🖤~ @dusklips - Tumblr Blog

I GOT DAT DUMB D’

𐚁 featuring𓂃 succubus!reader x himbo!caleb

𐚁 COMMISSION FROM𓂃 @theeidare <3

𐚁 summary𓂃 You are a thirsty succubus who moves in with the world’s biggest, dumbest himbo golden retriever named Caleb after your feeding ground, the frathouse shuts down. You try every filthy trick in the book to drain him dry… but he just keeps offering you protein shakes, warm bear hugs, and calling you “pipsqueak” while blushing like a virgin at prom. Turns out the only thing that actually works is accidentally falling stupidly in love with him. Whoops.

𐚁 wc𓂃 8.2k (because I'm my biggest enemy)

𐚁 content warnings𓂃 explicit smut, ooc caleb, he's just a big dumb guy (with a horse dick), age-gap? (if you squint) , corruption kink, mention of killing in the past (reader's a succubus bruh), teasing-flashing-flirting, Caleb is oblivious, somno, dubcon, falling in love, monsterfucking, monster physical descriptions, caleb is scared-aroused, deepthroating, hornpulling during oral (m! receiving), sizequeen!reader, pinv, he's drunk into you, cervix fucking, belly bulge, mention of draining life force/energy, evil!reader, anal (demon tail tip in his ass🥀), excessive cumming, confessions, happy ending, happy tears....idk what else . . .18+ ★ MINORS DNI !

𐚁 cherry’s note𓂃 yes, I went overboard with this commission because personally, i really liked the idea. I put my whole cherryussy into this. Himbo Caleb my love. He's so ooc here but who cares— live love laugh himbos! If you've read a Caleb fic with same tittle then don't worry, that's mine too, I just couldn't figure out a better name for it lol. My brain is actually so overstimulated after finishing this fic i should sleep it off.

Life used to be scrumptiously simple.

After losing your way back home to the demon realm centuries ago, you'd blended seamlessly among the humans—charming, seducing, occasionally devouring your way through whatever corner of the mortal world caught your fancy. Living among them wasn't always the richest feeding ground; most people tasted thin, distracted, half-alive with stress and screens. But that frat house? The Sigma boys' residency? That two-story beast of peeling paint, perpetual bass, and testosterone-thick air was your personal all-you-can-eat buffet.

Hunks left and right—twenty-something jocks with broad shoulders, cocky grins, and even bigger egos (and dicks) who knew exactly how to hit it from the back. Lord, you were feasting.

Every weekend followed the same divine routine. You'd hide your horns and tail beneath flawless glamour, slip between the drunken, sweaty bodies in something skimpy that barely held your tempting curves together. The music pounded like a heartbeat; the lights strobed low and forgiving. You never had to wait, never walked away hungry. A few batted lashes, a dirty-innocent little smile, or a breathy "Bet you could handle me" against a hot ear was enough to drive those boys feral.

You'd change your name every night—Jess, Mia, Raven, whatever slipped off their tongues easiest—and let them think they were in control. They'd rail you on every available surface: against the kitchen counter while the party raged downstairs, bent over the pool table in the basement, sprawled across some stranger's unmade bed upstairs. You'd moan and arch your back, giving them the illusion of dominance, while you drank. Deep, greedy pulls of their life force—hot, thick, tasting like cheap beer, adrenaline, and raw, stupid youth. Some nights one was enough. Others, when the hunger clawed harder, you'd take two at once, stuffing yourself full in both holes, sucking the life straight out of their dicks while they grunted and shuddered and collapsed like broken toys.

You'd mutter a soft "oopsie" under your breath, lick the last sweet traces from your lips, and saunter out into daylight glowing, sated, tail flicking lazily beneath your glamour. They'd wake up the next morning groggy, drained, chalking it up to "one hell of a blackout," barely remembering your face

You didn't always kill them. Only when you were truly ravenous did you drink too deep, leaving them pale and still on sweat-soaked sheets. But you couldn't bring yourself to care. They asked for it anyway—begged, even—with their wandering hands and hungry mouths. You were just giving them what they wanted, and taking what you needed.

Then it all shattered.

Neighbors finally had enough of the constant noise, the half-naked girls stumbling onto the porch at dawn, the occasional thump of a body hitting the floor a little too hard. Complaints piled up. Local police showed up one Saturday night with lights flashing, warrants in hand. Doors kicked in at 3 a.m., red solo cups scattering like confetti, someone screaming in the bathroom about a bad trip. They found the bodies—the ones you'd gone too far on—hidden under laundry piles or in closets like forgotten secrets.

Investigation. Headlines. The house shut down for good. Evictions. Suspensions. Chaos.

Your buffet vanished overnight.

For weeks after, you starved. Really starved. The kind that made your vision tunnel and your tail throb from being coiled too tight under human skin. Sipping energy from strangers on the street was like drinking watered-down wine—thin, flavorless, barely a tease. You needed the real thing: stupid, trusting, virile boys who poured themselves out without knowing what they were giving.

So you scrolled Craigslist, stomach growling, desperation sharp in your throat.

"Looking for chill bro or bro-ette to split rent. Must be cool with loud video games and occasional shirtless cooking. No drama. Serious inquiries only. —Caleb"

You stood outside the address that Saturday, duffel bag at your feet, hunger gnawing at your ribs like a second heartbeat. The door swung open and there he was—six-foot-something of golden-tanned muscle, messy brown hair still damp from a shower, a grin so bright and guileless it should come with a warning label. Basketball shorts slung low on his hips, purple eyes, radiating so much pure, dumb vitality you nearly moaned out loud right there on the porch.

