Maribelle C. {UNDER CONSTRUCTION} @maribellec - Tumblr Blog

Obligatory Info Post!

Hello, I'm Maribelle C. also known as Kuramata Kuma! I'm a writer and alpha/beta reader and I specialize in romance stories.

See these links for: Archive of Our Own | Alpha/Beta Reading | Join the Taglist!

MASTERLIST

nymphoheretic

AITA: For Fucking my Best Friend's Step-sister

Synopsis: Was Valko an asshole for fucking you? You're the one who answered the door in nothing but a towel, smelling so fucking good. What else was he suppose to do? Pairing: Valko/reader/Caleb Word Count: ~5.1k

Warnings: Porn without plot, Knotting, Breeding, Biting, Oral Sex(M and F receiving), Threesome, Doggy Style, Missionary, Spitroasting, Caleb Uses the Nickname Meimei, Caleb is Called Gege, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, Valko has dick piercings (let me know if I missed anything, please!)

A/N: Just 5k worth of smut. Nothing more. The next fic about Valko will have some plot but right now Paw Patrol took the smut brain and ran with it. Sorry not sorry.

AO3

#recs #thank you for your contribution to the cause

poniadeaur

Sugar-husband

When a rushed morning leads to an accidental wallet swap, a fiercely independent woman finds herself spending her husband's money for the first time. Smut

The wallet had been his idea from the start—a matched set, cognac brown for him, softer caramel for you. You'd smiled when he presented them on your first anniversary, the paper crisp and the leather smelling of luxury and intention.

"Nanami," you'd teased, running your thumb over the embossed initials, "are you marking your territory?"

He'd only adjusted his glasses, that familiar, maddeningly calm expression on his face. "Practicality," he'd said. "Matching wallets mean we can find each other's things easily."

But you'd seen the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed it over, the way his throat worked when you immediately transferred your cards, your cash, your small treasures into its folds. He'd watched you like a man starving, and you'd known— even then— that this meant something else entirely to him.

That was three years ago.

Now, the morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, desperate strips, and you were running late. The project— that beast of a contract that had consumed six months of your life— had finally, blessedly concluded at 2 AM. You'd collapsed into bed without washing your face, without setting your alarm properly, without doing any of the things a reasonable adult should do.

And now your phone screamed at you: 8:47 AM. Your spa appointment was at 9:30. Across the city.

"Shit, shit, shit," you muttered, stumbling out of bed, yanking on the first dress your hands found— a simple navy wrap dress that didn't require thought. You didn't bother with makeup. You didn't bother with coffee. You grabbed your bag, flew to the entryway, and snatched what you assumed was your wallet from the small ceramic dish where you both kept them.

They looked identical from above, after all. The same size. The same shape. The same worn-soft leather that had molded to each of your lives.

You pressed a kiss to Nanami's cheek— he stood at the counter in his undershirt and dress pants, buttering toast, his hair still damp from the shower— and you were out the door before he could turn around.

"Have a good—" he started, but the door slammed.

The taxi ride was torture. Traffic crawled. You checked your phone every thirty seconds, watching the minutes slip away, calculating whether you could still make it, whether they'd still take you if you were ten minutes late, fifteen. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your skin felt too tight, still carrying the stress of the project, the lack of sleep, the persistent ache between your shoulder blades that had become your constant companion over the past month.

When the taxi finally stopped outside the spa— a sleek, minimalist building with bamboo accents and the kind of reputation that required bookings three months in advance— you fumbled in your bag for your wallet, ready to pay and run.

Your fingers closed around leather. You pulled it out.

And you froze.

The smell hit you first— sandalwood, something him. The weight was wrong. Too heavy. When you flipped it open, there was his ID photo staring back at you, Nanami Kento, 31 years old, with that severe expression and the little furrow between his brows that you knew softened when he looked at you, when he thought you weren't watching.

"Shit," you whispered.

The taxi driver cleared his throat. You looked up, panicked, then back down at the wallet. You could see your own, presumably, sitting in the ceramic dish at home. You could see Nanami finding it, realizing the mistake, maybe bringing it to you at lunch.

But you were here. And the cancellation policy was draconian— you'd lose the deposit, lose the appointment, lose the one thing you'd been looking forward to for ninety days.

And god, you needed it. You could feel it in your bones, in the tension headache pulsing behind your eyes, in the way your hands shook slightly as you held his wallet. You'd aged five years in six months. You deserved this.

"I'll pay him back," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone. "Every yen. I'll transfer it the second I get home."

You pulled out his black credit card— the one he never used, the one he'd told you was for "emergencies" though you both knew he had enough in checking to buy a small apartment outright— and handed it to the driver.

The charge was ¥2,400. You watched the driver's machine print the receipt, your stomach twisting with something that wasn't quite guilt, wasn't quite excitement, but lived somewhere deliciously in between.

"Keep the change," you said, because Nanami always tipped well, and you were using his money, so you should use it properly.

