your skin. Your tits bounce with your body, and he can’t seem to take his eyes off them — except for when they’re rolling so far back into his head that his eyes appear perpetually white. 

Choso has been cumming over and over. His orgasms blur into one continuous burst of ecstacy; they start from his balls, rushing through the rest of his body: his sinewy thighs, cramping calves, curling toes, and up his torso, his chest, tickling his hardened nipples from inside, zooming up his tense arms, the veins threatening to pop, to the bruised wrists trapped by shackles, and his whitened knuckles. 

“This is -hah oh god- so, so wrong, Sister,” he cries. “But I don’t care -hngh!- anymore. I’m damned. I was damned when I rebelled. When you walked in and my cock throbbed back to life, and I felt a -fuck, don’t stop- a h-hunger I have never felt before rise in me. I-I knew when you uttered my name so angelically that I would follow you anywhere. God, take me, Sister. Please.”

He feels you everywhere.

And yet it isn’t enough.

Light grows brighter and brighter. It calls for him. Beckoning. 

More. 

More. 

More.

“Sister?” a voice calls out from a distance.

His parents. 

They returned.

Choso stares up at you, distressed and teary-eyed. He doesn’t want to be seen, to be caught. He expects you to stop. But you won’t.

“I-is everything alright? It’s been a while and the noises… We’re worried,” Mrs. Kamo says, hesitant and unable to hide her fear.

Smiling down at her son, you reply, “Mm, yes. The exorcism is -hngh- going perfectly. His powerful demon’s reacting just as e-expected — it’s putting up a fight. Best not to come down —fuck, Choso, you’re doing so good,” you whisper, then shout to his mother, “Don’t come down here.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Kamo asks. “If you need our help, please—”

“It’s dangerous,” you yell, rolling your eyes. “The Church forbids the untrained to bear witness to an exorcism. Leave now and I will not inform the Father of your mistake.”

Choso knows they can hear his savage growling and groaning, that his shaky whimpers are reaching their ears, and he can’t do a thing about it; your devious cunt’s too powerful, too demanding, too tight. And with every bounce, he cares less and less that he’s sounding like nothing more than a whore. 

His parents can keep listening for all you care. 

They can watch if they want, and they can see how splendorous it is to desire, to sin, to be wrong.

You squeeze milk out of your tit, catching the ounces in your cupped hand. Maintaining eye contact, you slurrrrp! your own milk. He pants like a puppy in summer’s heat. You lean forward, nipples scraping his chest, and it’s an added stimulation he can’t handle. Choso’s eyes cross at the changed angle. 

Lips graze each other. Choso chases them each time you pull away. “Sister, please,” he pleads. “Deem me worthy. I want to be purified with your taste. Make me reborn anew.”

If only he knew you’d deemed him worthy the moment you laid eyes on him.

In a clash of tongue and teeth, you finally allow him to drink your breastmilk from your mouth. He greedily swallows with a pornographic moan, Adam’s apple bobbing with haste. He siphons it all. Relishing the sweetness. Savouring the refreshment. Delighting in his return to a more innocent time. Still wanting more, he licks the droplets from your chin and dives forward, sucking on your tongue. 

Choso drains your tongue like it’s a cock, like you had done to his. He can’t differentiate between the taste of your milk and the taste of your saliva; it’s as delectable to him as the other.

Satisfied, you both melt into a sloppy kiss as your hips ride his restlessly. He must have cum again from that alone. So much semen is squelching out of your cunt, sliding down his length, creating a creamy ring, drenching his pulsing balls and soaking into the sheets. 

You’re both so, so wet with each other’s liquids that your chests slip and slide together. But it’s still not enough. 

He hasn’t stopped yearning to touch you, to grab onto your waist, to hold your hips and guide you up and down his cock, to explore bodily pleasure he’s never been allowed to before.

The chains…

He’s never found them more irritating than now. 

“Fuck!” he roars.

Wood splinters in half. 

Your back’s pushed down to the mattress. Suddenly, your whole vision’s obscured by broad shoulders and a hulking torso. “Choso!” you yelp, surprised by the display of inhuman strength.

Choso rips his shirt off with a frustrated growl. The useless material falls to the floor with a wet splat. His wrists are still adorned with the metal, but the chains are no longer held back by the bed posts. Sweat from his messy hair drops onto your skin; you stick your tongue out to catch as much of the salt as possible.

