Don’t you know an aparition is a cheap date?

☆25☆ He/it ☆ xReader fiend (writer), posts once a year but damn do I try ☆ ASK BOX OPEN SUBMISSIONS AND REQUESTS OPEN Banner by @sailormoon-cola

[readerxyourbabe]

My diagnosis is that no one has been treating you well!

ᦾSirius𓂅agender 𓂅24

He/Him is fine

Nanami’s Husband ♡ Caleb’s didi/meimei ♡ Sylus’ Owner ♡ Gojo’s Weakness ♡ Katsuki’s Nerd ♡ Ada's Dog

The things I write include, but are not limited to, smut, angst, contain explicit material, sexual content, dark themes, etc. Please read all warnings and tags as needed, and read at your own discretion. I prefer minors don't interact; can't stop your stubborn ass but minor I catch, it's on sight. Let me repeat: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. I don't follow or mutual accounts that are ageless either.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

💉Recommendations

💉The Doctor is in!♡

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ )

Please don't hesitate to talk to me, I love meeting people and reading their stories and headcanons♡

⤹ ⊹Anons ₊˚๑

Interact in the Ask Box (second link ↑)if you wish to claim an anon place; so far, there is none.

English is NOT my first language, and while I do pride myself in my English I also beg you have patience for my dyslexic little self.

[obsessivecompulsive52]

Maybe this is just me and my twisted mind but seeing all the imagery of Caleb eating the apple and drinking makes me think.... cannibal Caleb? Anyone? No? Just me? haha.... ok. Don't even worry about it.

[tlirsgender]

They don't tell you this but besides the Beloved Mutual there's also the Longterm Follower who you don't follow back but they're always in your notes and you're kind of watching them. Checking on the longterm follower's bio every so often like turning over a log. She's trans now good for her

[tlirsgender]

Longterm followers I am putting fresh leaves and hrt in your enclosure

[beacon-lamp]

hello beloveds ☺️

[iceslushii]

made an alternate version for the mutuals ive never spoken to

[thetreeofliberty]

You are appreciated

[paperplateprose]

not now kitten. daddy's realizing that the scene he invested 1000 words into could be significantly improved but only if he started over from scratch

[sealovsky]

The best yearner nomination

[sayain-princess-vegenta]

How the LADS feel about your darker skin color

I've been thinking about this for a while but i was Afraid to Post it. I'm not sure i did it Justice, but please enjoy. Caleb-Aside from your heart(and EVER out to get you) This is the other reason why he is so protective, He knows how cruel the world is, how it hates you and he wants to wipe it off the face of the earth, He loves You whether as his adopted sibling or lover. He wants the world to love you for the amazing person you are, and if they refuse to see it he will make them Then he will take you away just the two of you, where he can praise and love your skin and you never feel subconscious or alone. Caleb adores your skin tone and he makes sure it's healthy and safe. He lathers you in lotion and smoothers you in sunscreen because “yes you can still get sunburnt pipsqueak”. He makes sure you drink plenty of water because “I can tell you're dehydrated, you're ashy silly.” If he ever heard anything about the color of your skin it's a toss up on whether he would make a scene and then make the person disappear or just make the person disappear, It would depend on if you heard it as well. He knows your strong and you face backlash but he wants to be the one to handle it, because your skintone is perfect

Zayne- He secretly has a fetish for it, Not one that will make it creepy but he frequently just finds himself just staring at you, at your glow when the sun hits you. He’s obsessed with it, and wants to kiss and suck all over you. When you wear colors that just frame your skin so nicely he takes a picture, his photo album is just you. He Physically has to pull his eyes away when you are putting on lotion. He loves the contrast of your skincolors, He loves holding your hand and seeing the shade be different from his, He loves that you do have a red undertone but he has to get up close and personal to see it. he loves seeing your hips meet frantically and his fingers gripping the skin on your thighs as the moon light reflects both your tones, he is in heaven He loves when you are in thralled in passionate nights the sweat gleaming off your dark skin (he really wants your kids to look like you but they always come out looking like him and he just wants ONE baby with your skin tone just one) Raf- You are beautiful, Point blank. You are a beauty incarnate. He's not stupid he hears whispers and comments (though they don't last long when he is near) . He is a lemurian and they come in different shades and colors more than the human eye can see so your dark skin is lovely to him. He loves putting you in bright colors and watching as they pop on your skin, Blues and yellows, Pinks and greens. You're a goddess, his muse. He loves painting you, showing you how he sees your skin color through his eyes, how he would never want you to change at all.  He loves putting glitter on you and watching it sparkle and dance across your melanin. He needs you to be the center of attention, because you deserve the spotlight and His heart melts when your skin is glowing. Sylus- You're upfront and center. He is not ashamed of the person he loves. He wants you seen and to be known. And yes he had heard the talks behind his back, of how he could and should do better, but he doesn't even have to lift a finger because Luke,Kieran, and even Mephisto do not play when it comes to you. He makes sure that every outfit every piece of jewelry complements and brings out your skintone. He makes sure that your outfits are somewhat revealing (if you're comfortable with that) as he wants you to stand out everywhere on his arm. You are his heart, his soul and he’d be damned if you are made to feel ashamed because your skin is darker. He would level cities for just a chance to see your skincolor glow under the neon lights of the N109 zone. Xavier- He’s simple, He loves you. That's it. You're his queen, his knight, his friend. His lover. Why would he hate that? He loves that he can spot you in a crowd just by seeing your skin. He loves that he has to try extra hard to make you flustered and he can't tell just by looking at a blush, When he thinks of you, he sees YOU. Your skin tone doesn’t bother him. Similar to Zayne, he also likes the contrast, he loves using his evol in pictures to make him so bright you can only see yourself. He loves waking up to naps and seeing the sunlight (or moonlight) caresses your skin. He loves when you're ashy and he gets to help you lotion. He loves putting sunscreen on you and even best is when you have uneven tan and now your skin is different shades of brown. You are home and he loves you all the same.

[readerxyourbabe]

original stories on ao3

I have a question… do people really read original stories on AO3? Like if I write a story that’s just good, elaborate word vomit not related to fandom, Will people read? I know getting readers is hard to begin with even with fanfics, that’s anywhere ever really, but I’m curious because I’ve seen a good amount of original works on ao3… just thinking out loud I think.

granted, one of the main characters is pretty much Zayne from Love and Deepspace, but also the plot is so far removed from the game that at this point I don’t even think it can just be him and some original character; it’s the kinda thing in which it’s best to just.. pretend he’s someone else.

anyway, if anyone is interested in catholic guilt, religious trauma, gender transition shown happening (ftm), and the troubles of falling in love with a priest in a small town… let me know

[tonycries]

BuIIy!Sukuna who has made his stance on you very cIear - that you’re off-limits. Which might seem counterintuitive except for the way he sees it—no one else can tease you but him, no one else can make names for you but him. BuIIy!Sukuna who knows you don’t take it to heart- and he doesn’t take it too far. After all, once Iectures are over and you’re filing out of Professor Yaga’s hall, he knows he’s just gonna end up in your dorm again. BuIIy!Sukuna who you have such a tight Ieash on - literally. Who you make beg and pIead at your feet for a second between your Iegs, who you overstimuIate till he cries—you bet no one could guess that this was your big n’ bad ‘buIIy’ now, huh?