Inside, the spa enveloped you in scent— eucalyptus, lavender, something expensive and clean. The receptionist smiled, professional and serene.

"Welcome back," she said. "I see we have you for the standard package today?"

You opened your mouth to confirm. Then you looked down at the wallet in your hands, at the cards inside, at the small fortune sitting in Nanami's accounts that he never touched, that grew and grew while he wore the same suits, ate the same lunches, lived with the same careful restraint that had defined his entire adult life.

"Actually," you heard yourself say, "I'd like to upgrade. To the premium package."

The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "Of course. That's an additional ¥25,000."

"And the hot stone therapy," you added, emboldened by the way she simply nodded, entered numbers, didn't judge. "And the caviar facial. And the private steam room extension."

"Excellent choices," she said, and swiped Nanami's card.

The machine beeped approvingly. Somewhere across the city, Nanami's phone buzzed in his pocket, and you had no idea.

Nanami realized the mistake at 8:52 AM, standing on the platform at Shibuya Station, reaching for his train pass.

His fingers closed around soft leather. Wrong leather. When he pulled it out, the caramel color glowed in the fluorescent lights, and he knew immediately.

"Damn it," he said, softly.

He turned the wallet over in his hands. He should go back. It would make him late— very late— for the budget meeting with the higher-ups, but he should go back. You needed your cards, your cash, your identification. What if something happened? What if you needed to buy something, to prove who you were, to—

He opened it.

Just to check. Just to make sure you had what you needed. Just to see if there was emergency cash he could take out and leave for you, somehow.

The first thing he saw was the photo booth strip, tucked into the clear plastic window where most people kept their ID. But his wallet had his ID there. Yours had this— four frames of memory from the arcade in Harajuku, six months ago. Frame one: you making a peace sign, tongue out, while he stared stoically ahead. Frame two: you trying to make him laugh, hands on his cheeks, pulling his face into a ridiculous expression, his eyes wide with surprised offense. Frame three: him finally breaking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, you triumphant beside him. Frame four: him kissing your temple, his eyes closed, you grinning at the camera like you'd won something precious.

Nanami's chest tightened.

He flipped past it. The pressed lavender— from their first date, the botanical garden in Kyoto, the flower you'd tucked behind your ear and he'd stolen when you weren't looking, pressing it later in one of his heavy law books. The small stone from Okinawa, smooth and gray, that you'd found on the beach and declared your "lucky stone," carrying it everywhere since. A receipt from the café in Shinjuku where he'd told you he wanted to marry you, the ink faded to gray but the date still legible, the total still showing the two coffees he'd barely tasted because he'd been so nervous.

A fortune from Meiji Shrine, folded and unfolded so many times the creases were soft as fabric. A hair tie, black and elastic, that had probably been in your hair a hundred times. A sample of your perfume, sprayed on a tester strip, still faintly floral after weeks.

You were everywhere in this small space. Your scent. Your memories. Your life, folded and tucked and carried close to his heart even when you weren't there.

He was hard before he even understood why.

His phone buzzed.

He pulled it out with shaking hands, expecting a message from you, some explanation, some apology for the mix-up.

Instead: Premium Spa Package - ¥45,000. Card ending in 4821.

His card. His money. You were spending it.

He should have been concerned. Should have called you, checked that everything was alright, made sure you knew what you were doing, that you weren't confused, that you hadn't—

Another buzz. Hot Stone Therapy Add-on - ¥12,000.

Nanami's breath left him in a rush. He leaned back against the station pillar, suddenly dizzy, his cock throbbing against his zipper with an intensity that made him lightheaded. You were spending his money. Willingly. Taking what he'd wanted so desperately to give you.

He thought of you at the spa, naked on a table, someone's hands on your skin, working out the tension he knew lived in your shoulders. His money paying for it. His card buying your relaxation, your pleasure, your peace.

Another buzz. Luxury Facial Treatment - ¥28,000.

"Sir?" A station attendant paused, concerned. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Fine," Nanami managed, his voice rough. "Just— fine. Thank you."

He needed to sit down. He needed to— god, he needed to touch himself, needed release, needed something to take the edge off this sudden, overwhelming arousal that was making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but stare at his phone and will more notifications to come.

He made it to the office on autopilot. Sat through the budget meeting in a daze, your wallet open on his lap beneath the conference table, his thumb running over the worn leather, over the photo booth strip, over the small treasures you'd collected. His phone sat face-down on the table, but he could feel every vibration like a physical touch, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin.

At 12:45 PM, during the lunch break he couldn't eat, the notification came: Boutique Purchase - ¥86,000.

Clothes. You were buying clothes with his money. Trying them on, looking at yourself in mirrors, deciding what you deserved, what you wanted, and using his card to get it.

He excused himself to the bathroom— the single stall on the seventh floor that no one used because it was out of the way— and locked the door. He leaned against it, shaking, and freed himself from his trousers with trembling hands.