His cock’s popped out of your cunt. It slides through your puffy pussy lips, rubbing your swollen clit. He doesn’t know. Choso continues thrusting all the same. He’s overwhelmed with the realisation that he can touch you. Groaning, he faceplants right between your breasts. He lays wet kisses there, as though he’s making out with your lips, licking the drying milk on the curves and valley of your breasts. 

“Oh, Sister,” he whispers, breathy. “You’re an angel. A miracle. My salvation.”

Scalding liquid spurts all over your stomach; his cock’s slipped under your thin habit, urged on by the clinging material. In spite of that, he keeps rubbing his dick on your slit and your clit, unrelenting and unsoftening. He can only whine weakly from the pain of having came too many times too soon.

Ankles locking behind his ass, you guide his slippery cock back inside your hungry cunt, which pitifully clenches around nothing. Choso sucks in a sharp breath, feeling the familiar tightness and, like something has been reawakened in him, he hastily ploughs his cock forward.

You scream, back arching. 

Skin slap, fwop! fwop! Fwopping!

With the force of his thrusting, the bed moves an inch.

Mr. Kamo pounds on the cellar door. “Are you alright, Sister?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, hips working in tandem with Choso’s. “God protects me! His blessing’s filling me up!”

“Sister, purify me,” Choso mutters over and over again. He doesn’t seem to have heard his father at all. He’s tuned them out. It’s just you. 

His mouth’s sucking and kissing where you’ve bared your chest to him before they, like a moth to a flame, find a teat and suckle hard. You feel your milk pulled from your ducts, trickling into his mouth, nipples tugged almost painfully. 

The air is humid. Steamy. Made hefty by the fusing of your tangy, salty, and sweet scents. It’s an addictive concoction. 

Purring in his ear, you say, “Make me cum, Choso. Be a good boy, yes?”

He nods furiously. Straightening up, cool air enveloping you, he grips the backs of your thighs, pushing them towards your chest. Like this, he can see where you’re joined so clearly. His lips part. You know what he’s thinking — he’d only recently discovered his cock and what it can do when uninhibited, and now it’s stretching a woman’s tight pussy out so obscenely. It’s like Christmas came early. 

“I’m not -hah- hurting you, am I, Sister?” he wonders, though as he breathlessly asks that, he’s nudging his cock deeper and deeper inside. It’s clear Choso doesn’t care much for the answer. 

You grin ear to ear. “Not in a way I don’t like.”

The parents must have left; you hear no more from them. Or perhaps you’ve blocked them out. All that matters is the euphoria resonating in your core. How can anything else matter when you’re being stuffed full by a fat cock?

Choso’s ramming it inside irrhythmically. He’s clumsy, only chasing what feels good. But your pussy’s so sensitive from the orgasms you’d been having that you find it all downright blissful. 

“So tight,” he groans out. “You’re so tight. I s-shouldn’t be able to fit inside, and yet you’re sucking me in. I can’t breathe.”

“I know,” you coo, watching his abs contract, beads of sweat travelling down the hard contours of his body. “You’re doing so well for me, Choso. You’re nearly rid of sin, I can see it. Keep going.”

Panting faster and faster, Choso warns you of his next orgasm with a pained whimper. “N-not again!”

But nothing comes. No cream paints your walls. Despite that, he still shudders and digs his callused fingers into the plush of your thighs, certain to leave bruises. Apart from that, there’s no evidence he’d cummed at all. 

You’d manifestly emptied his balls out of every drizzle of cum. All of it is either coating your skin and habit or being absorbed by your spongy walls, replenishing your soul directly.

He’s still prodding that sensitive spot inside that has your chest heaving and your eyes crossing. And every thrust pushes you further and further down the bed. Your head starts to hang over. 

Blood rushes down. 

Tingles exploding behind your eyes. 

Peering up at him, you run your nails over the bump he’s poking through your stomach. He feels it; he throbs at your touch, and again when you press down. Tears are streaking down his face steadily, blurring his vision. “Sister!”

“Do you know what this position is called, Choso?” you quiz him. He shakes his head, biting his lip till it bleeds and red stains his chin. “It’s called, ‘mating press.’ Do you understand? You’re mating me, Choso. You’re fucking a baby inside. Will you take responsibility?”