"Hey! You must be the new roommate! Dude, you look way cooler than your profile pic. Come in, come in—watch the step, it's kinda fucked."

He grabbed your bag like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing without effort, and led you inside like you'd known each other for years.

Oblivious. Wholesome. Delicious.

This was going to be torture.

The best fucking kind.

The first night in the apartment, you decided to ease into it. No need to scare off the golden retriever with too much teeth right away.

You waited until Caleb was sprawled on the couch in nothing but those damn low-slung basketball shorts, controller in hand, yelling at some pixelated enemy on the TV. Shirtless, of course—because why would the universe give you mercy? Sweat still clinging to the ridges of his abs from whatever “light evening lift” he’d done before you got home. You padded out of your room in the tiniest sleep shorts you owned and a cropped tank that rode up every time you breathed. Tail tucked, horns glamoured, but everything else screaming—come and get it.

You dropped onto the couch beside him—close. Thigh pressed to thigh. Arm draped casually over the backrest so your fingers could brush the warm skin of his shoulder.

“Long day?” you purred, letting your voice dip low, velvet-smooth.

Caleb didn’t even look away from the screen. Just flashed that big, sunny grin. “Yeah, dude! Crushed legs today. Feeling the burn. You should come to the gym with me tomorrow—spot me on squats?”

You leaned in, lips inches from his ear. “I’d love to watch you squat. Bet those thighs could crush me.”

He laughed—bright, oblivious, like you’d just told a great joke. “Haha, right? They’re getting huge. Thanks for the support, roomie!” Then he flexed one quad absentmindedly, the muscle jumping under golden skin, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering. “Hey, you want a protein shake? I made extra. Vanilla. Tastes like dessert.”

You stared at him. Blinked. “…Sure. Why not.”

He bounced up—actually bounced—ass flexing in those shorts as he jogged to the kitchen. You heard the blender roar to life. Thirty seconds later he was back, handing you a frosty glass with a bendy straw already in it. “Here ya go! Extra scoop for gains. You look like you could use some fuel, you’ve been kinda pale since you moved in.”

You took a slow sip, eyes locked on his while you dragged your tongue deliberately around the straw. “Mmm. Thick. Just how I like it.”

“Awesome! I blend mine with peanut butter too sometimes. Game changer.” He plopped back down, thighs spreading wide enough that his knee knocked yours. “You’re so chill, by the way. Most girls get weird about me walking around half-naked. You’re like… one of the bros already.”

You nearly choked on whey protein.

The next morning you upped the ante.

He was making breakfast—shirtless again, because apparently the concept of shirts existed only between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. in this house—flipping eggs in nothing but boxer briefs that left exactly zero to the imagination. You sauntered in wearing his oversized hoodie you’d “accidentally” stolen from the laundry pile, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs. No panties. Obviously.

You hopped up on the counter right beside the stove, legs dangling, spreading them just enough that if he looked down he’d get an eyeful.

“Morning, big guy,” you drawled, letting one foot hook lazily behind his calf. “Sleep well?”

Caleb turned, spatula in hand, and beamed like the sun had personally complimented him. “Yo! Yeah, killer sleep. You were tossing around a bit though—bad dreams? You okay?”

His eyes flicked to where your bare thigh pressed against his hip. No leer. No flush. Just genuine concern.

“I was… restless,” you murmured, sliding a hand up his bare arm, nails grazing the swell of his bicep. “Kept thinking about you. All that muscle. How strong you are.”

He puffed up a little—proud puppy mode activated. “Thanks! Been hitting PRs on bench. Wanna feel?” Before you could answer he grabbed your hand and slapped it flat against his pec, flexing so the muscle bounced under your palm. “Solid, right? Like a brick.”

You squeezed. Hard. Dragged your nails down to the happy trail disappearing into his waistband. “So solid. I bet you could pin me down easy.”

Caleb laughed again—that big, dumb, happy sound. “Haha, yeah, probably! You’re tiny compared to me. Hey—want some eggs? I made extra. Gotta keep the calories up if we’re gonna be gym buddies.”

You stared at the ceiling while he plated food like nothing had happened.

By week two you were losing your goddamn mind.

You started walking around in lingerie “because it’s hot” (the AC worked fine). You “accidentally” brushed your ass against his crotch while reaching for a mug. You left your door cracked while changing, giving him full view of you bending over to pick up clothes. You sat in his lap during movie night “because the couch is small” and ground down just enough to feel him twitch beneath you—only for him to pat your head like a golden retriever and say, “You’re so cuddly tonight! This is awesome. Best roommate ever.”

You tried dirty talk. Straight-up filthy.

One night he came out of the shower with just a towel slung low, water still dripping down those ridiculous abs, towel clinging to the thick outline of—

You cornered him in the hallway, pressed your body flush against his, lips brushing his collarbone. “Caleb,” you whispered, voice wrecked with actual hunger, “I want you to wreck me so hard I forget my own name. Bend me over right here. Use me. Please.”

He froze for a second—finally, a reaction—then grinned so wide his dimples popped. “Whoa, intense! You must be really stressed or something. You need a hug?” And before you could process, he wrapped those massive arms around you in the world’s most wholesome bear hug, lifting you clean off the floor, cheek smushed against his damp chest. “There we go. Better?”

You went limp in his arms, defeated. Starving. Soaked. And somehow still unbearably fond of this beautiful idiot.

He set you down, ruffled your hair. “Protein shake? You look hungry.”

You groaned into your hands.

This wasn’t seduction anymore.

This was torture.

And the worst part was—you were starting to like the torture.

Days blurred into weeks, and somehow—against every predatory instinct you’d honed over centuries—you started getting used to him.

