shuni

The following month was more than cold. Winter stole away Japan's long awaited spring in your heart. Shrouding it in frost and slowing it to a dull squeeze.

Whatever. You didn't need a heart anyway. Didn't have one. Your brain was all that mattered so it was what you put to work. Thrust it into overtime with your nose buried into books and your eyes drowning in equations.

This was your time to focus. Chase those dreams and leave the fantasies behind in the dirt. It wasn't easy, of course. Satoru was still your boss.

His eyes were still naturally drawn to you in meeting rooms. His tongue still remembered each endearment when he'd thank you for bringing him paperwork. You'd made it a mission to avoid him.

Because maybe then you could forget how the same hands that scribbled out theories on a glass whiteboard were the same hands that caressed you. Tender, rough and anything you wanted them to be. Maybe then you could pretend that the same voice giving announcements and directing orders was the same one that whispered to your ear. Lulled you to sleep or teased you to squirms.

Maybe. Just maybe. You could wrest all the memories into your palms and squash them with that same clinical coldness you've always known. But every time you tried— they bloomed. Like a flower through the cracks of snow. Warm. Taunting.

So you decided to uproot it. Force spring back since your heart was so insistent. Plant a new garden with new flowers. New memories. With someone new.

Hiroshi was right up your alley. Someone new. Loud, and boisterous and not chained by the academic curse. A little disorganised. A little everywhere. But he certainly was new. Younger.

Your age.

He was nice. Or at least, he tried to be. Probably just a little airheaded with a lust for life rather than the future. Live fast, die young. That's exactly what you needed, right? Someone to get your mind off of the ghost haunting it.

Sure, he was a little messy. But most guys were, weren't they?

Satoru wasn't.

Yeah, he made you split the bill every time you went out. But that's a fair expectation, isn't it?

Satoru wouldn't.

And sure, maybe he was a little inconsiderate when it came to your body. But you shouldn't expect him to put your pleasure first, right?

Satoru would.

Spring locked away in the depths of your heart and winter reigned supreme. No matter how hard you tried to wedge Hiroshi into the open wound left in that pesky organ, it was hopeless. He was but a peephole in the crater that Satoru's absence left within you.

Whatever. You were just making excuses. Of course being with someone your age after months in the bed of a man who was double it was going to be a whiplash.

You're overreacting. You just needed to adapt. Give Hiroshi a chance. You liked challenges after all, didn't you?

That's why you're here now. Florescent lights skittering like the thrilled bodies bouncing all around. Bumping and grinding. Drunkenly dancing to the beat blaring from vibrating speakers. The music crumbled with static at the corners. Too loud. Too bass heavy. Too everything.

Parties were hardly your scene. At the end of the semester most of your friends fled their homes for a night on the town— while you readied your markers and colour-coded the next semester's planner.

But instead of schedules and highlighters, your hand occupied a red solo cup. Still brimming. Barely touched. The very plastic itched your fingertips. You still reeled from the bitter taste of bear on the back of your tongue. Curled in when you remembered how much skin the shimmery mini dress exposed. Another thing Hiroshi insisted on.

Your eyes flitted through the sea of heated bodies and dazed dances. Feet glued to the floor and a weight strung on your tense shoulders. Relax, Hiroshi had told you. Let loose and enjoy the party life for once.

He had called you a hermit. Rolled his eyes and gave you the silent treatment when you first denied him. So here you were now, with your boyfriend one-too-many cheap drinks down and his arm heavily wrapped around you. Swaying to whatever beat of whatever song you couldn't even recognise as he chatted— or rather, shouted— to his equally as wasted friends.

Go with the flow. That's all you did nowadays.

Their laughter pierced your ears and jostled you back to the overstimulating reality as one of Hiroshi's friends pointed his almost-finished cup at you clumsily.

"She's a pretty one huh 'hiro?"

For the fourth, disgusting time that night, your boyfriend hauled you in and smashed his lips to yours haphazardly. Smearing the bitter taste on your mouth and sludgingly sucking on your tongue until you'd shove him off again.

"Mhhm, she sure is," he slurred. Carelessly squeezing your ass in spite of his tittering friends. You squeaked. Shot him a small glare, but still tried to smile.

Hiroshi only tugged you further. Grinning with glossed-out eyes to his friend. "Wanna try?"

You thought it was joke. Hiroshi always cracked terrible ones. But when he nudged your side and gestured to the guy's eyes who lit up— your hand braced his shoulder.

The protests died on your tongue. So you shook your head. Hoping the little gesture would usher them both off, or at the very least get one of the other guys to tell them to knock it off.

But Hiroshi only huffed. Wrung you closer and snatched your jaw. "C'mon babe don't be like that. 's jus' a kiss."

You shook your head again. This time with some violence. "Hiro I don't wann—"

"Don't be a bitch."

He wrest you forward. Squishing your face hard between his fingers. Your hip cramped under the hand of his friend who stumbled forward. Mouth opened. Heavy for yours.

The surge of panic took hold. Your foot slammed on his. Elbow jammed into Hiroshi's side. You utilised the nails you had to manicure with your own damn money after the bastard went back on his promise and clawed until you shoved them both off.

"What the— fuck!" You hissed at Hiroshi whose face went red.

Crack!

You stained it redder.

Smacked your hand straight across it and shoved one more time until you were stumbling on your heels. Ignoring his slurred hollers and the jackal laughter of his friends as you pushed through the crowd.

Ears ringing. Heart racing. You scampered into the thick sea of heat and pungent booze. Flashing lights blinding. Music deafening. But you managed to stumble out of the blasted place.

The crisp night air slapped you in the face. Was that spring's lingering chills or the winter inside of you that spilled out?

Heart hammering. Maybe your mind— nope. Scrambled too. Fuck. Not a good combo.

You're not sure which of the two made you snatch your phone despite shaky hands. Heart, mind— brain, soul— who fucking cared anymore. Your thumb jerked through your contacts and jammed the bottom of the list.

Against the curtly renamed Mister Gojo.

You barely heard the call's ringing with the cotton stuffed in your ears. Once. Twice. Thrice. He usually picked up on the second ring. Now you're on the forth.

You should hang up. What were you thinking? It's been months—

"Hey."