Choso throws his head back, sobbing. “Yes, yes, Sister! I’ll do what you need me to. I’ll be a good father.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” you say, giggling.

As though enamoured with the thought of planting his seed in your womb, he replaces your hand and gropes his own cock through your belly. He presses down harder. You gasp. The pressure’s intense. You feel every part of him — every ridge, every vein, every pulse, every bullying of his mushroom head scraping his cum out. 

You explode with a scream and a splash!

The rapid clenching of your cunt has Choso barking a plea. 

The two of you spasm together, hips rutting and elongating your orgasm. It’s wet everywhere. Sweat, milk, cum, cream, tears, and blood from his lip and from his nose are mixing together. The heat and the exertion of every energy he had went straight to his head and burst a vessel. 

He falls on top of you, woefully spent. 

Limbs tangle together, limp and exhausted. 

For a while, neither of you moves. The room is quiet save for the slow return of breath, the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours. The frenzy has ebbed, leaving behind a stillness, warm and almost fragile in its calm.

Choso shifts just enough to ease his weight, though he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers loosely threading together, as if anchoring himself. You let him play with your fingers.

Down here, it’s hard to tell what time it is outside. Is it night, the next day, or has barely any time at all passed? 

Air cools the wetness all over, drying until they cake. His cock’s still inside you, softening. He doesn’t pull out. You don’t ask him to. 

“Am I,” he starts, trying to catch his breath, “cleansed now, Sister?”

Raking your fingers through his hair, you answer, “Yes, Choso. Sin has been rid. You are free.”

Choso hums. There’s a disappointed note there. “So I’ll never see you again? I’ll return to the life my family wants me to live?”

“Not necessarily. You’ve accepted God, in your own way. You can join our religious order, live as we do. You see, I started out just like you — lost, out of place, angry, and with nowhere to release my energy. It is through the Church that I have been liberated from sin, and continue to be. Sin returns, always. So you must be dutiful and ensure you regularly expel it.”

Although his arm is dense with the weight of his chain, he still lifts it and cradles your breast. He tenderly massages it, eyes fixed on the milk that drips out. He licks it. You sigh. Then he asks, “I can do this more often? With you?”

“Uhuh, and with whomever else you’d like. We all owe a duty to each other to help, of course.”

He looks up at you, smiling. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, both of his cheeks, and finally his lips. 

“You’re very welcome.”

.

.

.

You breathe fresh air in. 

Dawn has broken, and the world wakes. 

Birds tweet and fly overhead, a distant bell rings, chatter thrum under the wind. You feel lighter than when you arrived, younger, stronger. You always do after a case gone well.

“He’s free now? You’re sure, Sister?” Mrs. Kamo asks again, clasping a rosary in her hands. 

Looking back at the house and the couple seeing you off, you incline your head, and respond with. “Yes. The demon that’s been holding him back is gone. He’s found clarity and peace with himself.”

She smiles, relieved, as does her husband, who nods in gratitude.

Behind them, Choso stands in the doorway. Washed, composed, new. He doesn’t sulk or brood. Doesn’t roll his eyes with rejection and dismissal. He simply folds his hands, quiet and still, as though he’s finally learned where to place them. “Thank you, Sister,” he says softly. “I’ve never felt closer to God.”

The morning light catches on his face, serene, devout. Transformed.

“I’m so glad.” A knowing glint in your eyes is shared. And, like it’s an afterthought, you hand them a brochure from your bag. “The Church holds a training course to join my order, if you’d permit Choso to attend. He can follow in my footsteps and rid the world of sin. At the very least, listen to a lecture and grow even more connected with our community. I think it’d be good for him.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Kamo exhales out excitedly, “yes! Yes, that would be perfect for him. It’d give him a purpose, a calling. Oh, how wonderful!”

Mr. Kamo adds, turning to look at him, “I would be most proud to have a son who’s an active, participating member of the Church, upholding our values and protecting other families from the tragedy we faced.”

Choso smiles. Not at his father, nor his father, but at you. 

“Anything to repay my gratitude and service you,” he says coyly, “and the community, of course.”