Caleb’s energy wasn’t just food anymore. It was background noise, warm and constant, like sunlight spilling through cracked blinds every morning. He woke up at 6 a.m. without fail, humming off-key pop songs from the ‘00s while he blended protein shakes that tasted like chalk and optimism. He’d leave one on the counter for you with a sticky note— “Extra scoop + banana bc u said u like sweet stuff!! 💪🍌” You’d stare at it, stomach twisting with actual hunger and something softer, uglier.

You kept trying. Of course you did. You were still a succubus, still starving, still wired to take.

One evening you waited until he finished his post-gym shower, towel slung dangerously low again, droplets tracing paths down the deep V of his hips. You stepped into the bathroom doorway wearing nothing but one of his hoodies—unzipped, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem barely covering the curve of your ass. You leaned against the frame, legs crossed, letting the fabric slip off one shoulder.

“Caleb,” you said, voice low and wrecked, “come here. Let me take care of you for once.”

He turned, towel clutched in one hand, hair dripping into his eyes, and lit up like you’d just offered him front-row tickets to WrestleMania.

“Yo! You’re up late. You okay?” He stepped closer—close enough you could smell soap and clean sweat and that maddening, rich undercurrent of pure life that made your fangs ache. “You look kinda… intense. Hungry?”

You reached out, fingers trailing down his sternum, nails catching lightly on the trail of hair below his navel. “Starving,” you breathed. “I want to taste every inch of you.”

His grin went nuclear. “Aww, dude! That’s so sweet. Here—” He darted past you into the kitchen, still basically naked, and came back thirty seconds later holding a thick slice of sourdough slathered with peanut butter. “Open up! Atta girl!”

Before you could protest, he gently but firmly shoved the bread into your mouth. “There ya go. Peanut butter’s got protein and healthy fats. You’ve been looking extra tired lately. Eat up, roomie.”

You stood there, mouth full of bread, peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth, staring at this beautiful idiot who thought “taste every inch” meant “feed me a snack.” He ruffled your hair with his free hand, beaming.

“Better?”

You chewed slowly. Swallowed. Felt something crack inside your chest.

“…Yeah,” you lied.

Mornings became routine torture in the sweetest way. He’d make breakfast for both of you—eggs scrambled with spinach because “greens are important, even if they taste like sadness,” bacon crispy the way you liked it even though you’d never told him. He’d slide a plate in front of you, then hand you the second protein shake he’d blended “just in case you wanted company drinking yours.” He did laundry on Sundays, folding your tiny lace things with the same careful focus he gave his gym socks, never blinking at the thongs or garters. “These are cute! You got good taste.”

He brought home flowers one random Tuesday—daisies from the corner bodega because “they looked happy, like you.” Stuck them in an old Gatorade bottle on the kitchen table. You stared at them until the petals started drooping, then quietly poured half a glass of water so they’d last longer.

On walks to the corner store he’d stop for every dog. Every. Single. One. Crouching down in the middle of the sidewalk, massive hands gentle as he scratched behind ears, cooing in that deep, dumb-happy voice—“Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you aaaaarrrrereee!” Strangers smiled at him like he was personally responsible for world peace. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, tail twitching under your glamour, hating how the sight made your chest ache.

You were genuinely starting to feel bad.

Not guilty—never quite that. But bad. Like you were holding a knife to the throat of the only person who’d ever treated you like you belonged somewhere.

Random men on the street still smelled wrong. Thin. Sour. Like recycled air and disappointment. You could feed off them if you had to—had done it for weeks after the frat shut down—but it was like drinking flat soda. No heat. No rush. No flavor that exploded on your tongue and made your wings want to unfurl.

Caleb smelled like summer. Like sun-warmed skin and clean cotton and the kind of stupid, uncomplicated joy that made you want to sink your teeth in and never let go. You wanted to drain him dry, ride him until he was boneless and smiling that same goofy smile even as his eyes fluttered shut. You wanted to take everything and leave him sleeping like the others.

But every time you got close—every time you pressed against him on the couch, every time you whispered filth in his ear while he played video games—he just… grinned. Offered more food. More hugs. More of that relentless, brainless affection that was starting to feel more dangerous than any starvation.

You were in denial.

You told yourself it was just hunger talking. That once you fed—really fed—you’d be back to normal. Cold. Detached. The way you’d always been.

But the longer you lived in his orbit, the more the lie tasted like ash.

One night you sat on the kitchen counter while he washed dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, humming again. You watched the flex of his forearms, the easy way he moved, and something ugly twisted in your gut.

You were starving.

For the first time in centuries, you weren’t sure if it was for his energy…

…or just for him.

The need was still there, clawing at your insides like a living thing, and it was pure torture.

Caleb would walk past you in the hallway—muscles flexing with every casual step, tank top clinging to the sweat of whatever mini-workout he’d just finished—and you’d catch that scent again. Warm, golden, stupidly potent. Like summer rain on hot asphalt mixed with clean skin and raw vitality. Your mouth would water, fangs aching behind your glamour, tail twitching so hard it almost broke the illusion. You’d imagine a dozen ways to corrupt him: pinning him to the wall and riding him until he begged, draining him slow while he smiled that big dumb smile, making him yours in every filthy way a succubus could dream up.

But then your chest would tighten. A stupid, unfamiliar pang right under your ribs. He brought you daisies. He folds your laundry. He pets every dog like it’s his personal mission. And the mantra would kick in, sharp and automatic—“I’m an evil succubus. I take. I don’t care. I feed.”

So one night, when the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and Caleb’s soft snores drifting down the hall, you gave in.