The night air had nothing on the way that voice rasped with tiredness froze you to the pavement. Drawled with ungodly hours in his lab, you're sure. He was probably on his way out. You could picture him. Still in his lab coat. Rimless glasses shoved in his tousled hair.

"Been awhile since you called me, sweeth—" his caught the slip of his tongue. Cleared his throat. Maybe rubbed the tiredness from those heavy blue eyes. "Need something?"

"Satoru."

Miles apart and still, you felt him go stiff over the line. His name was a tremble on your lips. No last name, no titles, no honorifics. Just a shaky, raw, Satoru.

"What's wrong?" He asked quick. Wide awake.

"Please come get me." You bit back tears. Sucked in a sob and locked eyes with the concrete. "I— I'm sorry. I just need you to come get me pl—"

"Sweetheart, where are you?"

The gentleness of his voice, the seriousness of his question and the tenderness of the nickname strummed a deep ache in your chest. A sob finally cracked into the line. "Sent you the location. Please come get me."

"Sshh, it's okay. Coming to get you right now okay? Stay where you are."

You yearned to stay on the line. You're sure he wanted you to as well. But your shame swiped the end call button and you stuffed the phone back into your purse. Hands clinging to your elbows as you slumped back into the bricks.

The minutes droned on in your spiralling mind. Replays of tonight's events and several other offences tallied. A miserable repeat of the last few months and all the bullshit you endured with Hiroshi. All for what? Your insecurities?

While your heart was put to some ease, shivers still crawled goosebumps up your arms. You shuddered. Hugged yourself closer as your dress shimmered in the moonlight. What the hell were you even doing in an outfit like this in the middle of spring?

Ah, right. Your boyfriend— soon to be ex— told you to ditch the jacket. And of course you fucking listened to him.

You attempted to rub the goosebumps away as you leaned against the bricks. Limbs pressed into each other as you contemplated the ridiculousness of it all. You're here, in a dress that barely covered your ass, with cheap booze on your tongue and your disgusting boyfriend's kisses on your lips. Haunted by the incessant replay of whatever happened back there with the cold biting into your—

Warmth chased the winter. Wrapped around your shivering body in leather and the scent of familiar cologne that eased your muscles. Your fingers instinctively clamped around the dark jacket as you huddled into its comfort and the strong, embracing arms that came with it.

"You okay?" A voice murmured against your temple.

Your gaze snapped up. Tears flooding the second you met those soft blues behind rimless glasses. Satoru stood before you. His height and shadow shielded you from the horrors inside. Brows knitted and mouth pulled in a frown. His jacket hugged around your quivering form and his arms as your refuge.

You choked on his name. Melted into his warmth. Knees ready to give out as you shook your head and tried to stifle a response.

"I just—"

"Hey! The hell you doin' with m'ah girlfriend?"

The drunken slur stiffened you in Satoru's embrace. Your hands gripped on his biceps as Hiroshi staggered over. Eyes glazed and hands balled. Sporting the nasty hand mark you left on his face.

Satoru didn't need any explanations.

Soft blues sharpened into ice. Cut over his glasses and struck Hiroshi where he stood. His arms tightened. Voice steeled.

"Get lost."

Your hands fell to his shoulders as he crouched down. Fingers unclasping your heels and slipping them off of your aching feet. He paid no mind to Hiroshi who wobbled forward with his finger pointing and face flared.

"The fuck are you?" His slurred voice raised. Satoru hardly flinched. Hooking an index into your heels while his forearm braced around your waist.

Hiroshi shouted.

"D'you have any idea who the fuck yer talking to?"

Not a wince. Not even a blink. Satoru scooped you up into a princess-carry and jerked his head to the drunkard. Staring down his anger with a cold warning and hard glare.

"Do you?"

Maybe it was the way in which he didn't have to raise his voice. Or the blizzard that brewed in his pale eyes. More than a threat. A dare. A dare for Hiroshi to put his money where his mouth was while Satoru's got your teary face tucked in his chest.

"I won't tell you again. Fuck off if you know what's good for you." Cold and crisp. Satoru held you closer and turned heel on the gobsmacked Hiroshi. Leaving him a statue in the winter while you were tucked into the warmth of a car you missed so dearly.

He set your shoes down and clicked in your seatbelt, before shutting the door and rounding into the driver's seat. Not a word. Not even a glance. As the engine stirred and for the first time in months— you actually felt safe.

The car ride stewed in silence. Street lights glinting through the window you fixed your stare to. Despite the warmth that both protected and caressed you, winter peskily crept on your forearms and tugged at your heart again as the adrenaline faded.

You were here again. In his car. In his jacket. Next to him. You called, and he came. Your mind tried to face it with logic. You were a young woman and Satoru, for all his theatrics, had morals. Of course he'd come for you.

But once more your whispering heart, damn her, told another tale. Repeating the reality that he was here. Not for obligation or ethics. Satoru was here. He came because you called.

Your mind scrambled while your heart sung. Some hopelessly romantic lyric about how she knew he'd never forget her.

After forever and half, he didn't shatter the silence, but nudged it.

"What did he do?"

You steeled it. Tucking further into the seat and hiding your stiff shoulders in the jacket. His jacket.

"It's fine."

No tongue clicks nor breath hitches. Just the small flex of his fingers on the steering wheel. A tiny crack in the cool display he held. Yet not a single followup.

Your shoulders eased again. Satoru left you be for the time being, but you knew that wouldn't last. Not with the way he stared unblinking at the windshield. You'd deal with it when it came. For now, you sunk into the familiar seats and let him drive you home.

For someone who would poke and prod as to why he needed such a lavish penthouse if he lived alone— you missed the marble floor and grand glass wall that overlooked Tokyo's neon city.

His home wrapped around you the second he carried you in. Lights turning on as he stepped into the living room and plopped you onto the large, comfy L-shaped couch. You almost reached back for him as he withdrew.

He rounded over to the open kitchen and filtered a glass of water before returning. Placing it in your shaky hands as his eyes scanned your curling form.

"Want something to eat?" He asked.

You shook your head. Not that it mattered as he still ventured back to the kitchen and opened his pantry. Pulling out ingredients for a ramen your slowly rumbling tummy remembered well.

Classic Satoru. Always so insistent that you take care of yourself or he'd do it for you.