If they notice the hidden meanings, they don’t show it. They merely look beyond pleased at the son they’ve always wanted — or rather, think they want. They have no idea that, soon, Choso will leave this house, enter the world as an adult in his own right, and fuck the sin out of the neediest, most desperate women. 

He’ll bring more and more people to the Church, but not using means they’d support. 

For the era of their puritanism is coming to an end. 

And the era of hedonism your race has sown into the world, one drained lustforce at a time, is beginning. 

“I look forward to it,” you say, still tasting his salty cum on your tongue. 

Choso’s eyes drink up your full figure through your habit, flashing red as he licks a forked tongue over his sharp row of teeth. 

“As do I, Sister.”

[wild-imagines-and-stories]

Lowkey need a firelord zuko x reader where him and the reader are married and with little heirs, like if that was my man oof

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

I LOVE THIS REQUEST SO FREAKING MUCH!!!!

And to say that I was literally thinking that I would maybe get like 1 or 2 requests because of the post saying that I want to get sent requests for Firelord Zuko was what I was thinking.

I'm not even kidding.

And I got way more than just 1 or 2 requests and I honestly CAN NOT WAIT TO WORK ON THE REST OF THEM!!!

SO THANK YOU ANON FOR REQUESTING AS WELL AS ALL OF THE OTHERS WHO HAD SENT REQUESTS BECAUSE OF THAT POST!!!

I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH RIGHT NOW!!!

Anyway, for this request I wrote this little story that's below the cut!

I hope you enjoy it anon!

And don't be shy in requesting another request for Zuko or any of the other characters/fandoms that I am currently accepting requests for as I do have them open on my blog at the moment for specific fandoms (you can find that info on my request/submission status post which is linked on my pinned post!)

And again, thank you for this request, I appreciate it so much!!! 💜

A Palace Full of Laughter

Pairing: Firelord Zuko x wife!reader

Genre: Fluff

WC: 978

Fanfiction Masterlist

The palace is quieter than it used to be.

Not silent—never silent—but softer.

War no longer lingers in the walls of the Fire Nation capital.

Instead, it hums with something warmer now… something alive.

Your family.

You stand on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, the early evening sun casting everything in molten gold.

Below, three small figures dart across the stone, their laughter echoing up toward you.

“Careful!” you call down to them, though there’s no real heat behind it.

Because you know exactly who they take after.

Your eldest daughter—Izumi—moves with practiced precision even at her young age, her firebending controlled and disciplined.

She’s trying to keep her younger siblings in line, but it’s a losing battle.

The middle child—your son Raiden—is chaos wrapped in royal silk—quick, clever, and just reckless enough to make your heart jump every few seconds.

And your youngest daughter Akari…

Well.

She's currently attempting to tackle a palace guard twice her size.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “…They’re going to be the death of me.”

“They get that from you, you know.” A quiet voice behind you says.

You turn—and there he is.

Zuko, Fire Lord of the Nation… and somehow still the same man who once stumbled through apologies and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Now, though?

Now he looks at you like you are his peace.

His hair is slightly loose from the day, royal robes traded for something more comfortable, and there’s a softness in his golden eyes that only ever appears when he’s with you—or them.

You raise an eyebrow as you look at him. “From me?”

He steps beside you, resting his arms on the railing, gaze dropping to the chaos below.

“The stubbornness,” he clarifies.

“…That is absolutely you.” you reply with a roll of your eyes as your gaze lands on the three figures in the courtyard again.

“I am not that bad.” He huffs, pretending offense, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

You gesture downward just as Raiden attempts a spinning kick—and misses—falling flat on his back.

Zuko winces. “…Okay. Maybe a little.”

For a moment, the two of you simply watch.

Izumi helps her brother up from the ground with a sigh far too mature for her age.

Akari is still clinging to the guard’s leg like it’s a personal victory.

Your chest aches—full, warm, almost overwhelming.

This.

This is what you both fought for.

Not thrones.

Not titles.

This.

A family.

“They adore you,” you say quietly.

Zuko glances at you. “They adore you.”

You shake your head. “No. You should see their faces when you walk into a room.”

“They light up when you smile.” he replies back.

There’s no argument in his tone.

Just certainty.

It still surprises you sometimes—how openly he loves now.

How he doesn’t hide it anymore, doesn’t bury it under duty or fear.

You feel his hand find yours a moment later, your fingers threading together like it’s second nature.