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

He is sitting at the kitchen table when you walk in.

Not at his desk. Not at the window. Not somewhere inexplicably unusual the way he usually is—slumped against a wall, or napping on the grass. Just at the table, hands folded, still as something carved from pale stone.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Xavier looks up. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at you, the way people look at things they were certain they would never see again, and the quiet of the apartment becomes the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

A long beat passes.

“You’re back,” he says. That’s all. Two words. His voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t do anything to betray the weeks of silence and unanswered messages and a front door that had stayed locked. And yet something about the way he says it—careful, almost cautious—makes your chest ache.

You open your mouth. Whatever you were prepared to say dissolves on contact.

He pushes back his chair and stands, crossing the distance between you in a few steps, like he isn’t sure you’re quite real yet and moving too quickly might disturb something. He stops in front of you. His eyes move across your face, taking inventory of every small thing that has changed or stayed the same.

His hand comes up slowly. Just the barest pressure of his fingertips against your face, like he’s confirming something.

“I kept your mail,” he says.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it—wet, a little wrecked. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something shifts behind his eyes, the faint release of something wound very tight for a very long time.

He pulls you in without another word. His arms close around you with a quiet, firm certainty, and he presses his face into your hair, and for a long time, neither of you moves.

There will be questions, later. There will be things that need to be said.

But for now, his heartbeat is steady against yours. And he doesn’t let go.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

It’s raining when he finds you.

Zayne is still in his coat, standing in the entryway of his house with the door only half-closed behind him, as if he’s been there for a while and simply forgot to finish coming in. His bag is on the floor. His glasses are in his hand. There’s a tension in the line of his shoulders that has nothing to do with a long shift.

He’s looking at his phone.

At your name on the screen. At the call that just connected.

When you step into the light, his head comes up. The silence that follows is different from his usual silences. This one is the kind that happens when the thing a person has been quietly bracing for finally arrives, and all the prepared words go missing at once.

He doesn’t move.

“You should have called,” he says at last, his voice even. Measured. Precisely the tone he uses when he is trying very hard to be the version of himself that holds things together.

“I know.”

“Before now. You should have called before now.” He sets his glasses on the shelf without looking away from you. “Do you have any idea—” He stops himself.

A breath. Slow.

He closes the remaining distance between you and stops close enough that you have to tilt your head up. His eyes move over you the same way his hands would over a patient—thorough, taking account of damage, checking for everything that might have been missed.

Then one hand comes up. Settles against the side of your neck. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his exhale is long, and quiet, and carries the weight of months.

“You’re cold,” he says.

“Zayne—”

“You’re cold.” He says it again, like the rest of it can wait, like this is what matters right now, and he turns you gently toward the warmth of home and closes the door behind.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The studio is a mess.

That isn’t unusual—Rafayel’s studio is always a mess—but this is a specific kind of mess, the kind made by someone who has been working through something rather than working on something. Canvases stacked against every wall. Dried brushes abandoned mid-use. A half-eaten plate of food pushed to the edge of the table and forgotten.

He’s at the window when you arrive, back to the door, looking out at the water.

He hears you come in. His shoulders go rigid.

A long pause. Long enough that you start to wonder if he’s going to say anything at all.

“How was it,” he says finally, not turning around, his voice light, conversational, the exact register he uses when he’s determined not to let you know something is wrong. “Wherever you went. Was it nice?”

“Rafayel—”

“I’m asking.” He turns around. His eyes find yours immediately, and whatever carefully assembled indifference he’d been preparing doesn’t quite survive the moment of actually looking at you. Something cracks through it. A small fracture. But visible.

“Do you know,” he says, and he crosses the room, and his voice has dropped into something quieter, “how many times I checked my phone? Every day. Every morning, every night, every time something happened that I wanted to tell you. Every time I saw something that reminded me of you.” He stops in front of you. “Which is constantly, by the way. Absolutely everything reminds me of you. It’s extremely inconvenient. And everything’s dull without you.”

He takes your face in both hands.

“I told myself I wasn’t worried.” His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “I was very convincing. I almost believed it.”

Something unsteady moves across his face—not quite anger, not quite relief, something that exists in the narrow space between the two.

“Cutie,” he says softly. “Don’t do that again.”

He pulls you against him, his clingy arms wrapping around you with the grip of someone who has been doing the opposite of letting go for a very long time.

“I was in the middle of daydreaming,” he mutters into your hair. “Completely ruined it.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You hear the record before you see him.

Something low and slow, an old vinyl, the kind he keeps in the locked cabinet by the window. It stops mid-song when the door opens.

Sylus is standing at the far end of the room with a glass of wine in his hand, and he looks at you with the particular quality of stillness that belongs to someone who has been waiting for something without admitting—even to themselves—that they were waiting at all.

Mephisto clicks quietly from somewhere above you.

“Well,” Sylus says. His voice is smooth, unhurried, the same as always. “Look at that. The kitten has found her way home.”

He doesn’t move toward you. He turns back to the window, sets his glass down on the ledge, and studies the city below with the measured consideration of a man reviewing a plan that has finally resolved itself.

“I had a bet with the twins,” he muses. “They thought it would be longer.”

You step further into the room. “And what did you think?”

A pause.

“I thought they were wrong.”

He turns then, and walks toward you, and up close the light catches something in his expression that his voice hasn’t betrayed—a quality of attention that is too careful, too precise, too entirely fixed on you to be as effortless as he’s making it look.

He reaches out. His knuckle grazes your cheek, light as a question.

“You’re in one piece,” he observes.

“I am.”

“Good.” The word lands quietly. He studies you for another moment, and then his mouth curves. Slow. The kind of smile that almost reaches the sharp red of his eyes.

“You owe me a conversation,” he says. “A long one.”

He doesn’t say he was concerned. He doesn’t say what the months of silence cost him. He doesn’t have to. He just takes your hand, and leads you to the couch, and doesn’t let go once he does.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

He opens the door before you can knock.

Like he heard your footsteps on the stairs. Like he knew. Like some part of him had been listening to exactly that sound for a very long time and his body simply reacted before the rest of him could catch up.

For a moment, he just stands there.