The familiarity of it all ached your chest. Just a few months ago this would have been routine. Him taking you home after a busy day at the institution to cook you a warm meal. You, in his arms or his lap. Snuggled up on the couch or his bed. Comfortable. Safe. His.

Now? The walls felt like they were staring through your soul. Chastising you. Why did you ever leave?

Because you had no other choice.

That's what your mind said. Your heart promptly rolled her eyes. You ignored them both in favour of the water. Sipping on the rim and chasing the memories of his fingers brushing against yours when he'd handed you the glass.

You drank— more like gulped— the water down quicker than expected. Was that the adrenaline residuals or your rattling nerves? You weren't sure.

As the rich aroma of crushed garlic and simmering chicken broth caressed your senses, your tense shoulders sagged. Reminded you that you were safe. What were you doing? Hiding from a man who probably got three speeding tickets just to get to you?

Steeling your resolve and shoving the nerves deep within your gut, you stood to your feet. A tremble still in your knees as you cast a hesitant glance over your shoulder.

Satoru was focused on the rhythmic dicing of his knife. A few strands of his white hair dangling before glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose. He didn't exchange looks. But his rigid shoulders told you that he was acutely aware of every move you made. Including your glance-turned-stare on him.

Drawing a breath and ushering your anxiety, you stepped into the kitchen. Just like old times. Walked right past him and set the glass in the dishwasher. Like it was normal. As if it hasn't been months since your bare feet felt the cold marble while he cooked for you.

As if it hasn't been since forever and a half that you felt his stare between your shoulder blades.

You thought you'd grown accustomed to being his eyes' favourite. Satoru was never one to curtain the windows to his soul. Now, they felt like a conviction rather than a comfort. Condemning you to this prison of tension you subjected the both of you to.

"So, are you gonna answer my question?"

His mouth was more of a prosecutor than his gaze was.

"I told you I'm fine."

And your tongue, ever the defendant. Sharp and quick from years of academic debates. Unfortunately for you, Satoru loved a challenge just as much. He wasn't Hiroshi. But he was your mirror. A part of you hated him for it.

Hated yourself for the way your heart stuttered as he set the knife down. Cleaned his hands and turned to you. Hated your knees for their wobbles as he observed the far cry of your usual demeanour.

Those convicting blues dragged their judgement down your body. Tracing every tremble, every jitter, every terrible attempt to assure that you were fine and not a quiver away from shattering like porcelain on his dark marble floors.

"You're shaking."

Damn scientists. Their very livelihood was to be observant. Look for patterns. Determine conclusions. And your physicist was expertly experienced in every formula of your body.

You couldn't meet his eyes. Frightened of the theories you might find swimming in the blue. So instead you cowered your stare to the counter. Clenched your shaky fingers and fell back on the only thing you had when your pride had been crushed.

Defence.

"You weren't supposed to bring me here. I have a home."

"Deflecting doesn't look good on you."

"I'm not deflecting."

"Could have fooled me."

His audacity willed your stare. You snapped your head back to him. Daggered your glare and so desperately tried to gulp down the venom. But it was a lost cause. Satoru and you were two sides of the same coin. Him the mirror and you the cracks. You the gasoline and him the match.

"What's your problem?" You hissed.

"You're asking me that?"

"I called you cause I needed help. Not a lecture."

"And I'm not trying to give you one." He closed space. Leaving just a gap, but towering over you all the same. He stared at you over his glasses. "So drop the attitude won't you?"

You taut. Festering a retort on your tongue. Burying your heart for the sake of your scrambling mind— only to stop once you saw his eyes. Really saw them.

There was no conviction. Only concern. Deep, drowning worry as they softened at the corners and he drew a long breath, then exhaled. His shoulders sunk.

"Just. . . tell me."

You shouldn't.

You really shouldn't.

But the soft warmth of his eyes unclenched your heart and eased your vocal chords. There was no helping it.

"He. . ." you started. Sighed. "I wasn't even supposed to be at that stupid party. He got drunk. Tried to get me to kiss his friends. I didn't wanna so he—"

You should have stopped. The second you saw frost creeping back into his stare.

"He. . . tried to force me. So I hit them. Ran off. And now we're here— completely fine. Absolutely fine."

You huffed out the last part and clung to his jacket. Fine. Sure. Fine didn't search for comfort in leather. Or quiver in the knees just from recounting the night. Fine didn't sound shaky like you. Nor did it look like damp lashes and pursed lips.

Fine. You were anything but fine.

The softness cracked into a blistering winter. Satoru's gaze frosted over. But then, he chuckled. Nothing warm. Nothing humoured. He shook his head and pushed his glasses into his hair.

"You really know how to pick 'em, huh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

You retorted instinctively. Bristling as he turned back to the counter. Snatching the knife and taking his frustration out on the cutting board. Muttering a string of boys and your generation.

You weren't sure what it was. Probably the overwhelm. Probably your mind reeling and your heart squeezing. Probably the disapproval that flickered in his stare. But you spun to him. Irritation wrinkling your face and tongue sharp with accusation.

"Yeah, well. At least he's in my generation, huh?"

Satoru was always fast. For some unfair reason he was blessed with both brains and brawn.

The small of your back pressed to the counter's edge. His body trapped yours. Cornered, but not uncomfortable. Even as his brows narrowed and his jaw set tight as his face invaded yours. Frustration etched in the lines of his eyes and the strain on his mouth.

"He wouldn't know how to treat a good girl if she was standing right in front of him."

He grunted.

"I'm not a good girl."

You gritted.

"You were mine."

His achingly tender retort stopped your heart and mind. Focused on the sharp softness of his voice and the gentleness of his knuckle that brushed your cheek.

He was your mirror. It was only natural that your gaze mimicked his. Even if all logic urged you to stand firm. Logic. You didn't need logic right now. All you needed was. . .

"Gojo." You hesitated.

He hitched. "Don't."

As he pressed a thumb to your cheekbone. Not a demand. Not a scold. But a plea. A soft, breathless beg.

"Don't do that to me. Please."

"We can't."

"Because I'm holding you back?"

"Because I'm too young for you."

You spilled. He stiffened. Thumb stopped on your cheek as he stared into your eyes. Your mind reeled. Pulled and tried to lock away that pesky organ. But your heart burst at the seams. Heavy. Hurt.