“They have your kindness,” he adds softly.

“And your temper,” you reply immediately.

“…We’re working on that.” he replies with a wince.

You laugh—and it’s easy.

So easy.

A sudden shriek from below makes both of you look down.

Akari has somehow convinced the guard to spin her around, while Raiden tries to copy the move—and nearly crashes into Izumi.

“Hey!” Izumi snaps, hands on her hips. “You’re doing it wrong!”

You grin. “She sounds just like you.”

Zuko sighs deeply. “I was not that bossy.”

You give him a look.

“…Okay, maybe a little.” He relents with a sigh.

You're about reply with something snarky when the sliding doors behind you slide open, and one of the attendants bows slightly. “My lord and lady, dinner is prepared.”

Zuko nods, but doesn’t move right away.

Instead, he squeezes your hand gently.

“Stay a little longer?” he murmurs as he turns his head toward you again, his gold eyes meeting your (e/c) ones.

You don’t even hesitate. "Always.”

The sun dips lower in the sky over the palace, painting the sky in streaks of amber and crimson—colors that once meant destruction, now softened into something beautiful.

Zuko steps behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You melt into the warmth instantly, familiar and grounding.

Below, your children are still laughing, still running, still alive in a way the world hadn’t always allowed.

“I didn’t think…” Zuko starts, then pauses.

You tilt your head slightly as you look up at him. “Didn’t think what?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever have this.” He replies gently.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him.

There’s no Fire Lord in his eyes right now.

Just Zuko.

Just your husband.

“You built this,” you say softly. “We did.”

He searches your face like he’s memorizing it all over again.

Then, gently, he presses his forehead to yours.

“I love you (Y/N).”

It’s not rushed.

Not uncertain.

Just true.

You smile, brushing your thumb lightly against his cheek. “I love you too.”

“HEY!” a voice shouts from below, causing you both to look down and into the courtyard.

Izumi is staring up at the balcony, hands cupped around her mouth. “ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?”

Raiden joins in immediately. “WE’RE HUNGRY!”

And Akari just waves wildly.

Zuko exhales, already tired—and already smiling. “…this is my life now.”

You grin. “Fire Lord by day. Outnumbered father by night.”

He groans softly. “They’re definitely your children.”

You laugh, tugging his hand toward the doors. “Come on, Your Majesty. Your heirs demand your presence.”

He lets you pull him along—but not before stealing one quick kiss against your temple.

Warm.

Soft.

Certain.

And as you walk inside together, the sounds of your children echoing through the palace…

It doesn’t feel like a palace anymore.

It feels like home.

[hellinistical]

Silken Hands

firelord zuko! x wife!reader

synopsis: Beneath Zuko's usual calm and decisiveness, he grows shy and soft in your hands, still unused to comfort that comes so easily. wc: 2.1k

The bedroom was too quiet for a place so large.

Candlelight flickered along towering walls of carved stone, catching on gold inlays and silk drapery that spilled from the canopy above the bed. The air smelled faintly of melted wax and something softer-jasmine, maybe-clinging to the sheets, to the curtains, to you. Outside, the palace had long since settled into silence, guards posted like statues beyond thick doors, the world held at a respectful distance.

Inside, everything felt… close.

Zuko stood near the edge of the room at first, as if crossing it required permission he did not yet have. Long black hair fell over his shoulders in a loose spill, unbound, unfamiliar like this. It softened him in a way no one else was ever allowed to see, save for the moments in battle. The scar over his left eye caught the candlelight when he turned his head-sharp, red against his skin-but even that seemed less intimidating tonight.

Because he wouldn’t look at you.

Not fully.

Golden eyes flickered in your direction and then away just as quickly, like he’d touched something too hot.

“…You should rest,” he said, voice steady, almost too steady, the kind he used in court, in front of others, when every word was measured and deliberate.

But there was no one here to perform for.

You were sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, watching him with a quiet patience that only seemed to make it worse. The mattress dipped slightly beneath you, silk whispering with the smallest shift of your weight. It drew his attention again-brief, betraying-and this time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Then his face flushed.

It was subtle at first. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. A soft color rising along his cheekbones.

He turned away again.

“…It’s late,” he added, as if that solved anything.

You almost smiled.