He came in thirty seconds, biting his fist to keep from crying out, spilling over his fingers while he thought of you in a dressing room, sliding fabric over your skin, spending his money with every swipe of the card. It was the fastest, most intense orgasm he'd had in years, and he was still hard, still wanting, still desperate.

He cleaned himself up with shaking hands, straightened his tie, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wild. His face was flushed. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly, completely undone.

And he couldn't stay here. Couldn't sit through another meeting, another discussion of fiscal quarters and resource allocation, when you were out there spending his money, taking what was his to give, finally— finally— letting him provide for you in the way he'd always dreamed.

He found his assistant, a young woman named Mori who had worked for him long enough to know he never took sick days.

"Mori," he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself, too low, too rough. "I'm not feeling well. Migraine. I need to go home."

"Of course, Nanami-san," she said, her eyes widening slightly at his appearance. "Should I reschedule your afternoon?"

"Please. And—" he paused, considering. "Cancel tomorrow as well. I think I'll need the rest."

He didn't wait for her response. He was already moving toward the elevator, toward the train, toward you.

You were floating.

The spa had been transcendent— every knot in your shoulders worked out by skilled hands, every worry steamed away in the private room, your face glowing from treatments that used ingredients you couldn't pronounce and didn't care to. You'd emerged loose-limbed and hazy, wrapped in the silk robe you'd bought (¥12,000, added to the growing total), carrying the overnight bag (¥8,500) because it was soft and the color suited you.

The boutique next door had called to you like a siren. You'd told yourself you'd just look. Just browse. You weren't really going to buy anything.

But the dress— navy silk that caught the light like water, cut to skim your curves in a way that made you look expensive, sophisticated, like someone who deserved to be taken care of— had been impossible to resist. And when you'd tried it on, and the saleswoman had gasped, had said "Your husband is a lucky man," and you'd thought of Nanami seeing you in it, paying for it, knowing that you were wearing something he'd bought—

You'd bought the shoes too. Cream leather pumps that made your legs look endless. The handbag, structured and elegant, that replaced the worn tote you'd been carrying for three years.

Your phone had buzzed constantly. You'd stopped checking after the first hour, the guilt giving way to something headier, something that felt like power and indulgence and the delicious wrongness of taking what you never allowed yourself to want.

You caught a matinee— a romance, something with beautiful people and sweeping music and a happy ending that made you cry in the dark theater. You bought the wine, the overpriced popcorn, because you could, because it was his money and he had so much of it and for once you weren't going to be the responsible one, the independent one, the woman who never needed anything from anyone.

By the time you stepped out of the taxi in front of your building, the sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. You carried three shopping bags. Your skin still smelled of lavender oil. You felt, for the first time in months, like yourself again.

And then you saw him through the window.

Nanami sat on the couch in the dark, still in his work clothes though he'd loosened his tie, undone his collar. Your wallet sat open on the coffee table in front of him like an altar. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was looking at the door with an expression you'd never seen before— hungry, desperate, almost feral.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly aware of every purchase, every yen, every notification that had buzzed across his phone while you indulged yourself.

"Nanami," you started, pushing the door open, "I can explain—"

He moved.

You'd never seen him move like that— fast, predatory, crossing the space between. He didn't speak. He just reached for you, his large hands framing your face, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding and nothing like his usual careful kisses.

"Nanami—" you tried again, but he swallowed the word, licked into your mouth with a groan that vibrated through your chest.

"Do you know," he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked, unrecognizable, "how many notifications I received today?"

"I was going to pay you back," you gasped, stumbling as he walked you backward, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm and trembling. "I swear, every yen, I just didn't want to cancel the appointment—"

"I don't want you to pay me back." His hands were at your coat, yanking it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "I want you to tell me. Every. Single. Thing."

He pushed you back onto the couch, following you down, pinning you with his weight in a way that made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his usual composure shattered into something raw and needy.

"Tell me," he commanded, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the silk of your new dress higher, "what you bought. How much it cost. Who paid for it."

"I—" you started, but his fingers found the edge of your underwear— also new, also expensive, lace that you'd bought because the saleswoman had said they matched the dress— and he made a sound like a wounded animal.

"These too?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you buy these with my money?"

"Yes," you whispered, and the admission sent a thrill through you, hot and shameful and electric.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand moving to tear at the buttons of your dress. "Tell me everything. Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

"The spa," you started, your voice shaking as he ripped the dress open, buttons scattering across the hardwood with small, sharp sounds. "The premium package—"

"How much?" He was kissing your throat now, your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin with just enough pressure to make you arch.

"Forty-five thousand," you gasped. "And the hot stones— twelve thousand more—"

He made a sound against your breast, his hand palming you through the lace of your bra. "Keep going."

"The facial!" You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as he set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours. "Twenty-eight thousand— caviar— oh god—"

"Expensive." He bit your jaw, your neck, leaving marks. "You're so expensive. My expensive girl."

"The dress—" you choked out as he hit something deep, something that made stars burst behind your eyes. "Eighty-six thousand—"

"More." He pulled out and slammed back in, making you see white. "What else?"