Caleb, who could deliver a valedictorian speech in front of hundreds of people without a tremor in his voice, who flew through Deepspace without flinching, who holds a rank that makes other officers stand up straighter when he walks into a room—he stands in his own doorway and doesn’t say a single word.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are doing something complicated.

“Hey,” you say.

Something in him breaks open at the sound of your voice. Not visibly, but you watch it happen, the same way you can see a change in pressure before the weather turns.

“Hey, Pips,” he says back. Low. A little rough at the edges.

He reaches out and takes your hand. That’s all. Just your hand, wrapped in his, and he squeezes once like he’s checking whether you’re real, and then he pulls you inside, and the door falls shut behind you.

“I made dinner,” he says after a moment, already moving toward the kitchen, your hand still in his, refusing to put any more distance between you than is functionally necessary. “Well. I started dinner. An hour ago. It’s probably—”

“Caleb.”

He stops.

His grip on your hand tightens.

“I know,” he says, not turning around, his shoulders carrying every weeks of it. “I know.” His thumb traces a slow arc across your knuckles. “Just… don’t disappear on me like that again. Okay?” His voice dips at the end. “I can handle a lot of things, but not that.”

He finally turns to look at you.

“Not that,” he says again, quietly.

The ‘When U Come Back’ pendant on his necklace catches the light. He doesn’t let go of your hand through dinner, or after. Not once.

As you can see... me back. 😼

[ka1t0-s]

You loved stopping by Zayne's office when he worked.

Yes, you knew better than to fool around during his work hours. He was always so focused that nothing you'd ever try would get to him. Plus, you knew he liked taking his time anyways.

So you were content with popping in on his lunch breaks. Watching him focus on his work as he takes a bite every now and then.

"...Say, Zaynie?"

"Yes?" He asks, not looking up from his computer.

"Want a kiss before I go?"

His eyes glance up. Green irises locking in on yours. It was... Rare, that you asked if he wanted a kiss. Normally you'd just peck his cheek, pat his shoulder, and say your goodbyes.

But really, why would he say no?

"...Of course."

"Okay, close your eyes then."

He obliges. Something presses against his lips, before slipping into his mouth. It hits his tongue, and he shakes his head.

"...Chocolate? You said a kiss." Zayne's eyes open, looking up at you as your hand pulls away.

"Yeah, a kiss." You dangle another wrapped, tear shaped piece of candy infront of him before dropping it onto his desk. He frowns.

"...Valentines chocolate in March? If you really wanted to do this... you should've waited a few days for your day to do this."

"My day?" You murmur, tilting your head in confusion.

"Yes, April first. Since you like to act a fool."

"Rude. I was going to kiss you for real, but now I've changed my mind." Grabbing your bag, you put it over your shoulder before walking past him and towards the door.

"...So you're just going to get my hopes up and then leave? And I'm the rude one?"

"Yep, goodbye."

"You don't want me to walk you to the front entrance?"

"Nope."

Zayne sighs, getting up regardless and walking you through the sterilized halls.

"...Are you sure you don't want just one kiss?"

"Mh... well, if you're offering..." You murmur, leaning closer.

You feel foil graze your palm. "...There. You dropped it earlier." He murmurs, before taking a step back. "I'll see you after work, love."

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

He is sitting at the kitchen table when you walk in.

Not at his desk. Not at the window. Not somewhere inexplicably unusual the way he usually is—slumped against a wall, or napping on the grass. Just at the table, hands folded, still as something carved from pale stone.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Xavier looks up. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at you, the way people look at things they were certain they would never see again, and the quiet of the apartment becomes the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

A long beat passes.

“You’re back,” he says. That’s all. Two words. His voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t do anything to betray the weeks of silence and unanswered messages and a front door that had stayed locked. And yet something about the way he says it—careful, almost cautious—makes your chest ache.

You open your mouth. Whatever you were prepared to say dissolves on contact.

He pushes back his chair and stands, crossing the distance between you in a few steps, like he isn’t sure you’re quite real yet and moving too quickly might disturb something. He stops in front of you. His eyes move across your face, taking inventory of every small thing that has changed or stayed the same.

His hand comes up slowly. Just the barest pressure of his fingertips against your face, like he’s confirming something.

“I kept your mail,” he says.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it—wet, a little wrecked. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something shifts behind his eyes, the faint release of something wound very tight for a very long time.

He pulls you in without another word. His arms close around you with a quiet, firm certainty, and he presses his face into your hair, and for a long time, neither of you moves.

There will be questions, later. There will be things that need to be said.

But for now, his heartbeat is steady against yours. And he doesn’t let go.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

It’s raining when he finds you.

Zayne is still in his coat, standing in the entryway of his house with the door only half-closed behind him, as if he’s been there for a while and simply forgot to finish coming in. His bag is on the floor. His glasses are in his hand. There’s a tension in the line of his shoulders that has nothing to do with a long shift.

He’s looking at his phone.

At your name on the screen. At the call that just connected.

When you step into the light, his head comes up. The silence that follows is different from his usual silences. This one is the kind that happens when the thing a person has been quietly bracing for finally arrives, and all the prepared words go missing at once.

He doesn’t move.

“You should have called,” he says at last, his voice even. Measured. Precisely the tone he uses when he is trying very hard to be the version of himself that holds things together.

“I know.”

“Before now. You should have called before now.” He sets his glasses on the shelf without looking away from you. “Do you have any idea—” He stops himself.

A breath. Slow.

He closes the remaining distance between you and stops close enough that you have to tilt your head up. His eyes move over you the same way his hands would over a patient—thorough, taking account of damage, checking for everything that might have been missed.

Then one hand comes up. Settles against the side of your neck. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his exhale is long, and quiet, and carries the weight of months.

“You’re cold,” he says.

“Zayne—”

“You’re cold.” He says it again, like the rest of it can wait, like this is what matters right now, and he turns you gently toward the warmth of home and closes the door behind.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The studio is a mess.

That isn’t unusual—Rafayel’s studio is always a mess—but this is a specific kind of mess, the kind made by someone who has been working through something rather than working on something. Canvases stacked against every wall. Dried brushes abandoned mid-use. A half-eaten plate of food pushed to the edge of the table and forgotten.

He’s at the window when you arrive, back to the door, looking out at the water.

He hears you come in. His shoulders go rigid.

A long pause. Long enough that you start to wonder if he’s going to say anything at all.

“How was it,” he says finally, not turning around, his voice light, conversational, the exact register he uses when he’s determined not to let you know something is wrong. “Wherever you went. Was it nice?”

“Rafayel—”

“I’m asking.” He turns around. His eyes find yours immediately, and whatever carefully assembled indifference he’d been preparing doesn’t quite survive the moment of actually looking at you. Something cracks through it. A small fracture. But visible.