Because this was the same man who faced down entire courts without hesitation. The same man whose presence alone could silence a room. Whose voice carried authority without ever needing to rise.

And yet now…

Now Zuko looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands.

They flexed at his sides, then stilled, then shifted again like he was trying to decide where they belonged. His posture remained straight out of habit, but there was tension in it now, something uncertain threading through all that practiced composure.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not coming to bed?”

The question was simple.

It ruined him.

His shoulders stiffened, just for a second, before he forced them to relax. Slowly, he turned back toward you-this time committing to it, even if it clearly cost him something.

Golden eyes met yours.

Held.

And immediately betrayed him.

The flush deepened, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. His jaw tightened, like he was annoyed with himself for it, but he didn’t look away this time. That might’ve been the only thing he had left to cling to-his stubbornness.

“I…” He stopped. Tried again. “I will.”

A pause.

“I simply-”

He exhaled, slow and controlled, like steadying himself before stepping into battle.

Ridiculous.

There was no battlefield here. Just you. Just a quiet room and too many candles and the weight of something new settling between you both.

Still, he moved.

Each step toward the bed was measured, deliberate, as though he could maintain control that way. As though he could pretend his pulse wasn’t betraying him, wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silence.

When he reached you, he hesitated again.

Closer now, you could see it more clearly-the way his golden eyes softened despite himself, the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly when you looked up at him. The scar over his eye didn’t make him look harsher like it did in the daylight. In this light, it only made him look… real.

Human.

And very, very flustered.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly.

You didn’t deny it.

That only made it worse.

Color bloomed deeper across his face, and for a moment, he looked like he might retreat again- step back, put distance between you and whatever this was.

But he didn’t.

Instead, slowly, almost cautiously, he sat beside you.

The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing him closer, the space between you shrinking to something fragile and noticeable. His arm brushed yours- just barely- and he froze like the contact had sent a shock through him.

It might as well have.

His hand hovered for a second, uncertain, before settling on the bed between you. Fingers curled slightly into the silk, gripping it like an anchor.

“I have faced worse situations than this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

And yet he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you again without that soft, helpless flush returning. Calm. Honorable.

Except here.

You take his hand, guiding him to sit between your legs on the down-filled bed. gathering his hair between your fingers, the silky strands slip with ease. you lift a strand, smelling it- jasmine, burnt cedar. 

Zuko goes still the moment your fingers lace with his. Not tense-no, not pulling away-but aware.

Deeply, acutely aware.

And yet he lets you guide him.

There’s no resistance as you gently pull him back, settling him between your legs on the plush, down-filled bed. The softness gives beneath his weight, but he feels anything but grounded. If anything, it only makes him more unsteady, more conscious of every point of contact-your knees at his sides, your hands in his hair, your breath just behind him.

His breath catches.

Your fingers gather his hair like silk, and it is; smooth, well-kept, slipping easily through your touch. He doesn’t tie it back tonight, didn’t even think to. Now he’s painfully aware of that too, of how exposed it makes him feel, how close it lets you get.

When you lift a strand and bring it to your nose, he nearly forgets how to breathe altogether.

Jasmine. Burnt cedar. Him.

“Zuko, my love, why are you so shy all of a sudden?” A teasing lilt graced your lips along with a smile he did not miss. You were messing with him. 

He exhales quietly through his nose, like he’s trying to steady something unraveling in his chest-but it doesn’t quite work. Not when your voice is laced with that soft teasing, not when your lips brush his jaw-

Once.

Twice.

A third time, slower.

His hands tighten slightly where they rest on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric there. His shoulders draw up just a fraction before he forces them to relax again, but the effect lingers-subtle, but unmistakable.

“You-” he starts, then stops.

His voice isn’t as steady as before.

He swallows, tilting his head just slightly-just enough to give you more space, though he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.

“You’re… making it difficult,” he murmurs, quieter now, the words slipping out like a reluctant confession.

Another kiss.

Softer this time.

His composure cracks a little more.

A faint, helpless flush spreads across his cheeks again, deeper than before, and this time it doesn’t fade when he tries to will it away. His golden eyes flicker downward, like he’s searching for something-control, maybe, or the right words-but they don’t stay there long.

They close instead.

Just for a second.

Because it’s easier than trying to hold himself together while you do this to him.