"Shoes— forty-two— handbag— sixty—" You were babbling now, lost in the stretch of him, the filthy satisfaction in his eyes. "Chocolates— wine—"

"All mine." He hooked your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, harder. "My money. My girl. Spending what's mine."

"Yours," you agreed, voice breaking. "All yours."

"Louder." He slowed, cruelly, until you were whining, trying to grind against him. "Tell me whose money you spent."

"Yours!" You shouted it, desperate, clawing at his back. "Nanami's money— my husband's— please—"

He rewarded you with a thrust that rattled your teeth, and another, and another, fucking you into the couch cushions with abandon, the leather creaking beneath you.

"Again," he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "Tell me what you are."

"Expensive," you sobbed, the pleasure building to a breaking point. "I'm so expensive—"

"My expensive wife." He was losing rhythm, getting sloppy, chasing his own release. "Spending all my money— taking everything—"

He snarled and drove into you one final time, grinding against you as he came, hot and endless, and you followed, screaming his name, your vision going black at the edges.

After, when you were both trembling and sweat-cooled on the ruined couch, he gathered you close, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth.

"I'll transfer it all back," you mumbled, half-asleep against his chest.

He laughed, low and dark, and you felt him stir against your hip again.

"Don't you dare," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we're going back. You're buying the other dress. The one you didn't get."

"Nanami—"

"And then," he continued, hand sliding down your stomach with intent, "you're going to tell me about every single thing you try on. In detail."

You shivered, already nodding, and he smiled against your hair, happier than he'd been in years.

Finally, he thought, pulling you closer. Finally, she was letting him spend.

#recs

Valko is the only male lead who isnt a virgin. There is no way that man did not pull before MC

… Valko likes doggy style but is a tits guy so he has a mirror by his bed so he can watch tibbies bounce

vampiranewmix

Me: im not gonna write this week—i desperately need to take a break

Infold: drops valko trailer

Me: so unfortunately, i was correct about his personality and he fits in with the story

Im gonna throw up

Valko is popular jock coded

Oh Valko is 100% getting added to the story. Its going to be so so fucking funny.

messymew

Sneaky Sex with Gege

tags/cw: heavy pseudocest (adoptive siblings), use of Caleb's evol, grinding, p in v, use of "gege, meimei, big brother, little sister, baby sister", teasing/mocking, creampie, voyeurism if you squint?

an: I loved writing this request a little too much and got a tadddddd carried away. uhh

wc: 1.5k

Not very proofread

It was finally summer. Summer meant going out every day, buying icecream, and dressing as slutty as you want. But it also meant Caleb was home.

Your adopted brother was as sweet, kind, and caring as any brother could be. Of course, he teased you at times, but what kind of siblings don't argue? Definitely not you two. In fact, tonight he had teased you right out of your pants.

It started innocently enough. Caleb had been home for about 2 weeks now, falling into his normal routine with you. Brushing your teeth together in the mornings, cooking breakfast for you while grandma reads in the living room, braiding your hair at night, eyeing your tips through those thin summer tank tops you love to wear. Yup, Caleb was practically in heaven. It's not often he gets to see his adorable little sister nearly half naked yet still finding a way to complain about the heat wave.

Night fell and it was just your luck that the fan in your room had stopped working this morning, the only reprieve from the heat since the AC broke down last week. Caleb had fixed it, but it broke again soon after from the wear and tear of old age. It seemed like everything in this old box of a house was giving out one way or another, but none of you could seem to let the place go. Too many memories. I guess you can't turn back time with a toolbox.

Click click click click

“Dammit.” You try the power button of the fan over and over again, but even the faint thrumming of a motor you heard the first time has stopped.

You groan loudly as you feel the familiar wave of sweat over your body. This had to be the hottest night of summer. You flop down onto your cool sheets, feeling them warm instantly and stick to the damp skin of your back. You lie there as still as you can since movement only makes things hotter. That is until you hear the strong whirring of a fan from another room. Caleb's room.

You let yourself sit up, feet hitting the slightly creaky floorboards and padding softly across the hall, driven by the need to cool down. You stand outside, concealed by his half open door, staring at the fan like it's water in the middle of the desert.

“Come in, pips”

His voice interrupts your train of thought.

“How did you know I was out here?” Your question earned a small chuckle.

“Well... you weren't exactly the quietest little thing when you were frustrated about that fan of yours. Figured you'd come here for mine.” He says it like you're predictable, but he really just knows every little thing about you down to your smallest habit.

“Oh…” you finally step into the room. He's in nothing but a shirt and boxers. He pats the bed in the spot next to him, but you ignore it, eyes locked onto the fan. Your feet carry you there swiftly and you plop down on the floor right in front of it. Bliss. You groan in relief as the cool air hits your heated skin.

Caleb raises an eyebrow, shifting to lean against his hand as he watches you, eyes falling to your nipples that are slowly pebbling beneath the thin fabric of your top in response to the cold air.

