exclusive aftertaste

i dream. sometimes i think that's the only right thing to do.

[zweiapfel]

in times of trouble, just call on me and i'll drop everything. - one day, cleo sol

lei. fanfic writer. for love and deepspace, honkai: star rail, kuroko no basuke, nct, & more. twenties. they/she. filipino. EN/FIL/KR/DE OK! sometimes nsfw—minors, do not interact.

KEEPING TABS. about me. rules. masterlist. NEWSFLASH. AO3. TWITTER. KO-FI. ONGOING CONSTRUCTION. RECENTLY. [ aomomo ] my youth is in your past ...

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

i love you intimacy in reverse order. yes we've had sex before and i know all the details of your pleasure, but i don't know anything else. i don't know what it feels like to embrace you carelessly. i can barely hold your hand, the grip is so slight it makes me lose my breath. i want to kiss you but what pressure is the right one? how much is too intimate? yes we've had sex and i've done all these things before - but without the guise of mutual pleasure, can i be sure you won't turn me away? will you allow me the delicate feeling of your hand in mine when you know it is me asking to hold it? i know i've held you before with our clothes off, but can i hold you even tighter? may i listen to the steady sound of your heartbeat? is it alright to look for it in front of everyone? yes, yes of course we've had sex before. i know what you look like naked, ive touched you with the lights off. is it alright to want see you with them on? in the morning, with the sun flitting through the blinds?is it alright to want you when the sun is up? yes we've had sex before but have we ever been intimate? can we be? tell me that it's alright to hold you. no, not like that. just like this.

[zweiapfel]

[ past curfew ] chapter three. good night ( i can't seem to let you go ) | aomine daiki x momoi satsuki

past curfew | rated T | kuroko no basuke | aomine daiki / momoi satsuki

TAGS : college / university au, slow burn, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

CHAPTER SUMMARY :

Momoi meets a figure from the past. She'll always end up coming back to him though.

EXCERPT from CHAPTER FOUR :

Hanamiya tugs his shirt on. “Satsuki.” Momoi stops by the entryway. “Hmm?” “Tell me.” “Tell you what exactly, Hanamiya-san?” His gaze is piercing in the dark. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” Momoi squints her eyes in confusion. Is her answer previously not believable? She clears things once again, this time sternly. “We’re just friends.” “Huh. I see.”

LINKS : zweiapfel on AO3 | masterlist

[cherryscript]

RENT PAID IN P@NTIE$ caleb

SYNOPSIS★ When your sweet old landlady passes away, her grandson Caleb takes over the property. He’s goofy, charming, a golden retriever of a man—except behind that smile is a freak who can’t get enough of your scent. First it’s lost panties, then unwashed bras, and before you know it your landlord is moaning into your laundry and begging for “payment” straight from the source.

CW★ landlord!caleb, writer!reader, panty theft, gooning, scent kink, lingerie stealing, unwashed clothing kink, masturbation, cum everywhere, oral (fem receiving), leg humping, public indecency vibes, crack mixed with depravity, Caleb being a pervy golden retriever weirdo but hot about it, reader hairy + unshaved mentions, rent = panties arrangement, shameless dirty talk. . . wc : 4.3k

CHERRY’S NOTE★ caleb is a freak from heart. only face card is saving him. also, tysm for 4k+ followers—take this as a celebration gift.

You hadn’t exactly planned on being broke.

That was the funny thing about pursuing your dreams—it sounded noble until you were eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row and rationing your laundry detergent because it was either that or running out of coffee. You’d quit your steady nine-to-five to finally give writing a real chance, which meant no more safety net, no steady paycheck, just you and a Word doc full of half-finished drafts.

And rent. Always rent.

The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but in the middle of Linkon City, it was a miracle you’d managed to hang onto it this long. The only reason you’d survived was your landlady Josephine, a sweet old woman with a soft spot for starving artists and lonely tenants. She never raised the rent, always slipped you leftovers from whatever she’d cooked that week, and told you, in her gravelly smoker’s voice, that you reminded her of her younger self.

Then she passed away.

Just like that, you went from living in a cozy, rent-stable haven to dreading the letter that slid under your door with news of “new management.”

That was how you met him.

Caleb.

Josephine’s grandson.

The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.

When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”

You blinked at him. “That’s me.”