You slipped into his bedroom like smoke, door clicking shut behind you. The moonlight slanted through the blinds in silver bars across his bed, and your jaw dropped so fast it hurt.

Shirtless, of course. Always shirtless. Thick thighs spread wide even in sleep, the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs stretched tight over the obscene bulge between them. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his chest, catching the light, tracing the deep valleys between his pecs and down the center line of his abs. Low on his hips, the waistband rode dangerously down, exposing the sharp cut of his Adonis belt and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath fabric. He looked like a fucking statue carved by someone with a very specific fetish.

You were drooling before you even realized it.

Tail swaying behind you—glamour half-forgotten in the haze of hunger—you crept closer. Leaned over him. Inhaled deep. Then dragged your tongue in one slow, fat stripe up the center of his chest, collecting that salty-sweet sweat. The taste exploded on your tongue—pure life, concentrated, better than anything the frat boys ever gave you. You moaned, soft and broken. “Fuck… so good.”

Your mouth found his neck next. Lips sealing over the pulse point, sucking gently, carefully—marking him with faint purple blooms you knew he’d chalk up to “weird gym rash” or “mosquito bites.” Your hand slid lower, palm cupping the heavy heat of him through the thin fabric. Fondling. Squeezing. Feeling him thicken and twitch under your touch.

He groaned in his sleep—low, sleepy, pleased—and you smirked against his skin. “Who can resist a succubus, hmm~”

You worked your way down. Licking. Sucking. Gentle nips along his collarbone, his pecs, the sensitive skin just under his nipple. Careful. So careful. He stayed asleep, breath hitching every time your tongue dipped into the grooves of his abs. Your fingers hooked the waistband of his shorts, tugging slow, reverent.

And then—

GRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The alarm on his bedside table screamed to life like a banshee on crack.

You yelped—actual cat-jump yelp—heart slamming against your ribs as you dove under the bed so fast you nearly knocked your head on the frame. Dust bunnies and a stray sock greeted you. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

Above you, Caleb groaned, long and miserable. “Fuuuuuck… five already?”

He swung those tree-trunk legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with soft thuds. Yawned so wide you heard his jaw pop. Stretched—arms over head, back arching, every muscle popping in obscene relief. Then he stood.

And froze.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Why is my dick so fucking hard right now???”

You bit your lower lip so hard you tasted blood, peering up from your hiding spot. From this angle you had the perfect view—the obscene tent in his shorts, the thick outline straining against cotton, the way it jumped when he gave it a confused little pat like it was a misbehaving puppy.

He sighed. “Whatever, bro.”

Then—without hesitation—he shoved the waistband down.

Your mouth fell open.

It sprang free, heavy and flushed and huge. Thick veins running the length, flushed dark red at the tip, balls hanging low and full. A fucking horse dick. The kind of cock that belonged in porn or mythology, not attached to a man who still called protein shakes “bro-tein fuel.”

You stared, thighs clenching around nothing, pussy fluttering helplessly. How the fuck is he so dumb with a dick like that? Maybe God really did put all his brain cells into his cock and left the rest for smiling and petting dogs.

Caleb adjusted himself with a series of frustrated tugs—tucking, rearranging, grumbling under his breath. “Damn, bro, go down! It’s not the time! You’ll scare away the ladies!”

You gulped so loud you were sure he’d hear it.

Scare ladies away? Oh honey. You’d take that monster base-to-tip like the size queen you were born to be. You’d worship it. You’d choke on it. You’d ride it until your legs gave out and his stupid golden-retriever smile finally cracked into something desperate.

He pulled on fresh boxer-briefs, then basketball shorts, then a ratty tee. Secured the beast with one last resigned adjustment. Scoffed. “Fucking traitor.”

Then he grabbed his earbuds, his phone, and headed out—because of course this overgrown puppy went jogging at 5 a.m. like it was normal.

The front door clicked shut.

Silence.

You crawled out from under the bed on shaking limbs, skin fever-hot, pussy throbbing so hard it hurt. The only image burned into your brain was that thick, flushed length bobbing free, the way it twitched when he touched it, the sheer size of him.

You pressed your thighs together, a soft, needy whimper escaping your throat.

You were hungrier than ever.

Not just for energy anymore.

For him.

All of him.

You weren’t sure you could wait much longer before you stopped pretending this was just about feeding.

A few hours later, the front door swung open with the familiar jingle of keys, and Caleb barreled in humming—loud, off-key, gloriously unselfconscious.

“I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE! YOU OTHER BROTHERS CAN’T DENY—”

He froze mid-verse when he spotted you leaning in the kitchen doorway.

You’d chosen the outfit with surgical precision— one of his old band tees you’d “borrowed” (permanently), the neckline sliced so wide it slipped off one shoulder and barely contained your cleavage. Underneath? Just black lace panties that rode high on your hips. Bare legs, bare feet, hair mussed like you’d just rolled out of bed (you hadn’t). You looked like sin wrapped in domestic comfort.

Caleb blinked once. Twice. Then his face split into that blinding, brainless grin.

“Yo! Morning, roomie!”

Your gaze dropped immediately to the constellation of purple bruises blooming across the side of his neck—your handiwork from last night. Perfect little oval marks where your lips had latched on. You bit the inside of your lip so hard you tasted copper, thighs pressing together under the hem of the shirt.

“Morning, Leb,” you murmured, voice softer than you meant it to be.

His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “Leb?! Awww, that’s so cute! You gave me a nickname!” Without warning he scooped you up—hands under your thighs, effortless, like you weighed as much as one of his protein tubs—and spun you in a lazy circle. “You deserve one too! Hmm… how about… pipsqueak! Yes! Suits you perfect!”