“Ohhhh” Caleb's mockingly understanding voice cuts right into your long awaited reprieve. “So that's how it is? You only want your big brother for his fan? I'm startin' to think you hate me here, pips.” He feigns hurt but his lips quirk into a small smile.

You ignore him, knowing that responding will only get you teased more.

“Oh, woe is me. Gege's sweet baby sister won't even turn to see him dying for her affection. She's fallen in love with my fan.” He wipes a fake tear.

“Ugh” with a sigh of exasperation you finally turn to face him because you want his teasing to end. That and it's getting a little chilly sitting right in front of the fan.

“Really, gege? Fine.” you playfully climb on top of him, legs straddling his own. You're finally going to win this time, or so you think.

“Happy now?” your hands rest against his firm abs.

“Mmmm… nope.” You're suddenly jerked forward by a strong force, making you fall forward with your soft tits pressed right against his chest. Your hips are now directly on top of his, close enough for you to feel the heat there that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Now I'm happy.”

His hands slide down to your hips, making you gasp.

“Gege…” Caleb had used his evol, pinning you down.

He squeezes the soft flesh, sliding down to the back of your thighs.

“Hmm? ‘Gege’ what?” He repeats the title you used in the same desperate tone you said it in. That bastard is teasing you. Still. After he's the one that put you in this position.

He snaps the waistband of your shorts against your flushed skin, making you yelp.

He chuckles at the sound.

“Careful there, baby sis. Don't want grams to wake up and see you “cooling down” on top of your brother, do you?”

He was right. She was in the room directly next to his, and his door was still open just a crack. Even if it was closed fully, sound travels through these thin walls like they're paper.

“Th-then stop-” you start, quickly cut off by a pinch to your thigh, “ah!”

“Nope. Need to hear more of those cute little sounds, pips. Make more for me, yeah? Not too loud though, hm? Just for gege.”

His hands started to give your hips a slow rock against his now stiff cock through his boxers. Your face presses into his chest, muffling a whine.

“I heard that.” He whispers into your ear, fingers starting to rub slow circles against your growing heat through your shorts.

“Cay…” you whimper, trying your best to stay quiet. You can't help but grind down against him, the reason you came in here at all completely forgotten.

He chuckles again, the sound rumbling against your chest. “Cay… Cay…” he mocks, “can't even say my full name now, meimei? You that desperate for gege's cock?”

His hands slide your shorts down and toss them aside carelessly, leaving your dripping cunt on full display.

“Caleb… hurry…” you whine.

He frees his cock from his boxers. “Ooh, you really are desperate.” He taps the fat tip of his cock against your entrance, already dripping a bead of precum. “Why don't you sit on it then, hmm? Show your big brother how much you want this cock stretchin’ you out.”

You try to push down but your legs are too shaky and his cock is too thick. You whimper at the stretch as his tip pops inside.

He groans at the tightness. “Need help, meimei? Need gege to slam it in for you? Hm? Deep in that tight little pussy. Only mine.” His words are breathless, needy.

You nod quickly. “Y-yeah, Cay. Please…”

It doesn't take long for him to slam you down on his girthy cock, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. But before you can cry out, his hand clamps tight over your mouth. You can taste the sweat on his palm as your scream is stifled down to a whine.

He lifts you almost all the way before slamming back down, his thrusts setting a punishing pace. Your moans and whines are muffled by his palm.

“Thought I told you to be quiet, pips. Gonna wake up grandma if you keep gettin’ sooo loud.” he's enjoying your suffering. He lets out a stifled sound himself as he feels your cunt clenching around him in pre-orgasmic bliss.

“Oh? Gettin’ close already?” another groan as you squeeze him. “Shit… that's fast, pips.”

You whine into his palm, thighs already shaking. You weren't sure how much longer you could hold back, but you didn't want to let him win. However, your dreams of winning were quickly crushed when you felt the thumb of his free hand circling your clit. Your nails dug deep into his chest, leaving red scratch marks that grandma would definitely ask about tomorrow.

You fell apart completely, a white ring of your release forming at the base of his cock as you moaned, unable to hold back anymore.

“Theeere it is… that's my sis. Cumming so quick for her gege.” He patted your ass softly like an owner rewarding their pet.

It wasn't long before Caleb was reaching the same peak, thrusts becoming erratic. “Fuck pips, ‘m close. Gonna fill that little pussy. Gonna take it all for me, hm? Gonna be niiice and full of gege's cum, yeah? Shit-! Take it, meimei..”

Hot ropes of cum fill you to the brim, some seeping out around the seal of his cock inside of you.

You both pant heavily, his palm finally leaving your lips as you lie tangled in his bed.

Whirrrr…

That sounds like the noise your fan made before it-

Clunk

“Shit…” Caleb whispers.

There goes the other fan. And right when you needed it most.

Written by request 🍎!

*throws at everyone who doesn't like Caleb's canon trope and runs away*

#recs

luvyizhou

18+ mdni | who knew your hot neighbour xavier was a spicy content creator? (if u guys like this lmk if u want a part 2!!!)