“Do you know,” he says, and he crosses the room, and his voice has dropped into something quieter, “how many times I checked my phone? Every day. Every morning, every night, every time something happened that I wanted to tell you. Every time I saw something that reminded me of you.” He stops in front of you. “Which is constantly, by the way. Absolutely everything reminds me of you. It’s extremely inconvenient. And everything’s dull without you.”

He takes your face in both hands.

“I told myself I wasn’t worried.” His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “I was very convincing. I almost believed it.”

Something unsteady moves across his face—not quite anger, not quite relief, something that exists in the narrow space between the two.

“Cutie,” he says softly. “Don’t do that again.”

He pulls you against him, his clingy arms wrapping around you with the grip of someone who has been doing the opposite of letting go for a very long time.

“I was in the middle of daydreaming,” he mutters into your hair. “Completely ruined it.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You hear the record before you see him.

Something low and slow, an old vinyl, the kind he keeps in the locked cabinet by the window. It stops mid-song when the door opens.

Sylus is standing at the far end of the room with a glass of wine in his hand, and he looks at you with the particular quality of stillness that belongs to someone who has been waiting for something without admitting—even to themselves—that they were waiting at all.

Mephisto clicks quietly from somewhere above you.

“Well,” Sylus says. His voice is smooth, unhurried, the same as always. “Look at that. The kitten has found her way home.”

He doesn’t move toward you. He turns back to the window, sets his glass down on the ledge, and studies the city below with the measured consideration of a man reviewing a plan that has finally resolved itself.

“I had a bet with the twins,” he muses. “They thought it would be longer.”

You step further into the room. “And what did you think?”

A pause.

“I thought they were wrong.”

He turns then, and walks toward you, and up close the light catches something in his expression that his voice hasn’t betrayed—a quality of attention that is too careful, too precise, too entirely fixed on you to be as effortless as he’s making it look.

He reaches out. His knuckle grazes your cheek, light as a question.

“You’re in one piece,” he observes.

“I am.”

“Good.” The word lands quietly. He studies you for another moment, and then his mouth curves. Slow. The kind of smile that almost reaches the sharp red of his eyes.

“You owe me a conversation,” he says. “A long one.”

He doesn’t say he was concerned. He doesn’t say what the months of silence cost him. He doesn’t have to. He just takes your hand, and leads you to the couch, and doesn’t let go once he does.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

He opens the door before you can knock.

Like he heard your footsteps on the stairs. Like he knew. Like some part of him had been listening to exactly that sound for a very long time and his body simply reacted before the rest of him could catch up.

For a moment, he just stands there.

Caleb, who could deliver a valedictorian speech in front of hundreds of people without a tremor in his voice, who flew through Deepspace without flinching, who holds a rank that makes other officers stand up straighter when he walks into a room—he stands in his own doorway and doesn’t say a single word.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are doing something complicated.

“Hey,” you say.

Something in him breaks open at the sound of your voice. Not visibly, but you watch it happen, the same way you can see a change in pressure before the weather turns.

“Hey, Pips,” he says back. Low. A little rough at the edges.

He reaches out and takes your hand. That’s all. Just your hand, wrapped in his, and he squeezes once like he’s checking whether you’re real, and then he pulls you inside, and the door falls shut behind you.

“I made dinner,” he says after a moment, already moving toward the kitchen, your hand still in his, refusing to put any more distance between you than is functionally necessary. “Well. I started dinner. An hour ago. It’s probably—”

“Caleb.”

He stops.

His grip on your hand tightens.

“I know,” he says, not turning around, his shoulders carrying every weeks of it. “I know.” His thumb traces a slow arc across your knuckles. “Just… don’t disappear on me like that again. Okay?” His voice dips at the end. “I can handle a lot of things, but not that.”

He finally turns to look at you.

“Not that,” he says again, quietly.

The ‘When U Come Back’ pendant on his necklace catches the light. He doesn’t let go of your hand through dinner, or after. Not once.

As you can see... me back. 😼

[lvmie3ree]

[wuthering-frost]

cw: MDNI. first time, clingy!caleb, improper use of evol, groping, p in v sex.

The first time you had sex with him, Caleb nearly burst into tears. 

Mid-thrust, you watched as his face contorted, gorgeous eyes slanting before his purple irises glossed over. His torturous pace slowed. Your own heart clenched when his bottom lip wobbled.  

His ensnaring grip loosened around your wrists. Your right hand shot out to caress the side of his face. The first few tears rolled down his cheeks. You wiped away the fat droplets that clung to his jaw. 

“Oh, Leb,” you cooed in between soft pants, your brows furrowing in worry, “What’s wrong?” 

As his movements ensued, pleasure built up in the midst of your stomach, curling like a complex knot, albeit rather slowly. You detested the sudden loss of momentum, but relished in the vulnerability he shared with you, nonetheless. Your nails dug into the fabric of your sheet. Desperation drove you over the brink, and you began clawing at them restlessly. 

Caleb’s own hand brushed over yours before suddenly, it coiled around your wrist, trapping your cupped palm against his cheek. His other arm lifted your leg above his shoulder. “Mm—love you s’much,” He responded, tears flowing freely from his eyes, “I love you.” The speed of his thrusts quickened. Hips slammed into yours with a fervor greater than before. Your back arched, lifting you off the bed. The familiar weight of his evol pressed down onto your torso, pinning you to the bed. 

“IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou—” Caleb chanted the words over and over again as he fucked you, words uttered in sincerity as if he were reciting a mantra. More tears pricked his eyes as he neared his own climax. With one final thrust, he came undone. 

Caleb sobbed as the two of you came at once, release crashing over you like a surging tide. You convulsed violently around him, walls clenching around nothing as he retracted, pouring his seed over your stomach before collapsing atop you. 

Still, his hands did not part from your skin. Caleb’s lips sucked fervently on the sensitive spot on your neck. His hands mapped every dip and curve of your body, palming and kneading your breasts. 

Your own lips wobbled, and you stared at him with teary eyes. “Caleb…” 

He nuzzled into your chest. Arms coiled about your waist, metaphorical tail swishing rapidly in the air, face buried in the valley between your breasts, as if there was no place else he would rather be. But really, you knew he did it to hide the overwhelming emotion pouring out of his countenance. 

And so, with gentle hands, you stroked his hair and lifted his face from your chest and smoothed out the contorted skin. “I love you too, Leb. I love you so much.”  

And then, like lovesick, mentally troubled fools, both of you began crying in each other’s arms. Because the truth was, as composed as you attempted to be, you wanted and cherished this just as much as he did. How many years had you yearned for one another? How many years had you each rolled over in your bed, reached out a hand, expecting to meet the warmth of skin, only for your skin to touch the coldness of the empty bed, all to remind you that Caleb was gone. But somewhere in your heart, you believed he would return. You believed he would return to your arms, that you would get to hold him again, that this time, neither of you would let go.