“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”

You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.

“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”

“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.

But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.

It started with one pair.

You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.

But then it kept happening.

Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.

It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.

What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.

He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.

Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.

Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.

“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”

He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.

Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.

Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.

And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.

He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.

Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.

“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.

His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.

And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.

If only you knew.

If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.

It was getting ridiculous.

First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.

And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.

“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.

Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.

The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.

By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.

You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.

“Fucking—”

Ding-dong.

The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.

And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.

“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”

Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.

Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.

“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.

Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.

When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.

“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”

Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.

He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.

You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.

And froze.

The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.

With Caleb.

You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.

“…oh. My. God.”

Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.

Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.

Stealing your underwear.

Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.

Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.

The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.

“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”

His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.

“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.

The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.

He was gone. Utterly gone.

So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.

You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.

Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.

And then—

He came. Hard.

“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.

Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.

Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.

Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.

“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.

You didn’t move. “….”

“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.

Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”

Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”

You blinked. “…what?”

He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.

“Pay me in these…”

You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”

“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.

Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.

You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.

Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”

And with that, you shut the door.

It got… normal.

Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”

You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.

The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.

You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.

The second month, though…

Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”

You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.

He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.

“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”

You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.

By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.

Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.

“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.

So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.

Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.

You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”

And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”

You smashed your keyboard once again.

Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.

“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”

“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”

The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”

“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.

His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”

The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.

Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”

His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.

Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.

Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.

Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”

He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”

His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.

“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.

Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”

You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.

And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.

Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.

“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.

“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.

He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.

If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.

Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.

“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.

And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.

When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.

He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”

You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.

And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him rent at all.

Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.

“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”

You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.

And god help you—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[sunsetagain]

After the gods of twilight fell, all that remained was a thick dusting of gold on someone's lashes.

"You want to see if my tears are made of gold? All right, I'll cry for you next time."

Inspired by Alexandre Cabanel's The Fallen Angel

[fxymi]

idk who needed to see this but

artist: JULY__jo on twitter/x

[zweiapfel]

rebranding once again

lovechai → zweiapfel

blog will be under construction in the following days : )

[fricks-deactivated20251110]

letting gojo fuck you raw might have been a mistake, especially now that he wants kids..☆

(part 1 here)

yes—it felt good. heavenly, even. feeling him fill you up without a contraceptive barrier between you might overlap an ego death on the life-altering-experiences venn diagram.

but now your boyfriend throws a tantrum whenever you tell him to wrap it. he pouts and whines and stamps his fucking feet like a child at your child-preventative measures. he’s too tall to act like a toddler—if you didn’t secretly enjoy the pining you’d hit him upside the back of his head and tell him to stop sulking.

“we’re too young to be parents,” you’d tell him as he rubs his uncovered cock through your folds, from your entrance up to your sensitive clit and back down.

his counter? “the earlier we start, the longer we have to try for more.”

“maybe youre forgetting the whole ‘jujutsu sorcerer, could-die-at-any-moment' thing?”

“are you forgetting that i’m the strongest? plus, i think i’d look hot saving the world wearing a baby carrier… not that i would endanger our kid like that. bad point, ask me a new one.”

“we aren’t playing trivia.”

“cmon,” a tap of the head of his cock to your clit. “humour me.”

“alright, children are fucking expensive.”

“babe, you’re not serious—you do know i’m filthy rich, right? capitalism fears me. i’m like that rich disney duck with the top hat and—”

you point a finger in his face. “put a goddamn condom on or you’re banned from sex for a month, scrooge.”

and he blinks, pretends to be offended at how responsible you are, and then falls into an easy smile because sex with you is more than enough for him. when he sinks into you, condom-covered or not, he falls a little bit more in love each time.

but it is not the same and you know it.

the weight of him on top of you is the same. as is the snapping thrusts of his hips into yours and the gentle circles he traces over your clit and the way he moans your name once he’s sheathed fully inside of you. it’s the same.

but it’s not the same as taking him raw. it’s not the bulge of his veins against your velvet walls. nor is it the beading precum at his tip dripping inside of you, or the filthy fucking drawling moans he lets out when he fills you to the brim.

“you’re so beautiful,” he's moaning like he's in heat. completely enthralled with every aspect of your being, satoru groans and moans and snaps forward into you like he's trying to breed you regardless.

and you're so full, stretched to your limits with his cock pulsing inside of you, but you don't feel satiated like you could. you've tasted it once, the feel of his cum spilling into you, the knowledge of what it could do to you. to him. he would look good as a dad. god, him holding a baby in his arms...

