I have no clue how tumblr works lmao

He’s bent over the washing machine, t-shirt rumpled, joggers shoved down his thighs. One hand braced on the lid. The other wrapped tight around his dick, knuckles white, fist moving in frantic, clumsy strokes. Breathing wrecked. And—

Your panties.

Your favorite ones. The ones you wore yesterday. The ones with the little bow and the baby-blue lace sides.

Fisted in his hand. The baby-blue is just blue. Soaked in precum. Filthy with him. Worn in ways it was never meant to be worn.

And when he turns his head—slowly, shamefully… He’s got your thong in his mouth. Like a gag. Like he stopped mid-sort, picked them up and thought: what if I stuffed them in my mouth and gooned myself stupid like some basement-dwelling freak?

His ears go red. His cheeks are burning. But he doesn’t scramble. Just freezes, thumb pressed to a pulsing vein.

And then he just… stares.

And smiles. Soft. Sheepish. Horny. Exactly like a fucking basement-dwelling freak. Like he doesn’t know whether he wants you to yell at him or tell him to keep going.

“The actual—Caleb—what the—”

You don’t even finish the sentence.

‘ Cause he groans. Through your underwear.

His hips stutter forward. His knees buckle. He moans like he lost all impulse control. You swear the washing machine shakes with him

“Was—was gonna wash ’em,” he pants through the fabric. “I was. I was gonna. But they—fuck—they smell like you—”

Your eyebrows rise. “Th-That the excuse you’re going with?!”

“I—” he stutters, chewing on the waistband. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean for you to see this, pips—

I’m… so—”

You step in, lean against the doorframe. He looks at you like someone who got caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar and didn’t even pull his hand out. Your eyes drop: to his hand, to the mess there, to how helplessly his cock is still caught in it, wrapped up in blue lace. Twitching in blue lace.

“Well?” you say lightly.

He swallows.

“You were gonna just toss them in with the whites afterwards?”

He shakes his head, looks at you like he’s about to apologize—then doesn’t. You tilt your head. “God, Caleb…”

A whimper punches out of him. His eyes squeeze shut. His legs are shaking.

“…You always this needy over laundry?”

That’s his cue, pips. He comes. Cums all over the washer, the lid, the panties. It’s a mess—hot and fast and humiliating. He pants like he’s been chased. Drops the thong from his lips like it bit him first. A line of drool still clinging between the lace and his tongue.

It snaps as it breaks.

He stares down at it, flushed. Ashamed. Still hard. And you just stare at him until he stares back.

“… I know,” he says quietly. “I know. How this looks. I just—”

“You…” You gesture vaguely. “You won rock-paper-scissors.”

He nods once. “Uh—.. yeah.”

“You picked laundry.”

Another nod. Meeker now. “Mhm.”

“… You’re washing every single one of my panties. By hand.”

He nods harder. “I’ll… I’ll use the gentle detergent.”

You roll your eyes and turn. “You’re so embarrassing, y’know? Disgusting little freak.”

Caleb scrambles upright, half-laughing, dick still out, fist still slick. “Hey! Pipsqueak! Wait—don’t tell—”

“You’re scrubbing the lasagna dish too.”

You wave him off over your shoulder, already walking.

“Okay—okay, just—Please—”

You turn again, one brow raised.

“Don’t go in my room. Or—urhh—open my gym bag. Or my backpack. Just—don’t start opening things… i-it’s not what you think” he says, immediately realizing that made it worse.

You exhale through your nose.

Right. So that’s where they went.

“I swear I’m normal” he blurts.

“Caleb… If you’re going to be this weird about it,” you say, tilting your head “you might as well commit. Some people are born for great things,” you shrug. “You were born for laundry. And always picking rock.”

His groan echoes off the walls.

“Forever’s a long time,” you say lightly. “But you’re good with habits, right?”

You lean in and kiss his cheek—like this permanent freakshow is already settled. Then walk out. But your cheeks are hot. And your thighs? Yeah. Definitely twitching. Behind you, Caleb exhales like he’s barely made it through alive.