"You need someone your age—" she wept. Clenching your chest and choking your words. "Someone you can settle down with. Someone that can understand you. Someone that's not—"

He cupped your face. Stifled your whimpers as his forehead pressed to yours. Firm. Tender.

"Don't you dare." He quaked.

You quivered. "It's true."

And so his kiss silenced you.

But surged you all the same.

Months of beer-riddled and lazy smooches steered you to kiss him back. Lips eager to feel the softness and sureness of his. That guiding force that left a sore in your heart. Now comforted by the tilt of his head. The cradle of his hand at the back of your neck.

You melted. Unravelled. Into his strong arms that always caught you. Drowning in the delicate kiss simmering into a passionate caress. Your arms looped around his neck. Dragged him closer. Begged him not to leave. One of his hooked on your waist. Drew you in. Promised you he wouldn't.

You cursed air. And every biological function that needed it. That resulted in both of you having to part from the suffocating need of your lips on his.

For a moment your eyes locked. Breaths bated. Hearts synched.

And then he yanked you back in. Just like you tugged at him. Air be damned. The mere atoms of space between your lips too. Your mouths crashed into that familiar, raw wreck. That collision of white, hot stars.

The shatter of galaxies. That's how he always described it. You'd laughed at him back then. But now you understood it. Deep in your fluttering heart as his fingers threaded into the milkyway that was silky hair.

The arm on your waist slipped down to scoop you up into it. Settle you on the counter as his hand dropped from the back of your head to switch off the stove. Muscle memory, much like the way he mouthed down your neck and smoothed his palms to your waist.

A tremble in his fingers. A fear in his touch. He breathed.

"Tell me what I can do."

And you bled. Oh, you bled.

"Everything."

He groaned into your pulse. Bundled you against his chest and stepped over to the couch. Splaying you out like his sweet treat and object of his worship. The jacket fell from your shoulders. His lips traced over them while certain hands hiked up your dress.

Spaghetti straps gave out to his sharp teeth. Dragging them down to reveal more of your skin to him. To appreciative eyes that awed like you were his idol. The entity of his every desire and very devotion. His mouth made sure to praise. Hot and heavy on your breasts. He savoured their warmth beneath his lips. Caressed the undersides. Stroked and kissed on your firming nipples.

The shudders rocked your hips up against his. Bare thighs kissing his pelvis and drawing another groan from the depths of his chest. A large hand found your hip. Cupping the bone and guiding you, as he always did. Steering your needy grinds into him.

"God, sweet girl." He panted in his pathway to your stomach. "You're shaking."

His hands slipped between your thighs. Spread them apart with shivering strokes. His lips joined them in mellowed kisses.

Your fingers delved back into his hair. Drawing him up against your pelvis with a shaky: "Please."

"Shouldn't have to beg for anything baby. Where'd you learn that from?" His kisses flared. Hot against your panties. Mouthing on your slit to indulge on the whines from the back of your throat. That's right. Satoru never let you beg. Pretty girls don't have to beg, they simply deserve, he'd tell you.

Deserved to have his face stuffed against your sweet cunt. Deserved his wrecked inhale on your scent and his deep groan rattling into the fabric. As he tongues on the damp spot in the cotton. Sucking on your slick through your panties as if not even a smear of your sweetness could be wasted.

He dragged the waistband down. Eyes dilating as your glistening cunt glimmered in the reflection of his pupils. Tender, yet eager thumbs brushed your folds back with a low, drawled:

"Hi there, sweetheart."

And then suffocating smooches down your slit. Spilling some of your wetness that he caught on his tongue. He licked his lips and groaned. Deep and throaty into your quivering cunt. "I know baby, I know."

He crooned. Like he was shushing your pussy and assuring her with strokes. His warm hands splayed on your thighs and squished them between his finger gaps. Heaving you into his hot, awaiting mouth.

His tongue flattened at the bottom of your slit. Dragging a long, filthy trail up to your clit. White lashes flitting with his fluttering eyes. Like he was high as he suckled on the trembling nub.

"So sensitive. Fuck. You been neglecting her?" He slurred.

"Not me." You whimpered.

Satoru huffed through his nose. Squeezing your thighs as he tucked his mouth closer. "Guys your age just don't know how to treat her right." He grunted as his tongue swished on your throbbing clit. Circling and laving while his chin ground into your slit.

You spilled for him, and he relented on the blushing bundle. Chasing kisses down your cunt and stuffing his face back into it. Hands clamping on your ass and squishing as you squeezed around his head with pitching moans. Grinding on his rabid mouth that worked on you wildly. Hungrily.

Filthy slurps and wet squelches be damned. He feasted on your sweet pussy with sucks, and suckles, licks and laves. Drunk on the sweetness you'd deprived him of. Addicted to the velvet.

He groaned. Loud and wrecked. "Fuuuckk. Missed this sweet pussy. Missed her s'much." He drooled. Parting to watch you quiver as his firm fingers tapped meanly on your clit. Buzzing the bud and shivering your slit into more spills. Probably soaking the couch in a puddle of your slick and his saliva.

You broke into whimpers. Bucking into the friction and choking on his name in the hot air riddled with the smell of sex.

"Mmm. And it looks like she missed me just as much." He husked a chuckle. Shooting you a wink as he tucked his head back between your thighs and lathered another long lick to your drenched pussy.

Once more, his face buried. Flushed into your gushing centre and working his tongue and mouth frantically. From sucking on you folds, to fucking you on the pink muscle. He shook his head. Nuzzled into your wetness. Slurped and suckled and spat all over. Wringing that knot tight and hot in your gut as he gulped on your musk.

You clung to his hair like a lifeline. Fingers tight on the white strands as you steered your hips into his face. Smearing your mess all over it. Not that he minded— not with the way he groaned pistoned his tongue into your dripping pussy.

"Cumming—" you gasped. You couldn't remember when last you'd said that. When last release had been in clear sight.

Your grip tightened. Fear trembling your fingers. Fear that he'd pull away. Leave you stranded. Fear that it was all just some yearning dream to begin with and you'd wake up in the brutal reality in which you were still not his.

"Cumming— S'toru. . . fuck," you whined. Praying to the stars and whatever divine being that science proved otherwise. For this to be real. For you to be here. Cumming on Satoru's face after months apart.