TW. dirty talk, mention of being a gooner lol, ethical dilemmas

“oh fuck my star, you’re squeezing me so tight”

your hand circled the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your heat as the voice of your favourite erotic audio creator ‘xoxolumiere’ played through your headphones.

when you first found him you felt almost embarrassed listening to the slick noises of his hand working his cock, quickly exiting out of the app and trying desperately to get his moans off your mind. you lasted a good couple days before getting home from a late night with your friends, deciding to “blow off steam” by pulling out the vibrator you hid in your bedside drawer, charging it as you scrolled through twitter for something to get you off.

you nearly gave up before seeing an upload from him—the warnings catching your eye.

handyman fucks you as payment (degradation+praise, whimpering, talking you through it)

with several shots in your system, you worked up the courage to sit through the entire 9 minutes of his soft voice uttering the nastiest phrases you had ever heard.

“this what you wanted, pretty? jus’ needed to be fucked good, right?”

“f-fuck, jus’ like that angel, work for that cock”

“o-oh god, gonna lemme cum inside you, right? please baby, got so much for you”

before you knew it you were dripping from his whines alone, vibrator forgotten as you scrolled through his page, bookmarking every audio that piqued your interest.

eventually it became a ritual, days passing in a blur as you waited for another post from him. sometimes you even listened to his regular audios, his soothing voice talking about his day helping you unwind after a stressful work week. you felt kinda weird for developing a parasocial relationship with someone you couldn’t even see (aside from the rare nudes he posted, sunlight reflecting off his built torso and highlighting the happy trail leading down to an unfairly pretty cock), but it’s not like you were hurting anyone!

it didn’t affect your work or personal life, so it wasn’t really that big a deal…still though, you found yourself in a moral dilemma more often than you wanted to admit. porn is super detrimental to society, but here you are with a whole alt account just to retweet it. you’d never let a man disrespect you, but you had post notifs on for some stranger that regularly called you a ‘dirty little whore’ in the audios he posted for his 3k followers. were you a gooner? as bad as the men you made fun of online?

these thoughts weighed heavy on your mind as you checked the mail, deciding to take a day off for some much needed self-care (code for lounging in your bummy clothes while you ordered food). stuck thinking about your…erotic predicament, you bumped into the broad chest of your neighbour xavier.

the flyers from your mailbox flew from your hands and combined with his pile of colourful letters. you stuttered out an immediate apology, mentally beating yourself up for wearing an ugly outfit the one time you literally bumped into your attractive neighbour.

“hey starlight” he muttered, the nickname easily falling from his lips as if it didn’t just ruin every other nickname ever for you. he came up with it after coincidentally bumping into you during a lunar eclipse, conversation flowing easily ever since then.

still—he was a good looking guy. even with the baggy clothes he always wore and his soft face, his sturdy frame always caught your eye. he crowded empty elevators when the two of you were alone, his towering height making you both nervous and excited. of course you still blushed around him.

you tried to give yourself the ick by saying he was probably filthy, but you knew it was a lie. he always smelled good and even with the basic clothes he wore, you never saw a stain or worried he was one of those guys that sniffed clothes to see if they were still good to wear.

“h-hey, i’m so sorry.”

he shook his head at your apology, quick reassurance falling from his lips to let you know it was his fault for standing in the way like an idiot. you giggled while sorting through the mail, noticing the large number of packages he received. “jesus xav, is this fan mail or do you just subscribe to every newsletter you see?”

your attempt at a joke fell on deaf ears, the tips of his ears turning red as he sputtered out how it was weeks of leaving his mailbox unopened. you wanted to apologize for intruding or overstepping but he spit out a quick apology that he had something in the oven and had to check on it. you watched him quickly walk to the stairs, going two at a time before waving once more and entering his floor.

the elevator dinged as you sighed at your complete lack of game, checking off another chance ruined with someone attractive. you looked through your mail as a distraction from the situation, flipping through the bills and bank statements before seeing a letter addressed to a different unit.

you scanned the envelope for a name before your breath caught, heart racing at the familiar user listed on the package.

‘xoxolumiere’

a lipstick stain was pressed next to the name, your eyes blinking several times as you tried to convince yourself this was a dream. there’s no fucking way the guy who’s voice you got off to lived in the same building as you.

before you could think better of it, you pressed his floor number and stood before the door, breathing picking up as you swiftly knocked three times, bracing yourself for the very real possibility he could be unattractive or a weirdo or…

“miss me already my star?”

you tried to think of a response, desperately wanting to be normal in front of your very hot and apparently very popular neighbour xavier. unfortunately though, today was just not your day.

you shoved the letter against his abdomen before walking off, ignoring the way his eyes widened and his voice called your name.

the elevator doors shutting shook you from the dream or nightmare you felt like you were in, shame immediately washing over you as you realized you had been getting off to your sweet and kind and incredibly sexy neighbour for months.

the worst part is that you knew you weren’t gonna stop—now that you knew he was hot, you were probably gonna become an even more active listener.

yeah, you were definitely a gooner.