And as you walk up the stairs—

You know he’s about to smell them again.

⠂ ˙ׅ ׁ ׁ⠂ ⠂ ˙ׅ ׁ ׁ⠂ ⠂ ˙ׅ ׁ ׁ⠂

he gives in and pulls his shorts down. he moans your name softly, cupping his pink tip and rubbing the silky slick between his thumb and forefingers. he tries to settle more comfortably into the pillows, biting down on his lip until he tastes blood.

he has literally no concept how of pretty his cock is. fuck, how pretty all of him is. he’s so big, his shaft feels like velvet and he has a blushy pink, defined head and it’s so sensitive. the veins are thick by virtue of its sheer size, at least eight inches when he’s hard and he’s a shower anyway. his balls are heavy and soft and he’s fertile — god pray for any birth control that tries to stop this man.

how would you touch him? would you be gentle, like usual? or would you treat him how he deserves once you’re alone, with careless pulls and rough touches? would you hurt him the way he wants to be hurt? scratching, biting, choking? would you think he’s disgusting? would you tell him that he’s disgusting?

his heart craves you to be soft, but he tells himself that you shouldn’t be. that he would treat you like a perfect little goddess, and he would be the ground that you walk on. that you would hate him, because you know that you’re so much better than him, that he would be so fucking lucky to have you like this.

he would kiss you as if you were single-handedly responsible for everything good that’s happened in this world, his tongue in your mouth and then all over your neck, your chest. drawing cute whimpers and needy whines from you as he made his way down, eating your pussy as if it were his only purpose in life. you taste so sweet and he’s gentle with his fingers until you beg for more.

he’s groaning louder than he realizes, his fingers softly crawling down his warm, thick shaft as he pictures you so clearly in his mind. on top of him. above him. perfect. unattainable. he squeezes the base, his other hand reaching for his heavy sack as he exhales softly, shakily. he’s kneading his balls and they’re so sensitive, and so full.

he pumps himself, pretending the wet, sticky sound is all you; riding him, claiming him, taking what’s yours. he’s so wet from spit and pre and it’s gathering at the base, sticking to his wrists and drooling down his sack. he wants you to lick him, to let your cute tongue clean up his slick mess while he praises you.

slow, torturous strokes. you shouldn’t even be touching him to please him; you should be using him, he thinks, he knows. your plush, pouty lips are too good for him but you’d take his cock in your mouth anyway, your angel eyes that he loves so much on him until he guides you all the way down, your cute nose against his pelvis and shoved in the blonde hair there, eyes fluttering as you gag on him. he’s whining, mouth dropped open, and he wants to apologize.

he feels so hot all over, and he just wants to cry. he’ll always be alone. he’ll die soon enough, anyway. his awful, murderous hands are the best he has, so he needs to make do. the tears fall before he can think to stop them. he lets his non-dominant hand do the work, gripping his big, veiny cock with his hand backwards to get a different angle. his back arches off the bed for a second, rolling his strong hips into his needy grasp, whining like a bitch in heat.

his thighs are spread wide, heels planted into the mattress so he can imagine that he’s pounding up into you. he gathers spit and tongues it into his palm, fucking his fist and desperately trying to pretend it’s your warm, tight cunt clenching down on him instead. using him. the only thing he’s good for besides killing.

his free hand is clawing at his abs before moving to grip the sheets, blunt nails trying to ground himself. his thick, muscular thighs are trembling and he’s already close. he’s whining into the stifling air, whimpering your name between “I’m good, I’ll be good, fuck, use me, please use me, just like that, angel, oh my god,”

he knows it’s going to be so much, it always is. he always cums hard and a lot. he’s in love with your voice, and in his head you’re begging for his cum. your dainty nails digging into his strong muscles, his massive hands on your waist while he pounds into you, holding you close. his face is in your neck and he’s crying, panting, whimpering sweet nonsense because you make him feel so good.

two knocks and the heavy wooden door clicks open. your small silhouette is just hardly discernible in the moonlight.

“… reiner? why are you crying?”

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