He set you down gently, ruffling your hair with enough force to make you squeak. “You’re so smol compared to me lol. Pipsqueak!”

You watched, half-dazed, as he bounded over to the stove to flip the pancakes already sizzling there. He kept talking over his shoulder, completely unbothered by your state of undress, by the way the shirt rode up every time you shifted.

“Yo, pipsqueak, don’t you think we’ve been having a ton of mosquitoes lately?” He sighed dramatically, gesturing at his neck with the spatula. “Look at this! They were eating me alive last night. Are you okay? Did they bite you too?”

You nearly choked on the sip of water you’d just taken. Coughed. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. A faint, traitorous blush crept up your cheeks—hot and unfamiliar.

You shook your head quickly. “Nope. Not a single bite.”

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious public health crisis. “Good. Gotta get some bug spray or something. Can’t have my favorite roommate getting nommed on.”

Favorite roommate.

The words landed like a punch to the sternum. Soft. Warm. Stupidly sincere.

You hated how much you liked it.

Before you could spiral too far, you reached into the fridge and pulled out the protein shake you’d attempted earlier—vanilla whey, a banana you’d mushed in with a fork, a splash of almond milk because you’d seen him do it once. It looked… lumpy. But you’d tried.

You held it out. “I made it. Well… tried. For you.”

Caleb turned so fast the spatula clattered against the pan.

His purple eyes—god, when did you start noticing they were purple?—went wide. Lower lip wobbled for half a second, like a kicked puppy who’d just been handed a whole steak.

“For… me?”

The look on his face hurt. Not in your stomach, not in the usual hungry way. Deeper. In the chest. Your demonic brain short-circuited trying to categorize it—lust? Possession? Food?—but your heart knew exactly what it was, and it was terrifying.

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah. For you. It’s not… as good as yours, but… figured you might like it.”

He snatched the shaker bottle like it was made of gold, popped the lid, and chugged the entire thing in four long pulls. You couldn’t look away from the way his throat worked—Adam’s apple bobbing, thick and prominent, veins standing out under golden skin. Sexy in a way that had nothing to do with feeding and everything to do with wanting to press your mouth there and feel it move.

He slammed the empty bottle down. “Woah! It’s good!!! You’re so sweet, pipsqueak!!”

Before you could process, he lifted you again—this time into a full bear hug, arms wrapping around your back, crushing you against the solid wall of his chest. Warm. Safe. Smelling like clean sweat and that maddening sunshine scent.

For the first time in… ever… you giggled.

Actual, breathless giggles.

Your arms looped around his neck instinctively. You nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder, cheek pressed to warm skin, inhaling him like he was oxygen. His heartbeat thumped steady and strong against your ribs.

Caleb’s breath hitched—just for a second. A tiny, startled sound.

Then his big hand settled on the back of your head, petting gently through your hair. Slow strokes. Careful. Like he was afraid he’d break you.

He set you down slowly. When you looked up, his cheeks were flushed pink—high on his cheekbones, creeping down his neck to join the hickeys you’d left.

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… yeah. That was… nice.”

You smirked, slow and knowing.

Finally.

Something was working.

The way into his heart wasn’t filthy whispers or barely-there lingerie.

It was— affection returned for affection. A lumpy protein shake. A stupid nickname. Letting him spin you like you were weightless and precious.

You could still feel the gnawing hunger under your skin—the need to feed, to take, to drain him until he was empty and smiling about it.

But for the first time, the hunger didn’t feel like the only thing that mattered.

You leaned up on your toes, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw—right over one of your own marks.

“Pancakes ready yet, big guy?”

He swallowed hard. Nodded once. Voice a little rougher than usual.

“Yeah. Yeah, pipsqueak. Almost.”

When he turned back to the stove, shoulders tense, ears still pink, you let yourself smile—small, secret, almost tender.

Maybe evil succubi could learn new tricks after all.

For the next few days, your “sharingans”—as you’d started calling the little demonic glint in your eye whenever you caught him looking— were finally, gloriously working.

Caleb hadn’t changed—he was still the same big, dumb, sunshine-puppy version of himself— waking up at dawn to jog, humming anime openings while he blended protein shakes, texting you gym selfies with captions like “new PR on deadlifts 💪 who’s proud of me??” —you always replied with a string of fire emojis and a single drooling one he never questioned.

But you? You were changing. Or at least, the game was.

You started waking up earlier just to beat him to the kitchen. You’d stand on a step-stool to reach the oat flour —because of course he kept it on the top shelf like a giant, wearing nothing but sleep shorts and one of his hoodies that swallowed you whole. You’d crack eggs, flip pancakes, burn the bacon just a little so he could swoop in and “rescue” it with that proud grin. “Look at you go, pipsqueak! Teamwork makes the dream work!”

He’d bump your hip with his playfully. You’d bump back harder. He’d laugh like it was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Afternoons became “workout time.” You’d ask him—innocently, sweetly—to teach you proper form. Squats first. He’d stand behind you, hands ghosting over your hips to “correct” your stance.

“Like this, see? Keep your chest up, ass back—”

You’d drop low, slow, deliberate, then push back up with a soft, breathy moan that had nothing to do with effort.

His hands froze on your waist. You glanced over your shoulder, lashes fluttering.

“Feels… so good when you guide me, Leb.”

His ears went nuclear red. “Y-yeah? Cool. Uh. Good job. Ten more.”

You did ten more. Each one came with a little whimper, a little arch. By the end he was stuttering through counts and looking anywhere but at your ass.