#recs

someone removed one of my stories from their bookmarks and i can't help but think it might be because there'll now be swords crossing in the story lmao

#i can't get mad cause that's usually not my cup of tea either #i believe to be a better writer you gotta write things that you've never written before

orchardjasmine

Caleb x fem!reader CWs: heavy pseudo-incest, stomach bulge, Caleb's a meanie, dub-con if you squint but MC's into it, trust Please enjoy my 'fuck you' to the incessant censorship of Caleb's trope in EN.

"Caleeeeb!" You whine, digging your heels into Caleb's ass trying to get him to push deeper inside you. "Stop being mean! I'm your sister!"

"No, no, noo." He chuckles cruelly. "I’m just your friend remember. That was how you introduced me to your work friends, riiiight?"

"You-you know I don't want that!" You stutter.

His cock slips in the tiniest bit further, his tip notching inside your hole, before sliding back out again.

"What do you want then?" He drawls. "You want me to call you my baby sister while I’m fucking you?"

You nod, tears brimming in your eyes from the frustration of him refusing to fuck you like you need.

"You want me to talk about how much I looove being deep inside my sister's little pussy?" He goads.

"P-please." You whimper.

"Ooh, but I'm just your little childhood bestie." He gives a harsh thrust into your cunt, finally burying himself to the hilt. "The little boy you hung out with for playdates."

He's getting mean and he sounds genuinely disgusted at the idea of not being your brother.

His thrusts are slow but so incredibly deep. You peek down at your stomach and can see the hint of a bulge pressing through with each snap of his hips.

"Oh f-fuck." You moan, pussy clamping down around his cock.

"I'm not the brother who taught you everything you know." He says through gritted teeth. "Not the brother who practically raised you, who bandaged your knee and wiped your tears when you had a fall."

Your tits bounce every time he drives his cock into you and, god, somehow you can feel him in your throat.

"Caleb, please." You whimper again quietly.

"Noooo." He continues, paying you no mind. "I’m just your sweet, innocent friend who happened to live with you," He grunts, shoving his cock in your cunt to emphasise his point. "Be adopted by the same person as you," Another firm thrust. "Who called you his sister his whole entire life."

A tear rolls down the side of your face. You're so overwhelmed, not only by the feel of his cock deep inside your pussy but by the words spilling from his mouth.

"Definitely - hng -" His voice is strained. "Definitely not your big brother who fills your needy cunt every night."

Caleb's thrusts become frantic and his cock keeps slamming into your g-spot over and over again. You can feel the rise in your tummy building up, the one that signifies you're about to make a huge mess all over the sheets.

And then he stops. Holds himself impossibly deep inside you with a long groan.

"F-fuck you, Caleb!" You cry hoarsely. "I was about to come!"

"Say it." He enunciates with purpose, eyes piercing into yours. "Say I'm your brother."

"You know you are!" You pout, refusing to give in.

"Stop being stubborn." He presses down gently on your belly where his cock is peeking through.

"Oh god, Caaaleeeb!" You're keening underneath him, the tip of his cock rubbing up against your g-spot with every desperate roll of your hips up to him.

"Say. It." He leans down even closer to your face, breaths intermingling. "Or I won’t let you come."

You try to turn your head away from him but one of his hands comes up to grasp the back of your head, turning and pulling it up so your foreheads are pressed together and he stares deep into your eyes.

"C'mon." He coos softly. "Be a good little sister."

You let out a quiet sob.

"Y-you're," You sniffle. "You're my b-big brother."

"Mhmm." He moans loudly, fucking into you relentlessly once more. "That’s right, my sweet, baby sister."

The fist in your hair tightens and you feel his hot breath against your face.

"I’m not your fucking kid friend from your childhood." He snarls.

"I’m."

Thrust.

"Your."

Thrust.

"Brother."

Have any ideas you'd like me to write? Send me an ask and I just might!

#recs #toxic #love it

medicli

𐔌 . ˚ ALWAYS, FOREVER ┆LOVE & DEEPSPACE ֹ ₊ ꒱

obsessive, possessive & violent—they love you. they’d do anything for you. everything they do is for you because you’re all they need. you can’t leave them, you’re meant to be together always & forever. — wc. 5.8k

STARRING ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb

WARNINGS ♱ HEAVY YANDERE THEMES, DARK CONTENT, possessiveness, obsession, manipulation — (zayne) bsf!zayne, dacryphilia, love bombing, extreme jealousy, mentions of m*rder, cervix fking, rough!zayne — (sylus) needy, pssy drunk!sylus, lots of m*rder lol, cervix fking — (rafayel) STALKER!RAF, mean dom!raf, allusions to unaliving reader’s dates, overstimulation, fear play/kink, creamp¡e — (caleb) lovesick!caleb, established relationship, mentions of caleb unaliving people, secret cameras, MANIPULATIVE!CALEB, isolation, fear kink, use of good girl — (xavier) clingy!xavier, hoovering, established (enmeshed) relationship, baby trapping, false security, backshots — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+

KIT’S NOTE ♱ HAPPY VALENTINES DAY MY BEAUTIFUL LOVES. i hope u all enjoy my first attempt at writing yandere themes (i know some of it isn’t very yandere but whatever). PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE CONSUMING. if you see something that isn’t in the warnings and should be, please let me know :,). also special shoutout to @xinghuisknight for reading xavie’s part and making me continue writing this hc. i love u n happy birthday ior <3 — COMMENTS & REBLOGS ARE SOOO APPRECIATED!!