His thumbs dug into your thighs. Fingers latching you closer. His mouth smushed against your cunt as he drove you through the release. Evert messy tongue flick on your clit like a filthy declaration: I'm here. I'm here I'm here I'm here, just cum for me.

Your nerves flared. Tummy clenching with your cunt. Tight and trembling until the knot finally snapped— and you wept. Shaking in the flood of heat and toe-curling pleasure. Shivers surging up your spine and tossing your head back.

"Satoru," you moaned. Raw, weak, wrecked. Clutching his hair and riding his face that ground into your spasming cunt. Tongue working overtime to gulp down your sweetness and ensure not a trace of your cum was wasted.

Whining. He was whining. Nuzzling into the mess as your body flopped back on the couch. Tears pricked at your eyes, and still, you tried to watch him. As he rode out your high and eased the pleasure into a tender simmer.

"Atta girl," he groaned, throat bobbing. He lapped up the stickiness and traced its strings back up our thighs. To your tummy, chest, until he finally crashed back to your lips.

His tongue shoved in. Clumsy for someone as experienced as him. You weren't the only one brought to your knees in these few months, and it showed in the urgency of his kiss. In the mumbles and groans. One taste of your pussy was the only hit he needed to be addicted all over again.

Your mouths moulded. Tongues tangled. His glasses fell back over his face and fogged with your heated breaths as he kissed you into the couch. Hands groping and squeezing whatever he could while yours slipped down.

Despite your high and shaky thighs, your hips bucked up. Grinding your sopping, oversensitive cunt against his bulge. His cock hot against the fabric and throbbing into the way you smeared all over his crotch.

A groan caught on your lips together with his teeth. Hands clamped on your waist to guide you into a heated hump. A needy rhythm of his clothed cock against your little clit.

You had always been impatient. And he always urged that you took what you wanted. Your fingers fumbled with his belt. Haste in your hands as you ripped it open and shoved his pants down. Eager to pull his cock from his briefs without a second to waste.

It felt bigger as you palmed him. Heavier. Or maybe you had gotten too used to whatever Hiroshi was. He didn't have veins like Satoru. Didn't crook to the side from the sheer weight and size. Didn't blush all pretty on the tip as you rubbed your hand up and down its long length.

He kissed you harder. Sucking on your lower lip as he pressed your head back into the cushions.

"Greedy girl."

He groaned.

"Thought I was your good girl?"

You giggled.

"Always my good girl."

He braced your hips and effortlessly hauled you up. Flopped you into his chest while he fell back into the couch. Your thighs naturally straddled his lap. Like magnetic poles with an intense force buzzing between you both.

You flushed into him. Hopelessly rubbing your sticky slick all over his pulsing veins. He grunted. Grabbed your thighs and angled just right so that his cock could wedge between your folds. Dwarfing your little cunt and reminding her how she struggled and stretched whenever he was balls deep.

Shivers poured into your kisses as he glided between your soaked folds. Mouths meshing and teeth catching as you both familiarised your heats. Rubbing all over in some sort of lewd greeting as he caught your clit and you throbbed against that prominent underside vein.

"Still remember how to ride it?" He mumbled as he forced himself to part from your lips. Blue eyes shaped in hearts with the clear want to chase after the string of saliva strung between your panting mouths.

It snapped as you chewed your lips. Hands steadied on his broad shoulders and re-familiarising the toned muscle. You flushed into his tip. Pussy pulsing on his pre-cum.

You managed a nod. Locking eyes with him as your nails scratched on his skin. It was a moment of heat. Tension. A hundred words sparking in the gap, but only one action needed.

Satoru guided your hips. As he always did. Squeezed assurances into them as his tip prodded through the first ring of resistance. Then the second. Third—

You clenched. Cunt and jaw. Sucking air between your teeth and curling tight on his arms. He mirrored your hiss. Brows pinched as you pulsed around him hard. He groaned from the back of his throat.

"So fucking tight."

His thumb fell to your clit. Rubbing slow circles under callouses he developed from years in the lab. "My poor girl. Look what you did to her. She's so neglected."

His tongue clicked. Before his lips pursed and he spat. Aimed for your clit as his thumb swirled to the beat of its throbs.

You whined at the friction. Hooked your arms around his neck again and sunk your hips further. Focused on the deep thrum of his cock and the strain of your poor, spasming pussy. Eager, or rather impatient, to feel him in his entirety at last.

But it seemed Satoru had other plans.

He clasped your hips tight. Squeezing them in his big hands and locking them from dropping any further. The protest died on your tongue when his deep drawl caressed your ear.

"Eaasyyy baby." Another squeeze. Another breath.

He guided you down. Bit by bit. Inch by inch, with his hips slowly nudging into yours. Dragging you down gradually. Agonisingly. Until you were fully seated on him.

At last, you felt it. Every thrumming vein. Every twitch. Hitch. The bumps and curves of his cock that you woke up in cold sweat over. Now surging heat deep into the hum of your quivering pussy.

You hid into his shoulder. Muffling your whines and whimpers as your arms sagged down his back. Fuck. You felt so full. So terribly stuffed as you desperately tried to adjust to his size again.

Maybe rutting would help. That's what your impatient hips told you as they rocked against him. Needy and grating. A pitiful hump into his lap.

You knew better. So did he. So he steeled your hips again and pressed a comforting kiss to your temple as you whined. It simmered your patience. But not the heat. Deep and swirling in your tummy.

Your breaths became his for the moment. Pants and huffs exchanged. As if you both needed a second to check reality. Understand that this was real. Two scientists, frightened that your meshing atoms would melt away into a cruel dream.

Satoru made the first move to prove otherwise. Rocking your hips into strokes. Long and slow. As he pulled you up his cock and sunk you back down. Dragging the sticky strings and snapping them round his base with each drawl.

"Gotta teach this pussy how to take me all over again," he huffed. Leaning back into the couch so that his eyes could drown in yours. But the blue was indecisive. Flitting between your heated face and your spilling cunt.

He watched you. Adored you. The way he stuffed you to the brim until your pussy trickled round his girth. The way your thighs quivered in his hands. How your lips festered his name and breathed it into the thick air.