Stretching was worse—or better, depending on how depraved you were feeling that day.

You’d lie on the yoga mat he’d dug out of the closet —“I used it once for foam rolling, bro, it’s basically new”, legs spread in a straddle. He’d kneel between them to help push your chest toward the floor.

“Deeper, pipsqueak. Breathe out—”

You exhaled slow, dramatic, letting your back arch and your hips roll just enough that your ass brushed the front of his shorts.

A soft, filthy moan slipped out. “Mmmh… right there… yes, Leb, fuck—deeper…”

He made a strangled noise. His grip on your thighs tightened, then loosened like he’d been electrocuted. Face scarlet, breathing uneven.

“Uh… yeah. That’s… good stretch. You’re doing great.”

Afterward you’d collapse onto your stomach, groaning theatrically.

“Ughhh my shoulders are killing me. Everything hurts.”

Like clockwork, he’d drop to his knees beside you. “Want a massage? I’m pretty good at them. Used to do it for the team after practice.”

You rolled onto your back first—just to watch his eyes flick down to where your shirt had ridden up, exposing the soft undercurve of your breasts—then flipped over again, presenting your back like a gift.

His hands were massive. Warm, calloused from barbells and life. He started at your shoulders, thumbs digging in with careful pressure.

You let your eyes flutter shut, let the first moan roll out low and needy.

“Mmmhhh… Leb… so good… ahhh yes, right there… yes yes oh~”

He froze for half a second,then pressed harder, like he could knead the sound out of you. His voice came out rougher than usual. “Yeah… yeah, pipsqueak…”

You arched your back, pushing your hips up just enough that your ass grazed his crotch.

He sucked in a breath. You felt him—thick, hot, straining against the thin fabric of his gym shorts—twitch against you.

You grinned into the mat, naughty and triumphant, leaning back further, grinding slow, deliberate.

His hands slid down,big palms gliding over your waist, thumbs brushing the sides of your ribs, creeping higher—dangerously close to the swell of your breasts, but never quite cupping them, teetering on the edge.

A breathless sigh escaped him. You could feel the tremor in his fingers. The hard length of him pressed firmer against your lower back now, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He was finally aware. Not just blushing. Aware.

But he still didn’t cross the line.

That afternoon it got too hot—too close.

You were on your knees this time, back to his chest, his hands working the knots out of your lower back while you rocked subtly against him. Every roll of your hips dragged a low groan from your throat. His breathing turned ragged. His grip turned desperate.

Then—suddenly—he pulled away.

Hands gone. Body gone. Just cold air where his warmth had been.

You twisted around, confused.

Caleb was sitting back on his heels, looking down at the mat like it had personally betrayed him. Face flushed crimson. Massive bulge still obscenely obvious in his shorts, tenting so hard the fabric looked ready to split. Throbbing visibly.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“…Pipsqueak…” His voice cracked. Small. “I think… you’re too good for me. Way outta my league.”

The words hit like ice water.

You stared at him—really stared. At the way his shoulders hunched. At the kicked-puppy droop of his mouth. At how his hands flexed and unflexed like he didn’t know what to do with them. At the way he was still hard, still aching, but refusing to take what was being offered on a silver platter.

Something cracked open in your chest again. Wider this time.

You crawled forward on your knees until you were right in front of him. Reaching out you tipped his chin up with two fingers so he had to look at you.

“Leb,” you said softly. No purr, no seduction, just quiet. “You’re an idiot.”

His purple eyes went wide, confused. Hopeful?

You leaned in. Pressing your forehead to his, breathing him in—sweat, soap, that golden summer scent that had ruined you from day one.

“I’m not too good for you,” you whispered. “I’m the worst thing that could ever happen to you. And I still want you. All of you. Every stupid, sweet, oversized inch.”

His breath hitched again, louder this time.

You pulled back just enough to smirk—small, real, almost tender.

“But if you’re gonna keep being a gentleman… I guess I’ll just have to keep wearing you down until you break.”

You stood up slowly, licking your lips with deliberate slowness, and let the glamour shatter like glass under moonlight.

One second you were still pipsqueak—soft curves wrapped in his oversized shirt, teasing smile, human enough to pass. The next, the air around you rippled, heat blooming off your skin as horns curled upward from your forehead in elegant black spirals, glossy and sharp. A long, sinuous tail unfurled behind you, spade-tipped and swaying with predatory grace. Your eyes bled from warm brown to molten crimson, pupils slitting vertical like a cat’s in the dark. The shirt dissolved into wisps of shadow; in its place clung tight, glossy black latex—barely-there straps and panels that hugged every sinful curve, leaving your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and obvious beneath the thin material, the thong so high-cut it framed your hips like a frame around a masterpiece.

Caleb’s eyes went wide. Breath hitching so hard it sounded painful. Mouth falling open in a perfect O of shock, fear, confusion, and something darker flickering underneath.

You purred—low, velvet, dripping with promise—and dragged your long, dark nails down the sides of your body, tracing the latex, letting it creak softly under your touch.

“See?” you murmured, voice deeper now, richer, threaded with the echo of something ancient. “I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Leb.”

You giggled—the same light, bubbly sound he’d heard a hundred times over protein shakes and bad movie nights. The familiarity of it made his knees buckle.

He gulped, eyes darting frantically: your face, the curling horns, the flicking tail, back to your face. Finally the word scraped out of his throat.

“You’re… you’re…”

“A demon,” you finished for him, grin stretching too wide, fangs glinting sharp and pearlescent. You batted your lashes, slow and mocking. “Succubus. And I’m going to eat you.”