And after years of mindless yearning, endless patience, your lover had come back to you.

Slowly, you pressed your ears against Caleb's and whispered, "Welcome home, Caleb."

[yoonsucks]

JJK! men as dog hybrids ˚.🦴

Cast: Choso, Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Naoya Content: They call reader MISTRESS, Sniffing, panty stealing, scenting, p eating/licking, d jerking, growling, short smut for a few of them

Puppy adoption program! You never really wanted a pet, an animal to share your space. But your close friend Shoko offered you to join a hybrid adoption program… for free? Just had to sign a shit ton of paperwork? Who wouldn't say no to a hot roommate…. with dog ears and a tail?!!!

Your pups!

Choso, Bloodhound

Height: 190cm

Age: Early 20s (no information given on the documents)

Very closed off, introverted and seemingly nonchalant the first month of taking him in. He silently listened to your commands, if he wants to go out for a walk together he'll silently take his leash and stand near you with it in his hands until you notice.

But the more comfortable he gets around you….. he's like a damn leech, nuzzling your hair, neck while you stand and cook, cuddle up next to you on the couch, a floppy ear and his black hair buried against your collarbone. A sweet, big boy that just liked being in your presence, asking for affection.

His sense of smell is a bit scary. He could basically smell when you were in a bad mood, he knew when your period was about to start, knew how long you had slept for. Who had touched you at work-

But his favourite smell is at night, when you masturbate with your fingers or toys.

His room was only a wall between yours. So the scent and faint sounds of you trying not to moan filled his ears and nose as if he was right next to you.

Sometimes when you fall asleep after the pleasure session, you're waken up by someone padding into the room, the sound of a tail swishing back and forth. And a tall, innocent looking Choso standing at the edge of your bed.

"Hi, Chos… did you have a nightmare again? It's okay, we can cuddle."

You easily make room for him. He often lied and said he couldn't sleep because of a bad dream. Such a bad boy. All he really wanted was to be close to you so he could smell your musk and previous arousal. You let him come hold on to you while you tried to dose off to sleep… Unaware of why he kept coming to you at such a convenient time right after cumming in your panties.

But then he was nosing your neck, your jaw, starting to move down to scent at your chest.

It seemed cute, your hands gently running trough his messy, dark hair. But then he whined. And dark, chocolate eyes were staring up at you from your chest, looking like he was about to plead.

And he did.

"Mistress… can i lick you?"

"Lick me? Sure." you laughed, assuming he just wanted to lick your skin, eyes shutting again.

But then he whimpered again when you misunderstood him, one or his large hands finding its way between your thighs, tugging on your sleep shorts, tail thumping against the mattress, his nose scrunching a bit.

"Lick… here, can I taste, please?" God, drool was already dripping down his chin, his hips grinding against your leg, you could feel his poor cock trying to find some friction.

You cooed down at him, shifting to lay back onto your pillows, giving him scratches behind his ear. You couldn't say no to him.

"Such a naughty boy, alright, just this once."

He moved so fast- suddenly between your thighs, legs tossed over his shoulders, panting against your clothed cunt. You could feel his large tongue lapping at your sweet scent through the shorts. He was so cute. So needy.

Choso's hands were already tugging down your shorts ( with permission from his Mistress, of course) for more.

Satoru, Siberian Husky

Height: 193cm

Age:28

Immediately was all over you the moment he saw you coming to pick him up from the hybrid care centre, his tail wagging almost like some propellor. His curious blue eyes and small howls and barks suddenly surrounded your daily life.

He was fairly active, sometimes you'd find him working out in the living room, grunting while doing some push ups, shirtless. Of course.

You had noticed that he had a lovely, white happy trail running down from his lower abdomen and disappearing in his sweatpants. I mean all of his body hair was white, maybe a bit grey? You tried not to ogle him too much.

But Satoru liked that, walking around shirtless or just in his boxers sometimes. He loved your attention on him, his ears always pointed to the direction of you.

He was shameless, always dragging you with him if he tried to run around at the park, demanded sweets and pets if he thought he had been a good boy.

He was far from it, but you forgave him.

His favourite activity? Scenting you. And dry humping your thigh. Or maybe your ass? Both.

You tried to lay down to read a book, he was on you, grinning down at you as he straddled your thigh, a hard print through his sweatpants as he ground down.

If you tried to ignore him, he'd whine, pull at your shirt to make you watch him, try to bite your book or pull at your hair for you to notice him.

"Mistressssss! Look at me! Watch me! Don't you love me?" He whined in a mock needy tone, a sly grin on his face.

You just sighed, focusing your eyes on him.

Sometimes you just help him, pressing your thigh up against his throbbing cock. Sometimes you just roll your eyes and wait for him to cum in his sweatpants. And then scold him about dirtying fresh laundry.

But he never learns, does he?

Nanami, Saint Bernard

Height: 184cm

Age: 27 (thought he looks and acts like he's older)

A gentle giant. A respectful man. You almost forgot he was a hybrid, if it wasn't for his tail and dirty blonde furred ears that get hidden by his hair sometimes.

He knew how to cook, clean, never bothered you.

You took him on walks, he didn't even need a leash since he was so well behaved.

You often gave him head pats and rubbed his back after a long day, his body a comfortable weight on top of yours. Such a good boy.

But… where had all of your favourite pairs of panties gone? And a few tank tops? A shoe? Just one?

Obviously you ask him where they are, he gives you a gentle smile, shaking his head and saying he hadn't seen them.

Hmmmmmm…. But his tail nervously flicked around.

"Kento, let me in your room."

He looked a bit surprised you didn't believe him. But being a good boy, he let you into his bedroom. A nervous sweat building on his temple.

You rummaged through his closet… nothing, under the bed, nothing.

Under his pillows? Bingo.

All of the aforementioned items looked like he used them daily, panties stuck together.

"Nanami, explain yourself." you picked up the cluster, waving it around in his face.

"Mistress…" His handsome face seemed to grow bashful, watching you sway the cum covered underwater around, but he couldn't find the words to explain himself.

"Bad boy. I think you deserve punishment. For lying and hiding my damn undies."

The blonde hybrid tried not to pout, which was a comical look on such a usually mature looking guy.

"Mistress…" he murmured again, tail slowly swaying. "You have to understand, i just… sleep better with your scent near me." His deep voice started to sound a lot more puppy like.

"Nanami, this is covered in… your cum."

You rubbed your forehead with your free hand while he cowered.

Punishment was due.

Nanami did as you said, laid down on his bed, you sitting on top of his middle.

The dirty, lacy fabric shoved in his mouth, his ears flat, but his tail wagged underneath him, the taste of himself and you filling his senses.