The sway became familiar. Your muscles moving in memory as your rocked with his hands. That gradually loosened as you fell back into step.

Even with the struggle, it was no use. Your body was hopelessly his as his was yours. The rhythm came naturally. Just like how your cunt thrummed on that underside vein and milked it perfectly each time you sank back down and swirled your hips on his balls.

His head fell back. Silky strands spread out on the backrest of the couch as he his deep groans spilled. "There's my girl." His touch roamed. Cupping your ass and squishing it as his hips finally joined yours in fervid rolls.

You found solace in his hair once more. Gripping the back of it as you both matched the rhythm. Pace desperate and moderate as the couch creaked beneath the consistency.

The fire returned. Hot and burning between your exchange of movements. Satoru's face limped into your chest. Burying into your bouncing breasts and sucked hickies around your nipples.

Your cunt poured. Slicking up your laps and slipping him easily in and out of you now. Diving him deep, deep, deeper— so that his cockhead smooched your cervix and his balls flushed your folds. Your clit caught on his pelvis each time. Grinding it into quivers. Into pitiful little moans as your mouth fell open.

"It's so deep," you whimpered. "So good."

"Yeah? Better than that loser?"

Abruptly, his hips snapped. Hands yanking you down and humping on the tight muscle. Frustration bleeding into every filthy grind as your nerves bristled.

Head tossed back. Spine thrown into an arch from the sudden intensity. Maybe it was the neglect. Or the sheer need for him. But white clouded your vision and your voice pitched in that slutty tone as you crumbled into yet another orgasm.

Quicker than the first. Messier too. You limped into his chest as you fell back onto your pathetic attempts of ruts into his lap. Whining and babbling his name incoherently as you spasmed in the flood of heat.

In your delirium you hadn't perceived the chord of Satoru's control. Wound tight and thin, until it— snapped! with your warm release drowning him.

"Fuck." He sneered.

It was quick. Brutal. He wrest you into the couch until your back hit the seats and your sweaty skin stuck to the leather. He shoved deep inside of you as strong hands seized your knees and yanked them with him. "Can't believe you let some fucking punk touch this."

A kiss seethed to your knee. Before he tossed both over his broad shoulders.

"Can't believe you let him neglect it."

His hiss merged with a feral, wet shmack! as his hips snapped into yours. Driving his cock in a precise, sharp fury. Skin smacking against skin as wetness strung and snapped in strings between your soaking thighs.

He fucked a pitched cry from your bobbing throat. Your hands shot out to tug at the tuffs of his white hair as he shoved you into the sofa and chased the spasms of your cunt in hasty, heavy thrusts.

Mouth hot and filthy, Satoru spilled a mixture of degradation and praise. Calling you his pretty slut and whorish good girl in husked pants and deep groans.

The couch joined the wrecked symphony. Creaking loud and pitched. Nothing compared to the whines caught at the back of your throat as his hips made it their mission to leave bruises on your thighs. Leave a dull, satisfied ache in every nook of your cunt so that you woke up feeling him. Remembering him. Him.

Haughty hands hot with hostility snatched your ass. Squeezing the fat between the gaps as he hauled you in and fucked you at just the right angle. Just the right crook. So that he ground and hit a devastatin bundle that sent your glossy eyes and damp lashes fluttering back.

"Sat—toru!" You croaked.

"That's it. Mngh. Don't you ever forget it again."

A feral fever rumbled in his voice. Deep and throaty as he dragged his teeth into your shoulder. Egged on by your choked whines and strangled gasps. Eager to remind you that you didn't need some young jerk when a guy twice your age could pummel your pretty pussy into his expensive couch.

His balls slapped on your puffy folds. Round and throbbing as he grunted into your pulse through the pitiful clenches of your cunt. He chased another orgasm. Yours. You were always first. He'd make you cum twice, even thrice, before he decided to stuff you full.

"You're gonna fuckin' cum again," he ragged, lungs burning as he spilled that fire into your ear. Trapping it between his teeth as his thrusts grew cruel. Drawn-out and deep. Hammering into gooey bundle until your toes curled and your cunt splashed around him.

"You're gonna cum again. Cum on this cock. Show me it's still yours." He huffed. Pistoning from the tip to the base so that you felt every inch of that same cock that was gonna have you creaming.

And then, in the haze of pleasure and the peak of highs— your ringtone cut through the musky air.

Satoru barely slowed. But he tossed his head to the side and stared at your phone vibrating on the coffee table.

The name Hiroshi with a little red heart nearly had the same effect on him as it would a bull. Swirling his mind hot with anger and throbbing the back of his eyes.

But through the glare and grunt, he grinned. "Well. Look who it is."

Voice still drawled even when it deepened. Cooed like the fucking devil as he easily snatched the device and swiped the answer button before your bugged eyes could so much as clear. He gripped your face. Squishing it into his knuckles as he pressed his panting mouth to your ear.

"Show him whose good girl you are, yeah?"

Your mind hazed. Heart hammering. You could barely process what Satoru was even talking about. Even after that grating voice crackled over the line.

"Babe? Where the hell did y—"

"Angh!"

Satoru slammed. All the way. Heavy and hot and oh so suffocatingly deep. Pounding your poor pussy into the soaked couch and pummeling you to weeps and whines. Shallow and hard as his thumb wretched to your clit. Shattering your conscious and throwing both your head and back into a filthy arch.

"There ya go baby," he grinned, feral. "Sing it for me. Whose pussy 's this?"

"Satoru— S-Satoru—! Toru, toru hngh, 's yours!"

He jerked back. Hands clambering on your waist. Steeling them with his strong fingers and yanking you down onto each thrust. Every brutal fuck into your squelching pussy. Loud and clear down the line, he's sure.

He didn't care. You didn't have the capacity to.

All you could was whine. Toss your head back and claw on the slippery leather as Satoru made sure the loud, wet claps battered down the line. Made sure your boyfriend—

No.

Made sure that your fucking ex knew that it was Satoru stuffing this sweet cunt. Him drowning in your cum. Him hammering on a spot Hiroshi couldn't even dream of. Until your eyes rolled back and you tongue drooled. Until your body cramped and your voice sobbed oh so prettily for him. Until—

Your walls squeezed and spasmed. Your mind numb and heart soaring as your body locked up. Higher— and higher— until your nerves burst into a blistering heat and your head swam with white, feverish pleasure.