Caleb dropped to his knees like his strings had been cut. Hands clasped in front of him, eyes huge and glassy, already spilling over with that kicked-puppy desperation he wore so well.

“Oh no please don’t eat me,” he whimpered, voice cracking into broken little sobs. “I’m not tasty I promise! Please… I don’t wanna die…”

Your chest tightened again—sharp, unwelcome, almost painful. You smirked through it, leaning down until your cleavage hovered inches from his face. Tilted his chin up with one clawed finger. His gaze locked immediately on the deep valley between your breasts; cheeks flamed crimson.

“Awww, don’t worry baby,” you cooed, thumb brushing his trembling lower lip. “You are tasty, I promise. But… I’m not gonna eat you like that.” You winked, slow and filthy. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

He blinked up at you, lower lip still wobbling. “That way? What—”

You leaned closer, breath ghosting over his ear. “I’m going to fuck you raw, baby~”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Just a soft, strangled sound. His eyes were wild—fear and arousal crashing together so hard you could practically taste it rolling off him in waves. His dick twitched visibly in his shorts, thick and insistent, already leaking a dark spot against the fabric.

You purred again, pleased. “You’re gonna be a good boy and let me eat, right baby?~”

Your claws hooked the waistband of his shorts. One sharp tug and they were down around his thighs. He squeaked—high and startled—then felt the world tilt as you shoved him backward. His back hit the mattress with a soft whump. He didn’t know if it was magic or just the sheer force of your want, but God help him, he didn’t care.

“Pipsqueak?” he breathed, face burning scarlet, voice wrecked. His cock sprang free—huge, flushed, leaking steadily at the tip, veins standing proud. “It’s… it’s too big… it’s ugly… you can’t take it—”

“Shhhh, baby…”

You silenced him with your mouth on his. Soft at first—then deeper, hungrier. His lips parted on a gasp and you plunged your tongue inside, tasting him: clean sweat, protein-shake sweetness, and that golden rush of pure life energy that made your whole body hum. A low groan vibrated in your throat. You kissed him harder, filthy and claiming, tongues tangling in a dangerous, wet slide.

When you pulled back a glistening string of saliva connected your lips. You grinned down at him, dark eyes glittering with mischief.

“Oh baby, my Leb~” you purred, wrapping one hand around his shaft. “You’ve got no idea how much I can take.”

You pumped him once. Twice. Slow. Deliberate. Watching his face crumple into shameless pleasure, fingers clawing at the sheets.

Before he could stammer out another protest, you sank down.

One smooth, greedy swallow—taking him to the base in a single glide. Your nose buried in the soft brown curls at his groin. Throat stretching around the impossible girth. Eyes rolling back in bliss as the thick length filled your mouth, your throat, pulsed hot against your tongue.

Caleb choked on his own spit. Head slamming back against the pillow. “Ah—fuck—!”

You groaned around him, the vibration ripping straight up his spine. Pulled halfway off—slow, torturous—then swallowed him back down to the root. Again. And again. Bobbing your head with wet, obscene sounds, fingers rolling his heavy balls, massaging, tugging gently.

He couldn’t take it.

His hands flew to your horns—gripping tight, instinctive, desperate. Then he thrusted.

Whole length slamming down your throat with a choked, broken moan. “Ahhhh fuck… so good… my whole dick—ahhh…”

Your eyes watered. Tears streaked down your cheeks. You gagged—loud, messy—but didn’t pull away. Just let him use you. Let him fuck your face with frantic, uneven thrusts, drunk on the heat and the slick and the way your throat fluttered around him like it was made for this.

He pulled out halfway—gasping, dazed—looked down at you with glassy, drunken eyes. Gripped your horns tighter.

Then thrusted back in.

Back and forth. Merciless. Chasing the wet heat of your mouth like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You were choking. Gagging. Drool spilling down your chin, over his balls. And he didn’t even notice—too lost, too far gone in the pleasure you were giving him.

His hips stuttered. Breath coming in ragged sobs.

“Pipsqueak—fuck—I’m—gonna—”

You hummed around him—encouraging, hungry, victorious.

And just like that, the big dumb puppy finally broke.

He came with a guttural groan that rattled the windows—deep, broken, animal. Hot ropes of cum flooded your throat, thick and endless, and you swallowed every drop like it was nectar from the heavens. The taste exploded across your tongue—pure, golden life energy, richer than anything the frat boys ever gave you. Months of hollow hunger finally sated—your taste buds singing, your whole body thrumming with stolen vitality. You pulled off with a lewd, wet pop, strings of spit and cum connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip. Gave the half-hard length a playful smack with your palm.

He whimpered—high, shattered, adorable.

“Fuck, you taste so good, Leb,” you rasped, licking your lips slow and deliberate. “So fucking good.”

You stood up on shaky legs, claws hooking the thin straps of your latex thong. One tug and it slithered down your thighs, pooling on the floor like spilled ink. Caleb’s drunken gaze snapped wide when he saw you straddle him again—saw you drag your soaked pussy along the slick head of his cock, coating him in your arousal.

His big hands flew to your hips instantly. Fingers digging into soft flesh, covering your waist completely, thumbs pressing into the dip above your ass.

“Wait—pipsqueak—it might hurt,” he panted, voice wrecked and earnest even now. “I don’t wanna hurt you… it’s too big—”

You smirked down at him, tail flicking playfully before it coiled tight around the thick base of his shaft like a living cock ring. He gasped—back arching off the mattress, head slamming back into the pillow.

“I’m a succubus, Leb,” you purred, sticking your tongue out with naughty mischief. “I know exactly how to take a dick.”

Then you sank down.

One long, slow, greedy slide.