"Don't make a sound, or I'll think of something worse."

A light smack to his cheek.

He grunted.

You climbed off of him, a hand pushing his pants down, jerking his throbbing cock with no warning.

His hands twitched at his sides, hips lifting to try and fuck into your palm, a soft groan leaving his mouth, though muffled.

You gave him a look, hand pausing.

"Nanami, don't move. Be a good boy and take it."

An hour… or maybe two? it was hard to say. You edged him, pausing and waiting for him to calm down before continuing.

Nanami was a patient hybrid, but his nerves were yelling at him.

"Miissthuures.." he tried to call, doing his best to keep the panties in his mouth.

But you just sighed, reaching a hand up and shoving a few fingers between his lips to shut him up.

Toji, Doberman

Height: 188cm

Age: 32

An older hybrid, you weren't really sure why he even was in the program, but something about him not having a proper owner for most of his life melted your heart and you couldn't help but take in this… hunk of a man.

Toji was lazy, lounging on every comfortable surface, he liked to go for runs or work out in the backyard by himself. He didn't rely on you too much. He might give you a grin or sarcastic remark. But he didn't interact much with you too.

"Do i really have to wear this shit? It's pink." He complained as you put a collar around him.

"Toji, you don't get to make demands." You sighed, reaching up to try and pet his hair. But he pulled away and bared his teeth, growling, ears standing up straight.

You lowered your hand, glad he at least had allowed as much as putting on the collar.

"C'mon, it's not that bad."

"Whatever."

He was like this for a good while, not letting you touch him unless it was necessary.

But one day, you had gone on a date with some other person, leaving Toji at home. You didn't think nothing much of it, not like he seemed to like you much anyways.

But the moment you came home and took your jacket off, the big man was all over you, pulling you against his chest, grumbling while using his scent gland on the side of his neck to cover you, strong arms and rough hands gripping your dress.

"Who?"

"What do you mean 'who', Toji, i told you I'd go out today to see someone."

His hand founds its way under the skirt of your dress. "I can smell that you fucked someone."

"What- Toji, get off." You scoffed. trying to push at his arms. He listened and loosened his grip, hands falling to his sides, but he looked pissed.

"Why do you care so much, you don't even speak to me most of the time." You pointed out while fixing your outfit.

"You're my mate, nobody else can touch you."

"What?"

Why was he speaking in riddles. Has he really hid his possessiveness and claim over you and the space you lived in all this time?

"Mate."

"Toji…"

His tail lashed around, stepping forward and hugging you again. But you didn't shove him away, your own arms hugging him back, sensing that he needed comfort, something you had never expected from him.

"….not fair, I want to breed you too…"

"WHAT?"

Naoya, chihuahua

Height:181cm

Age:27

Naoya cursed his mother, his father, the universe. His breed of hybrid was a damn toy dog. Nobody took him seriously. But his ego didn't care. For a confident and annoying man, the little tail and small ears parting his hair didn't help his image.

Maybe that's why he was in the program.

He hated you the moment he met you. He wanted some important, high status man as his owner.

He didn't like what you cooked, hated what you wore. A total brat about everything.

You let him get used to your apartment and his new life for about a month before finally having enough and being stern with him.

He was standing, glaring at some squirrel outside of the window, growling. "Stupid creature… how dare you come close to my living quarters."

"Naoya! Come here." Your voice called him from the kitchen.

He was in trouble. But he just scoffed and waltzed into the room, flipping his bangs back almost dramatically.

"What is it, woman?"

"Did you chew this?" A sad looking plush dangled in your fingers. It was yours. From your bedroom.

"Tch, yes I did. My teeth need to be stimulated." He grinned, showing off his canines.

"Bad boy." You frowned, setting the plushie down.

He looked confused, you hadn't scolded him before.

"As if I care."

"That's it. Come here, on your knees." You pointed to the tile floor between your shoes.

"I'm not about to grovel-"

"Naoya. Sit."

His tail wagged in annoyance, ears flickering but he walked over, making a show of folding down and sitting on his knees, looking up at you.

"…. i didn't do anything wrong anyways. This is ridiculous…" He muttered, looking away.

You grabbed his hair, tugging his head back to face you.

He let out a whimper, looking pitiful like this.

"What the hell!"

"You want to use your mouth to destroy shit? I have an idea for what you can do with it." You glared down at him, fingers tangling more securely in his blonde locks.

He wanted to protest, but the look in your eyes made him hesitate. His instincts making him want to cower.

His short tail flicked behind him a few times.

You tugged his face between your thighs, his eyes going wide… but he didn't look like he minded all of a sudden. His hands sliding up the backs of your thighs. His eyes tried to glare at you, but he nuzzled up into your lovely smelling crotch.

"Mmm… is this supposed to be punishment?" he looked like he was about to grin.

Your other hand lightly smacked his cheek and then pushed your jeans down, stepping forward and tugging his head up by his hair, making his nose rub against your clit through your panties.

"Shut up and get to work, or I'm dying your hair pink and blue."

He looked panicked and immediately got to work, tongue lapping at the already dampening fabric, eyes still glaring but he didn't want to risk it.

You spread your thighs wider, using the hand that wasn't pulling on his hair to slide the fabric to the side. Giving him better access. He looked like a proper pup now, between his owners legs, lapping at the delicious juices… but he didn't dare stop, trying to get his tongue up and inside, past the first ring of muscle.

He whined like some small dog, hands grabbing into your ass to smush you harder onto his mouth.

He's actually really pretty like this, shutting up for once.

Sukuna, wolfdog

Height: 200cm

Age: this section on the information sheets is crossed out and rewritten so many times its a blank ink blob

An aggressive hybrid mix of a gray wolf and some other domestic breed. An illegal hybrid, a rare one too. They weren't on the market as pets since they often were more wolf than dog. They were stronger, faster, violent if irked.

You're not sure why Shoko even offered him to you. But after seeing some pictures of him... you just had to have him.

At first he had to wear a muzzle that had a lock with a key in the back, you holding the key. But after gaining his trust, you only put it on him when you went for walks.

He glared at you, his pink hair messy, tail always stiff and alert.

If someone walked past your front door or even close to the territory of your house, he was growling, trying to find any intruders.

But he hadn't done much damage to your home yet, besides scratch up the back of his bedrooms door with claws, chew trough a few pillows and couch cushions, maybe pissed in your bathrooms sink. But you didn't have to know that one.

One day he was asleep, on your bed. Who knows why. You had just finished with laundry and wanted to go do something in your bedroom. And there he was, spread out on your fresh covers.

You walked up to him, finally getting a good look at his face and the parts of his body that weren't covered by a shirt or boxing shorts. He had scars all over... not to mention dark tattoos swirling across his arms and face.