A filthy squirt sprayed all over him. Cunt squelching and squealing as his balls slapped it messy and his pelvis ground your clit until it spasmed.

"Fuuckk, so my girl still remembers how to squirt for me?" He laughed. Loud, boisterous and breathy.

He threw a grin to the phone. Heard cyrstal clear like your sopping pussy over the line. "You hear that? Her pussy's finally gettin' it good. So just fuck off already."

Bink.

The line died. Not that Satoru was paying attention. Not that he cared. His blue eyes were blown out and focused on one thing and one thing only— his pretty sweetheart gone limp and whining beneath him.

His gaze glossed over. Jaw slack like some animal as his thrusts pounded on autopilot. Like it was simply engraved into every muscle to know how to fuck you into a trembling, teary mess.

Satoru knew your tells. Knew the shakes and the quivers. Knew that your poor little body was frazzled with overstimulation and still reeling from the nasty squirt you messed him with.

"Can't," you croaked. "I-I can't, I can't toru!"

"Of course you can," he grit. "You're my girl. Course you fuckin' can."

His hand tucked beneath your hair. Not to tug it. But to cradle. Holding the back of your head as his hips ached into your shaky ones. He nudged you to look up at him. Meet his panting huffs and whiney breaths as he fucked himself dumb on you too.

"So perfect—" he strained, eyes fluttering with yours as he pushed you both higher. Devastatingly. Agonisingly. "So perfect. So mine. Cum—" his throat bobbed.

"Cum for me. Cum with me. Hah."

All babbled and broken as he smashed his lips back into yours. Colliding those hot and heavy stars as you tugged on his hair and he tethered to your waist. Drowning and strangling on each other's moans until the collision cracked into a ruinous wreck and your orgasms crashed like nebula.

Your heats crushed. Merged. Your pussy gave out in pitiful, milky bubbles. His cock spurted and frothed. Spraying deep and hot as he lathered up your cervix the same way you did his balls.

Whining. Gasping. His bit on your lip and you gulped down his noises. Desperate and clumsy in fumbling rocks and grinds of your hips. Riding out your highs until the heat simmered into an aching warmth and all you could do was hump uselessly.

Hazed, Satoru sucked on your tongue. Panting hard as he spluttered whispers into smudged kisses.

"I missed you. Missed you. I missed you— I love you. Love you. I fuckin' love you."

His weight collapsed into yours. Trapping you into the sofa and melting into your warmth. His chest heaving with yours as the adrenaline sizzled off into a calm stir.

You were stiff. Mind still. Heart frozen. As you contemplated his babbles.

I love you.

Your breath thinned. Had you heard wrong? No. You didn't. He'd never said that before. Never spluttered it out no matter how hazy he fucked the both of you.

You stewed on his words. That familiar, aching fear climbing up your gut and wrapping around your heart as his hammered into your chest. It beat for you. It loved you. This was bad. So very bad.

But it was your mind that eased the storm. That steered your arms to wrap shakily around his neck. That urged your heart to bring your lips to his temple in a kiss.

In a tender whisper.

"I love you."

As your face buried into his shoulder. And your heart mirrored his.

As you allowed yourself to want. To dream. Of you and him— him and you. Even if just for the moment.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/baobei-bu

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.

he wipes a veiny hand down his face as he scuffs his shoes off at the door, praying to god that nothing else goes wrong tonight or he might actually kill someone.

as he tracks inside, what other than the kamisama kiss intro starts blaring in his ears, the happy upbeat tune dragging against his eardrums, he realllly didn't need this right now.

he peers over to the couch and spots you sitting cross legged fully engrossed in the shower.

you were cute, but to be honest, he just wanted to go to bed. so, when you whip your head around and spot that he's finally home, he braces for the impact he knows is coming.

you hop up and dart into his arms with the biggest little smile on your pretty face, you clasp your hands together behind his back and pull him in close.

"ken! i missed you." you muffle into his chest, relived to see your boyfriend after a long day of free periods at home.

he sighs through clenched teeth, then half heartedly wraps an arm around your waist before letting it drop back down and slipping from your tight grasp.

“hey,” he mumbles, already tracking halfway down the hallway, leaving his poor, pouty girlfriend standing there all confused.

he doesn't notice though, the door to the bedroom is already in his sight and he looks at it like a finish line.

you stay cemented to the wooden floor, watching with a small frown as he pads down to the bedroom.

you tell yourself not to read into it. i mean, c'mon! he probably had a long lecture, he looks exhausted, and everyone has off days, after all. even your perfect boyfriend.

you smooth it over in your head before you overthink it to the point of tears.

you turn and follow him down the hall, keeping your steps feather light as to not irritate him further. "hey, baby? i made sushi earlier,” you say softly. “it’s in the fridge. i thought you might want some when you got home?"

he stops just short of the bedroom door. not to turn to you, not to soften up and cut the foul attitude, nuh uh. just to answer dully.

“i’ll have it for lunch tomorrow,” he sighs. “m' not hungry.”

the door handle clicks open under his hand, and your chest gets all tight and uncomfortably achy. he never turns down the food you make. never. even when he’s exhausted, he always eats at least a little. he always thanks you and asks how long it took to make, then tells you it tastes good even when the rice is overcooked.

you nod even though he isn’t looking and force a brighter tone of voice. “oh, okay! that’s alright.”

he stays silent, and an old habit of filling up conversation space before it turns awkward twists around in your gut..

“um,” you start, then stop. your fingers rub together nervously as you look away from him shyly. “there’s.. uh, something else i gotta tell you.”

he turns his head slowly to face you, his expression oozing with irritation as he answers curtly, “what.”

your thoughts jump backwards to earlier that morning. you were ironing one of his more expensive shirts after it had been crinkled on the clothes line. the setting might've been too high, because the unfamiliar scent of burnt fabric started wafting into your nostrils... your heart dropped when you saw the mark.

you swallow. “i’m really sorry. i was ironing your shirt. the one you wear to class sometimes? and i didn’t realise the heat was too high and i… i messed it up.”

his expression doesn’t change yet, but you can tell some cogs are stalling and jamming in that big head of his.