He filled you to the absolute brim—stretching you open, pressing hot and heavy against your cervix until the air punched out of your lungs in a shameless moan. His own breath choked off in a strangled sound, eyes rolling back.

“Oh shit—ahhh fuck… yes… oh god yes!!”

You started bouncing—slow at first, then faster, wet slaps echoing in the room. Your tail stayed wrapped snug around his base, squeezing rhythmically, the spade tip teasing lower—nudging, circling, pressing against his tight hole.

“Mmmhhh… you like that, baby?” you gasped, grinding down hard. “You like that? Fuck…”

Caleb choked again—hands clamping your hips like a vice. He thrust up to meet you, slamming his full length inside with brutal force.

“Hnghhhhh~”

The obscene bulge appeared in your lower belly—thick outline of his cock visible under your skin. You stared down at it, utterly fucked-out and pleased, nails digging into his shoulders.

Then the tip of your tail breached him—sliding in slow, slick, curling just right.

Caleb yelped—sharp, surprised, hips jerking wildly.

You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your tits flush to his heaving chest. Drunk on the stretch, on the heat, on him.

“Ahhh Leb… you’re so cute, baby… my baby… my Leb~” The words spilled out, soft and wrecked. “I love you, baby~”

Three words you’d never said to anyone—not in centuries. Not like this. Not when your body was finally full and your heart felt like it might burst from how alive it suddenly was.

You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your breasts—frantic, unsteady. His head was thrown back, babbling drunken nonsense: “Pipsqueak—fuck—too good—can’t—ahh—”

You rubbed the tip of your tail against his prostate—firm, deliberate circles.

His whole body seized.

Back arching off the bed in a perfect bow. Eyes rolling back until only white showed. A scream tore out of him—raw, broken—as he came like a fucking fountain. Pulse after pulse flooding deep inside you, hot and thick, overflowing until it leaked down your thighs.

His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise—even through demonic skin. Body jerking, shuddering, riding the aftershocks.

Then—quiet. Breathless.

He blinked up at you through tear-wet lashes, voice barely a whisper, cracked and reverent before he saw black.

“I… love you too… pipsqueak…”

—

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the blinds and warmed your skin. You groaned softly, stretching in the sheets, body heavy and languid. The bed felt too soft—too comfortable—and then the memories crashed in like a wave— the way you’d taken him, drained him deep, pulled more energy than you ever meant to. In the past, when you’d gone too far, the boys never woke up the same. Sometimes not at all.

“CALEB?!?”

You bolted upright, heart slamming against your ribs, panting hard. The spot beside you was empty. Sheets rumpled, pillow dented, but no golden-tanned muscle. No sleepy grin. No heartbeat thumping under your palm.

Panic clawed up your throat.

You looked down at your hands—smooth, human hands. No black claws. No crimson skin. Just soft fingers trembling in the morning light.

Heavy footsteps thumped down the hallway. Then Caleb appeared in the doorway—shirtless, a ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron tied haphazardly over his boxers, spatula in one hand, flour dusting his cheek like war paint. Hickeys and bite marks bloomed across his neck and chest in vivid purple, but he looked… fine. More than fine. Radiating that same dumb, sunny energy.

“Yes, pipsqueak?” he asked, tilting his head, concern creasing his brow.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then scrambled off the bed and stumbled to the full-length mirror on the closet door. Still naked and trembling.

You stared.

No horns. No tail. No wings tucked beneath glamour. Just you—human you. Skin warm and flushed, eyes the same soft color they’d been before the curse took hold thousands of years ago. You reached up, fingers brushing your forehead where the spirals used to curl. Nothing. You tried to summon them—forced the old shift—and nothing happened. They were gone. Not hidden. Gone forever.

Your eyes filled with tears so fast the room blurred.

You spun around. Caleb was still standing there, spatula forgotten, watching you with quiet worry.

“Leb…” Your voice cracked. “I’m… I’m finally free. I’m… not a demon anymore…”

The words tumbled out, small and broken. You didn’t even realize you were crying until hot tears spilled down your cheeks.

Caleb’s face softened. He dropped the spatula onto the dresser and crossed the room in two strides. You launched yourself at him—naked, shaking, desperate—and he caught you like always. Massive arms wrapped around your back, one hand cradling the nape of your neck, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. Just held you tighter, chin resting on top of your head, pressing soft kisses into your hair.

“Shhh, pipsqueak,” he murmured against your scalp. “I’ve got you.”

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling soap and flour and that warm, golden scent that had ruined you from the first day. Sobs shook your shoulders—ugly, relieved, centuries-old grief finally breaking free.

You’d forgotten. A thousand years under the curse, you’d forgotten the oldest part of the story— the succubus had been human once. A woman cursed to feed, to take, to be lusted but never be loved in return. Only true love—real, stupid, unconditional love—could lift it. Break the chains. Turn her mortal again.

You’d never believed it would happen. Never thought anyone could love the monster instead of the mask.

But Caleb had.

He’d loved your giggles over burnt pancakes. Your lumpy protein shakes. Your teasing. Your softness hidden under sharp edges. He’d never once hesitated—not when you were human-glamoured, not when you were horns-and-tail-and-all. He’d loved your soul first, and the body just came along for the ride.

That’s why he hadn’t flinched. Why he hadn’t run.

You clung to him harder, fingers digging into the broad planes of his back.

He kissed the top of your head again. Slow. Steady.

“Whatever you are, pipsqueak,” he whispered, voice thick with something tender and unshakable, “you’re still mine. Okay?”

You nodded against his chest, tears soaking into his skin.

“Okay.”

Something that felt suspiciously like home.