"pull out."

gojo stops immediately at your words, blinking the lust from his eyes in an immediate shock change of expression. he's looking you over, making sure you're not in any pain, before pulling out of you completely with no questions asked. he's always been good like that—sure, he'll whine about wearing latex but he'd never push you past your spoken limits.

"you wanna stop?" he asks gently, already reaching for a washcloth to wipe you down with. his eyes watch you carefully, obsessed with your interest and comfort: you have to stop yourself from laughing at his panic. "we can watch some TV or go to bed or i could make you—"

his words die in his mouth when you reach down to his still-hard cock and slowly pull the condom that covers it from the top. it slides from his length with a little resistance before finally pulling over the head and snapping back at your hand with a subtle sting.

"fuck me," you meet his eyes.

"what? you said—"

"satoru. fuck me. breed me, even. how many other ways do i have to put it? i want you to fuck a baby into me."

he blinks again. no witty comment, no awful smirk or joke about being a dilf. you've gone and rendered satoru speechless. when he does finally move his lips, it's not to dirty talk you like expected.

"we aren't married."

you can't help but laugh. "what?"

"i'm going to marry you first, and then you are going to make me a dad. i have it all planned out, babe, we can't have drunk honeymoon sex if you're pregnant. though you would look fucking beautiful on a beach somewhere with a baby bump. god now i'm conflicted."

"you have it planned?"

the thought of satoru planning this out hits you, him thinking about a future with you, a ring on your finger, embracing the stress of parenthood together so well that when the kids move out and you're old and grey, you abhor having a silent home.

"so are you going to propose or not?" you look at him.

again, he blinks. "right now?"

"why not? do you have a ring?"

satoru looks at you, smiles, and slips off the bed—still naked—to reach into the bedside drawer. a small black box sits in his top drawer, ironically under a pile of condoms. he holds it in his hand and returns to you with a kiss to your knee, and then one to your inner thigh, and another just above your clit. he works his way up your stomach, of course stopping to bite at your nipples when he reaches your chest, and then presses himself fully against you once his lips find yours.

when he pulls away, you're met with the sight of a ring you had pointed out to him months ago. had he really been planning this long? "i knew i was going to marry you on our first date," he says, but then counters, "actually, that's a lie. it was when i tasted that sweet pussy of yours for the first time, but that's not as romantic."

you smile, bracing yourself for a long-winded speech when satoru suddenly pushes the tip of his now-uncovered cock inside of you. you gasp, and he swallows it with a kiss before taking your hand in his and slipping the ring down your finger with a breathy; "will you marry me?"

"yes," of course, is your answer. which warrants a sudden deep thrust from your now-fiancé as he bottoms out inside of you.

"yeah?" he nips at your neck. "you'll marry me? gonna make me a dad too, huh? gonna fill you up, baby, gonna breed you out and—"

"i thought you said—"

"changed my mind. now, lift your legs up: you're not leaving this bed until i've knocked you up, pretty."

[mintmatcha]

you’re evil

I said sukuna talks you into fucking, but it's really a silent thing.

He's grinding his cock against your panties for a long time before he changes anything, precum drenching your panties. He waits until you're breathing harder, until you're getting needy. That's when he pulls aside the fabric ever so slowly, waiting for you to object.

but all you say is "not inside."

so he runs his cock through your folds and his fist, dragging it up and down, gathering your wetness on the crown. he's sure to stimulate your clit, to rub it just enough that you're getting whiny and cock hungry. That's when his touching gets lower, get he starts pressing up against you harder-

The first time his cockhead pops inside, you gasp. sukuna pulls out and promises it was an accident.

You gasp the second time it happens too.

the third time, you close your eyes and press your lips into a line, biting back your pleasure. He waits there, for you to scold him again, but it doesn't come.

he's patient though. he knows how to play this game. He pulls out again and starts a rhythm. Every two rubs against your clit, he slides just the tip of his cock inside you, just enough to get you comfortable. he gives you some little, shallow thrusts. it's a test, to see if you're ready.

when you are, there's a final pop in. His cock slides in, ever so slowly, until half of his cock is fit inside.