#ZAYNE — MEANT TO BE YOURS

you love your best friend. he’s there for you through thick and thin, steady and unwavering—yet you’re completely oblivious. zayne has loved you for years, ever since the moment he met you. he was never meant to be just your best friend—no, he was meant to be yours. and you were always supposed to be his.

it took everything in him not to break when you got your first boyfriend. he’d fall asleep thinking of you being touched by another man and then he’d dream of all the ways he’d murder him with his bare hands. it drove him mad to share you with someone else, but he wouldn’t lose you. he could never lose you without completely losing himself.

but then you break up.

you show up at his place with swollen, red lips and tear tracks dried into your skin, eyes dull in a way that makes his chest cave in. he takes one look at you and understands everything without a word.

#recs #if they aint toxic i dont want it

poisonf0rest

Omg all the overstim in your sylus and raf works 😫🤤 makes me wonder if you have headcannons about how the other boys would be 🫣

can I make you lose your mind? (caleb, rafayel, sylus, xavier, zayne)

♱⋅── nearly 7k of the lads boys just losing their minds (and their control) when it comes to you. art by @/osk_purinnumee on x

♱⋅── WARNINGS: mdni, overstimulation, oral, pussy drunk boys, daddy kink (caleb), bicep choking (caleb), "just the tip" (sylus), size kink (sylus), cunnilingus (xavier), Lemurian heat (rafayel), orgasm denial (rafayel), breeding kink (rafayel), slight exhibisionism (zayne)

Caleb ♱⋅ ── the bully

How could Caleb deny you?

How could he when you come to him crying big crocodile tears, sobbing how no matter what you do you can’t seem to cum, how you think you must be broken, how no one would ever want such a hard-to-please woman in their bed.

As if he hasn’t spent years watching you, waiting for you, knowing damn well that the problem isn’t you.

#recs

rawme-price

Inspired by [this] lovely post by @on-a-lucky-tide

Thinking about ghost who, since you moved in together, has always had a preferred side of the bed.

He doesn't like sleeping next to the wall, as you've come to learn. The fist few nights he would grumble and push you further onto the bed before snuggling up to your back with a "my spot now, love. Comes with the relationship."

Not that you mind, of course. You like how it almost feels like he envelops you, tucked between the wall and simon.

It's not until you two stay at a hotel this unofficial rule you've decided ghost lives by is brought into question.

You don't think much of the bed being in the center of the space, it's a standard layout. So you pick a side arbitrarily, exhausted and wanted to pass out. Only to peek your eye's open to ghost looming over you, frowning "yer in the wrong spot. I go there."

Which....makes no sense. There's no wall, no nice space to hide in. The thought ghost had a designated place without the presence of a wall makes you question the entire rule itself!

Every place after that, you start taking greater note, until it huts you.

Ghost always sleeps on the side closest to the door.

In fact....ghost is always closest to the door. Manhandling you into a different seat at restaurants, or climbing over you on the sofa to claim "his spot".

A physical barrier between you and the entrance.

Ghost has been protecting you this whole time without you even realizing. He's been enveloping you in his form of safety. If someone were to enter with bad intentions, they'd reach him before you.

Ghost huffs in confusion when you cuddle him much tighter than usual that night, but indulges either way. He's just happy to keep one of the few good things in his life safe.

#recs #hi throwing up an crying lol

gentil-minou

Everytime I see posts like this I get filled with such profound sadness

Cause you know who has the same brainrot as you? The same unhinged feelings as you after you've read the fic? The person who always wants to scream about the fic with you?

THE PERSON WHO WROTE IT

I never used to leave comments but since I got into the habit of commenting on everything i enjoy it's been incredible. Especially when the author gets back to me about it and we get to have a discussion of what other ideas they had. One writer replied to my comment with a 5 paragraph essay detailing the Floorplan of the building the characters lived in and it was incredible

Anyways this is all to say that if you find a fic that just makes you want to scream from the rooftops, leave a comment saying that to the author and maybe they will join you and you can scream incoherently together

cookie-sheet-toboggan

It's also important to know, this feeling of isolation is what the author feels but ten fold. It's the exact reason writers are begging for comments. It's to talk about the story with someone. That story that's taken up your life for a few hours, or perhaps days, has taken up the author's life for weeks, months, and - very often - years. There's a very good chance these authors are dying to talk to you.

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