“I'm not shy,” he adds, though there’s no real conviction behind it now. Not when his voice dips like that, not when his breath hitches almost imperceptibly as your lips linger near his jaw.

Not when he leans-just slightly-back into you.

As if drawn there without thinking.

“…I am simply unused to this.”

That, at least, is honest.

Painfully so. You laugh softly. "Still? This is routine now, is it not?"

His hand lifts then, hesitant, uncertain, before settling lightly over yours where it still threads through his hair. He doesn’t stop you- doesn’t even try. He’s quiet for a moment after that-your hand still in his hair, his resting over yours-like he’s weighing something small, something almost… embarrassing.

Then, softer than before-

“Will you do my hair?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to feel fragile.

“Just to sleep in?”

It’s such a simple request. Almost boyish, in a way that doesn’t match the man everyone else sees. No command, no expectation-just a quiet ask, like he’s not entirely sure you’ll say yes.

“Of course.”

The answer comes easily, warmly, and something in him loosens.

Not all at once-but enough.

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing as he exhales slowly. Carefully, he shifts, turning just enough to give you better access, settling more comfortably between your legs. This time, when his back brushes against you, he doesn’t go still.

He leans into it.

Just slightly.

Your fingers move through his hair again, more deliberate now, smoothing through the long, dark strands. They fall easily into place beneath your touch, soft and warm from his skin. He lets his head tilt forward when you guide it, compliant in a way he never is with anyone else.

The room feels quieter now.

Closer.

His eyes drift shut as you begin, your fingers parting sections, weaving them together with gentle care. Each movement is slow, unhurried-something meant to soothe rather than impress.

And it works.

His breathing steadies, evening out as he sinks into the feeling. The faintest furrow in his brow disappears, replaced with something softer, something almost… peaceful.

“…You’ve done this before,” he murmurs, voice low, touched with quiet curiosity.

Not suspicion. Not doubt.

Just… noticing.

Your fingers glide through another section, smoothing it down, and he exhales again-this time heavier, like it’s pulling something deeper out of him.

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter still-

“My mother used to do my hair.” Zuko says, breaking the silence. He rarely spoke of his mother these days. 

The words are simple, but they settle heavily in the air between you.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

Doesn’t move away.

If anything, he leans back just a little more into your touch, trusting, unguarded in a way that feels rare-like something you’re being allowed to see.

Your hands continue their gentle work, braiding his hair loosely, something comfortable enough to sleep in. A few strands slip free near his face, framing it softly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Not tonight.

His hand, still resting over yours from before, shifts slightly-fingers brushing against your wrist, then settling there.

Not stopping you.

Just… staying.

“…It feels the same…yours I mean.” he admits, barely above a whisper.

Your hands still for just a moment in his hair.

Not stopping-never stopping-but slowing, softening, like the words deserve something gentler in return.

“...she used to brush my hair when I was a child,” he says quietly.

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Not quite. Just something distant. Remembered.

“Father thought it wasn’t a thing boys should do.”

Your fingers resume their slow rhythm, smoothing, parting, weaving. Careful. Intentional. Like you’re holding something fragile without ever letting him feel it might break.

“Your hands feel like hers.”

That makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t move when he says it. Doesn’t look at you. If anything, he sinks further back against you, his weight settling more fully, trusting you to hold it.

The candles flicker.

The room breathes around you.

And he-this man who carries himself like steel and fire in every other room-sits quiet and open in your hands.

You lean forward slightly, your lips brushing the crown of his head this time. Softer than before. Slower.

“Then I’ll do it as often as you want,” you murmur.

No teasing now.

Just warmth.

Your fingers continue the braid, loose and comfortable, something meant for rest rather than formality. A few strands slip free, grazing his cheek, and you smooth them back without thinking.

He exhales.

It’s different this time-deeper, like something long held finally eased.

“…He was wrong,” he says after a moment.

There’s a quiet steadiness to it now. Not defiance. Not anger.

Just certainty.

His hand shifts again, still resting over yours, but this time his fingers curl slightly-just enough to hold. Not to stop you.

Just to feel you there.

“I don’t care what he thought.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, “I would rather have this.”

And he leans back into you again, eyes closed, letting your hands move through his hair like it’s something he’s been missing for far longer than he ever allowed himself to admit.