"good girl," he says. "listen to your pussy. listen to what she wants. lemme give her what she needs."

then he fucks you how he always planned to. deep and raw

[baobei-bu]

he's gonna act super cute

[fricks-deactivated20251110]

gojo hates condoms ☆

not even in an ‘i can’t feel a thing’ frat-fuck way either. he just wants to be close to you. he’s touch starved as it is and being inside of you is quite literally the closet he can be to you. why would he want a barrier between his achy length and your silken walls?

he hates condoms. hates them like they’re pointing south on his moral compass. hates them like they hurt to use—which they do, in a way—the mental anguish feels real to him, at least. he picks up a fuss in the grocery store when you pull a pack of ribbed condoms from the shelf to try because why would you seek pleasure from artificial ridges when the protruding veins of his cock would feel just as good if not dressed in a condom?

sometimes he eats you out for twice as long as usual to get you really fucked out and dumb. he’ll make you cum hard and fast and so much that your mind is a mess in the hopes that you’ll forget all about your safety precautions and let him feel you from the inside out. but you always catch on. with a tsk and a finger pointed to the draw where he keeps the horrid things out of sight.

so when you let him fuck you raw for the first time, gojo is reeling. it’s on the condition that he promises to pull out, and promise he does—with a pinky finger hooked around yours and his lips to his thumb—he promises to pull out.

he decides on missionary, because as much as he loves the hundred different positions he knows how to wrangle you into, he wants to connect with you. to make love, not fuck.

and even your wetness against his tip is enough to jolt his stomach downwards. collecting your glossing over his angry head as he rubs himself up and down your folds—he would cum just like this if he wasn’t so stuck on feeling all of you. you’re warm and wet and tight as he pushes against your entrance and oh god he’s going to cum already.

“oh,” he stills, eyes deadset on yours as he slides into you. his tip is rubbing against that spot that makes your back arch upwards and it takes everything in you not to laugh at the distraught look on his face as he says “i have to pull out.”

“you’re joking, right?”

“i really wish i was baby,” he looks pained. he’s never felt something so heavenly and ungodly at the same time. he wants to do bad things, to fuck you into the mattress and breed you full of himself until you’re too weak to care about the aftermath of such recklessness. “i can’t pull out.”

“what?” you laugh, his balls tighten at the sound.

“if i move—” satoru has never looked so serious, “—i will cum. this was a bad idea. why would you let me do this?”

“you’re the one always—”

“actually don’t argue with me, you know what it does to me.” he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on anything other then the way you feel around him. he does math in his head, thinks about the people he’s killed, how much he loves you… how pretty you look right now… growing old with you.

“i swear you’re getting harder inside of—”

“imsorryiloveyoubutpleasebequietorelseyouaregoingtogetpregnant.”

it takes him a minute of mental gymnastics to feel confident enough to start slowly sliding out of you, but all hope dies when the heel of your foot presses against his ass and with a smile made of sin you pull him deeper inside of you.

he opens his mouth to protest, to tell you he is not joking and all that comes out is a beautiful strangled moan that makes you tighten around him. for a man who claims to be the strongest he is rather weak-willed when it comes to your pussy. he needs to cum so hard that it hurts, but a fear of maybe ruining your life and relationship digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

“don’t do this to me,” he whines.

but you’re smiling. you’re so tight and wet and beautiful and everything he’s ever dreamt of having and holding and you’re smiling. “satoru,” you say, and he’s weak. “cum inside.”

anything for you. it’s gorgeous: the way he lets loose, falling forward to press all his weight into you as he groans and his balls release in hot spurts that you can feel painting your insides white. it’s the connection, the intimacy, the tears that prick at his eyes.

and he doesn’t pull out. no, he presses his hips forward to fuck his cum as deep into you as he possibly can and he vows to throw out every condom in the goddamn house.

god he hates condoms.

[metamorphesque]

― Claire Keegan, Small Things Like These

[achillesinhighheels]

[zweiapfel]

just finished watching n reading yakuza fiance. i'm sad the series is on a hiatus

[guccixcucci]

[guccixcucci]

[jebbyfwish]

[venusrrvelez]

[baobei-bu]

[zweiapfel]

listened to the weeknd's house of balloons album again after some time and oh boy. i'm too sad after coming down. how can i work in this condition