You were pretty stupid and lightly touched the crown like one on his forehead, just wanting to brush his hair away to look.

Sukuna's eyes shot open, immediately grabbing your hand, teeth baring, a growl escaping his throat. But once he realized it was just his foolish owner he let go and grunted, rolling over on his side.

"Get the fuck away from me, i'll bite ya face off next time... idiot."

Another day, it was sunny and the middle of summer. You had went swimming with him at the local lake. Everything was fine, but this mutt had decided that rolling around in some bushes and dirty after you had already left the lake was a genius idea.

Now here you were, a grumpy wolfdog Sukuna, barely fitting in your bathtub, surrounded by bubbles as you washed him off.

It would have been cute if it wasn't... him.

You allowed yourself to finally give him some affection, scratching behind his ears while shampooing his pink hair.

And his wet tail started to wag. It made you so giddy, instantly rubbing at his ears.

But it seemed like he had had enough.

SPLASH!

You were pulled into the cramped tub, water spilling over. Your clothes were wet as you were laying on top of a naked, blushy, angry looking Sukuna.

"Do that again and i'll-" he was about to bark at you, hands gripping onto your hips. But then he realized what position you were in.

A sly grin spread on his face, shoving you closer to his chest.

"You should take a bath with me, for touching my ears like that."

You squeaked, trying to climb back out, but his hands were already tearing your shirt off.

Yoon's notes: UGHH I LOVE WRITING HYBIDSSUUHH Reupload from my old account @/yoonsucksalot ! but redone a bit hihih HUGE MEGA DRIPPING WET THANKS TO @liliklei @yorikae !!!

masterlist

tags: @s0me1n3w @liliklei @blu-goingdark @tojiscreampie @venusins @darlingbambii @whispers-of-aurora @xqce @cactusvolumes @deartoru @sxno0 @yeschefcarm @peachygelic @puppyrawpawz @sxpernova666 @dustypepsi @izeizebaby @Imbetter111 @stellarixe @deftoneslut @cherrys-wrld @itstotallynotbrina @mimiiis @yorikae @astutetwilight @ghonegh0stwrit3r @1cckedheart @kissmatz @sxpernova @peachifying @Velvetdiary @mshkcdies @man1cslut @oreoenjoyer67 @wholemeltt @Velvetdiary @mshkcdies @0-lalalalala

૮( ˃ ꒳ ˂)ა ᵃʳᶠ ᵃʳᶠ

[liliklei-deactivated20260419]

ugh my men my men

[qintten]

happy aprilus! 🐦‍⬛♥️

have some free MC gifs/stickers! use them to your heart's content ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) creds appreciated but not needed i hope everyone has a sylusful month!

f!mc version ━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐱

m!MC version ━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐱

ps: i used MC's default hair for this but if ppl ask, i'll try to do other hairstyles? │˶˙ᯅ˙˶)꜆ pls be gentle im but an office lady

pps: oh but the kitten ears will stay. you are kitten... we are kitten.

[storynette]

︵‿ ♪ Sexually frustrated nerdjo cries while fucking your face ⊱ cw: light angst, face fucking, cum swallowing, begging, praise

Satoru was about to go insane. His heart thrummed beneath his ribs as he scurried down the hall, beads of sweat gathering along his hairline and creeping down his brow.

A creak echoed through the empty corridor as he forced the door open. He rushed inside, dropping his bag and scattering the books in his arms without a second thought.

He had just come back from a solitary study session at the library—abandoned rather than done for the day—with notebooks soaked in coffee and the most frustrating boner he had ever felt in his life.

He stumbled into the living room, eyes flickering around in search of you.

You two had an arrangement—an unspoken understanding. When the weight of work, exams, or life itself pressed too heavily on your shoulders, you would steady each other. Soft reassurances. Gentle touches. The quiet comfort of skin against skin. A way to let the tension melt without needing to explain it.

It had always been mutual.

Until about two weeks ago.

Exam season had been grinding Satoru down, day by day. The pressure built quietly at first, then all at once—tightening around him until he could barely breathe under it. And somehow, in the middle of it all, you had become another thing he couldn’t handle.

He'd snapped.

Said he didn't need you hovering. Didn't need the distractions. That he could manage on his own.

The words had landed harder than he intended—sharper, colder. Unfamiliar, even to him.

And they stayed with you.

You hadn't argued back. Hadn't pushed. After things cooled, you let it go. You gave him the space he asked for, stepping carefully around the absence where your closeness used to be, and carried on like everything was fine.

But it wasn't.

And Satoru knew it.

It had only been so long, but regret had rooted itself deep inside him, winding tighter each day, creeping through his thoughts like something alive.

Today, it was unbearable.

The entire time he was at the library, his mind kept drifting to you.

He'd missed your touch. Hearing your thoughtful words graze against his ear.

Your lips on his skin... your skin against his body...

He couldn't focus. He read the same line on his syllabus over and over again. His notes were a mess, he could barely manage five words before his mind went blank. At one point, his hand slipped, knocking his coffee over, dark liquid bleeding through the pages he'd spent hours trying to fill.

He just sat there, staring at it.

Too tired to fix it. Too frustrated to think. His body ached in ways he had never experienced before.

The realisation hit like a final blow—after a day like this, he had nowhere to go. No soft place to land.

Not anymore. Not after what he'd said.

The thought hollowed him out.

Before he could stop himself, he was already moving, on course to your room, on the verge of calling your name—

And then he heard it.

A soft, absent-minded hum, drifting from the kitchen. The sound of running water accompanying it.

He froze for half a second, then he followed the sound.

Each step felt unsteady, his chest tight, breath uneven. He tugged at his shirt, an attempt to save some dignity.

"Satoru? Is that you?" you called, voice light, unaware.

You turned as you set the last dish aside, drying your hands on a rag. There was a brief pause when your eyes met his.

"You're back early."

Upon seeing your face, his shoulders dropped.

He takes a step closer without thinking, arms tentatively reaching out. Unsure.

"Are you okay?"

He swallows, a whisper of your name leaving his mouth. It felt like he hasn't said it in years. At least not laced with extreme neediness like it was now.

"I— I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You tense as his fingertips brush your arm, limbs staying locked by your sides.

He notices as soon as you do, hands moving in a flash to cover the humiliating tent in his pants.

He stammers, shame growing on his face. "Um— this isn't— I'm not—"

You cut him off. "Oh, baby."

It wasn't condescending. Wasn't mocking. You didn't say it out of amusement either.

Your tone was only understanding. Judgement free.

And it undoes him. Every. Single. Time.

You take his hand in yours, pulling him close so you could rise onto your tip toes and land a peck on his cheek.

A soft huff of air tickles your skin and you smile, lips curving against his skin in a way that has his heart skipping a beat.

Then, slowly descending onto your knees, you press a gentle kiss to the bulge before unbuckling his belt.

A hand instantly flies to your head.

Satoru sighs. Relief already beginning to wash over his nerves. Only now does he realise truly how much he needed this.

How much he needed you.

His cock is pulled free, a filthy shadow stretching across your entire face.

It's already leaking translucent little beads of precum, tip flushed red and veins pulsing thickly.

You take it in your hand, wrapping around the base and resting the cockhead on your tongue. It twitches like a ticking clock as you give the slit a tiny, teasing kitten lick.

He hisses, unable to ever stay silent when you're in this position. It happens only rarely. He never asks for it, despite how often he takes that role of going down on you himself. To him, it feels disrespectful—yet refusing you would be just as much so.

So when you do, he takes it without fuss. Savouring the experience. Every feeling. Every expression you make. The way you suck as if you actually enjoy it. As if you want to taste him. Want him to flood your mouth with his seed.

Slowly, you slide it in, the warmth coating his sensitive length like a loving embrace.

Satoru's hand jumps from your head to the edge of the countertop. His fingers clutching the marble so tightly the knuckles blanch, tendons standing out along the back of his hand.

It was restraint.

After a gruelling twelve days without any sexual relief, he felt like he was about to burst.

The urge to take a fistful of you hair and ram himself down your throat repeatedly was eating away at him. Unbearably.

But he wouldn't dare be rough with you.

He couldn't.

Yet now he finds himself teetering between pulling you off to avoid that happening and letting the desire take over completely.

The sight isn't helping. Saliva dribbling down your chin as you ease him down, cheeks hollowing and eyes glossing over.

Satoru feels filthy. Disgusting, even.

After the way he treated you—sharp, unkind, unforgivable in his mind—you still offered your help. You accepted his brief apology without question, without hesitation, and set to work as though none of it had mattered.

And now his mind turns on him, urging him to use you like a fleshlight, to fall into the ease you make of things, as though you were nothing more than something to be relied upon.

Tension coils through him again, holding him taut—keeping him from softening, from accepting the pleasure and relief you're so gently trying to give.

Then you reach for his hand and guide it to the back of your head—an act with kind intent, offered without thought.

But to him, it shatters what little restraint he had left. A strangled, broken sound forces its way past his lips, thick with frustration.

"No— y-you feel so good. I'm so sorry."

He recoils from his own wanting, face tightened as if bracing against a blow—eyes closing and head turning aside like a door slammed against temptation.

But it's too late. His hip snaps forward, tip bruising the back of your throat—an involuntary action.

Tears trace your cheeks, your throat aflame as your hands seize his thighs in a desperate grip. The abrupt roughness unmoors you, tearing a choked sound out as you gag on the unfathomable length.

"Ah, I'm sorry— I can't... your throat is so tight," he cries, pressing you closer until your nose brushes against the light coloured pubes at his base.

Giving his thighs a squeeze, you manage to draw his attention back to you, his gaze dropping to your face gingerly.

You reassure him, thumbs stroking lightly in unspoken permission—not that you could give it verbally.

That's all it takes. He melts. Tears beginning to well in his eyes. "Thank you. Ah— thank you."

The fingers once placed flat against your head curl up into a fist as he drags you off, then slams back in.

He does it again. And again. Slowly picking up the pace while blabbering apologies and words of gratitude all the same.

"You're too good to me. Hngh— I-I ... I don't know what I did—hic t-to deserve you."

His thrusts are far from rhythmic—they're messy, beatless, driven by pure need, desperation, fustration. Hot tears stream down his face, his breathing ragged and heavy.

"Agh... you're an angel. You're an angel, aren't you?" he rasps. Voice breathless. Words earnest. "Y-you... I haven't even apologised properly."

A moan vibrates around his throbbing cock as his ruts grow brutal, back pressing into the thin edge of the counter to steady himself.

The groan he had let out was devastating. The sound coarse and dragged long, a sob cutting through. His tears were flowing out endlessly, warm droplets landing on your cheeks as you watch him push his glasses back into his hair, head thrown back.

Your chest aches for him—this is why it started, after all. He was always so hard on himself, keeping everything locked away. And you needed an outlet too, so somehow, it worked. You found each other when things got hard.

So when he snapped at you that day, it stung—but the hurt was tempered by something softer, heavier. You found yourself thinking of what he must be carrying, and decided that, this time, distance might be the gentler choice.

Being wrong isn't always bad.

"You have no idea how sorry I am... hah—" he sobs as he continues to harshly thrust into your mouth. Your nails dig into his clothed thighs, a dense line of fluids trailing down your neck and into your cleavage.

If Satoru were to look down right this moment, he'd probably cum on the spot.

"It was s-so... ngh— unfair of me to treat you that way."

Your moans keep ringing around him. Resonate. Shooting intense waves of pleasure through Satoru's body. You're cupping his balls with a shaky hand, knees burning beneath you.

"I c-completely disregarded your feelings—ohhh... I'm sorry."

"Mmmh," is all you can manage. You tried to shake your head, but it was being moved back and forth feverishly, Satoru's grip much too strong for you to do anything but.

Through tear-blurred vision, you glimpse his face as he looks down. Even indistinct, the details sting—eyes reddened like yours, lips swollen and caught in a small, pitiful pout.

"Oh god. You look s-so pretty," he says, sniffling. "You feel so good— I think I'm gonna cum."

He brings his hand down and feels up your throat where the prominent bulge of his cock slides in and out. A whine echoes through the kitchen.

"Oh god, oh god—inside? Please?" he asks, voice cracking.

You let out a sound, and that was all he needed.

In a split second, everything stills. You're being pressed against his pelvis again, face buried in the hair at his base, cock lodged deep down your throat. You feel his knees tremble, and then warmth pouring down your throat.

Satoru cums with a quiet sob, a contrast to how loud he had been just moments ago. You happily swallow every drop.

Finally, he lets go, your lips coming off the tip with a wet pop.

You gasp, a hand pressed to your chest as you struggle to steady your breathing, hastily wiping away your tears. In front of you, Satoru sinks to the ground, his back sliding slowly down the counter as his gaze drifts, unfocused, into the distance.

He's catching his breath too—still sniffling, tears clinging to his lashes—but there's a grace of relief softening his features.

You manage a weak smile. "You don't need to apologise anymore. You were stressed. It’s okay."

He shakes his head, voice raw, vulnerability at its edges. "No. I need you to understand." His eyes meet yours, expression turning faintly sheepish. "I'm sorry for being so rough just now, too."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "It really is okay, Toru. I'm fine... and I forgive you."

A small smile tugs at his lips. "I'm glad."

After a moment, he speaks again. "Can I still make it up to you?"

You grin, voice light. "Yes, of course."

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