“i ordered you a new one,” you rush on. “it's the same cut, the same color. it should be here in a couple of days... gosh– i'm so sorry honey, i– i know it won’t be exactly the same but i–"

“you did what.”

your words freeze up in your mouth.

“you burnt my shirt?" he spits lowly, “i told you not to iron my clothes, [name].”

your shoulders pull in. “i know. i just thought i could help. i didn’t think–"

“–clearly.”

oh.

he steps closer. not into your space, but near enough that you feel the heat and anger pulsating off of him. “do you have any idea how expensive that shirt was?"

you nod, feeling the anxiety crawl up your back and down your throat. "yes, baby... that’s why i replaced it.”

“oh, but you didn’t replace it,” he says. “you bought a different one. that's not the same thing.”

“i'm sorry,” you say quietly. “i didn't know where–”

“you never know,” he cuts in. his voice is getting louder now, he's no longer being careful with his volume. “that’s the problem, [name]. you never know, and you still insist on getting involved in all of my important shit.”

you ears begin to ring a deafening hum. this isn’t how he talks to you. not ever. he corrects you sometimes, sure. maybe he gets semi-annoyed, but even then it's very rare. but this tone, this anger? it feels so horribly wrong on him..

“I was trying to do something nice,” you mumble out softly, the nervousness you were sure you'd shaken since meeting him curling around your head and trapping you in that shy vice once more. “i.. i’m sorry i ruined your shirt, kento..”

“yeah? well sorry doesn’t fix it,” he snaps. “sorry doesn’t mean anything when you keep doing the same thing over and over.”

your lips are getting wobbly but you manage to choke out a small reply. “but.. i don’t?"

he lets out a curt, poisonous laugh. “don’t lie. you mess things up constantly. the chores, my things, the schedules. i spend half my time fixing what you fuck up.”

okay, wow. that hurt like a motherfucker. you'd always been a little insecure about the way you weren't always the best at house work, but you were trying. you were trying for him.

“I clean,” you plea. “i cook. i try to–”

“no! you try, then you do it badly,” he snaps. his voice is close to shouting now. “half the time i redo your shit because i don’t trust you to do it right the first time. i’ve told you this before, if you don’t know what you’re doing, stay out of it!"

all of this over a shirt?.. your poor mind was reeling with what ifs. what if this was him finally throwing the cat out of the bag and telling you he wanted to break up? what if this was his way of telling you he'd be better off with a girl who was more capable? what if this was all a big lead up to him telling you you were never good enough to be with such an upstanding man like him?

each cruel word from his mouth only acts as a catalyst to these thoughts. you were incompetent, useless, untrustworthy. he doesn’t say them outright, but he might as well with the way he's berating you.

you feel so small now, your clammy hands curl into themselves until your nails are leaving little moons in your skin. you don’t raise your voice at him, you don’t interrupt at all, and you most definitely don't even think of arguing back. you’ve never been good at fighting with people, especially not with him. especially not when he looks at you like you’re an obstacle he needs to kick out of the way.

“just leave everything to me, why don't you?” he continues. “obviously i don't do enough. it would be easier that way since you clearly can’t handle basic tasks without ruining shit.”

your eyes sting. you blink hard, but it doesn’t help, like, at all. the hot streaks down your flustered face is evidence of that...

this doesn’t feel real. nanami is kind, nanami is patient, nanami listens, nanami's kind. the man in front of you is mean and cruel and doesn’t seem to see you as his loving girlfriend at all.

“I didn’t mean to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

he only scoffs. “intent doesn’t matter. results do. and your results are always a fucking problem.”

you want to dissolve into a puddle on the floor, you want to curl up somewhere and hide away from this monster disguised as your once living boyfriend. you don’t defend yourself, you don’t tell him how much effort you try to put in, how careful you try to be. you don’t remind him of the mornings you wake early just to make his day smoother, you don’t point out that he never used to talk to you like this.

you just stand there, and you take it. this was so unbelievable, so new, you didn't know how else to handle it.

and he just keeps on going. every frustration from his day pours out, redirected and sharpened, pointed straight at you. the partner who didn’t pull his weight, the criticism he didn’t deserve, the sense of being judged for things outside his control. it all lands on you instead, because you’re here, because you won’t fight back, because you look like you can carry it.

and you do. for a while.

your eyes go all blurry from the way tears prick at your lids, your gaze plummets to the floor and your hands start to shake. you hate how badly you're taking this, how he can obviously see that you're terrified but he just won't stop.

after it feels like he's gotten it all outta his system, he finally stops talking. the words dry up, leaving a thick silence behind in both his throat and the air. his chest is heaving as the anger drains out, replaced by a horrible, innate awareness.

what did he just do?

his head shoots up to look at your face wet with tears, then to your hands and the way they shake, to your eyes as they dart anywhere but him. his girlfriend, his gentle girl, looking like she'd just been battered, standing there all scared..

because of him.

fuck.

he opens his mouth to say your name, to apologise, to explain, but he never gets the chance.

because you push him away before he can, your hands come up and push against his chest, not hard, but forceful enough that he gets the memo.

“don’t,” you say. your voice cracks pathetically. “just.. just leave me alone.."

then you turn and dart the rest of the way down the hall.

the bedroom door closes behind you with a soft, careful sound, like you don’t want to make anything worse, even now, after he'd just rebuilt every wall you'd managed to break down with him when it came to you opening up.

~

“my sweet girl… please open the door…”

you'd been locked away in the bed room for a little over an hour now, hiding from him.

his voice comes through the wood much softer than of the foul shit you’d heard from him tonight. he sounds worn down and stripped bare of all the angst he'd been harbouring beforehand. you sit on the edge of the bed with your knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the door with a forlorn expression.

you don’t move and you most certainly don’t answer.

from the other side of the barrier, nanami stands with his forehead pressed to the wood, feeling like every bad person in the world all at once.

“i know you don’t wanna see me,” he says quietly. “i get that. i deserve it.” he sighs softly. “but please… just listen. you don’t have to say anything. just… let me say this, sweetheart.”

you don't reply once more, the apartment feels too big and roomy without you in it, even though you’re only a few steps away.

“i’m sorry,” he huffs out quietly, his soft spoken self coming back out into the open. “i’m so fucking sorry. i should have never spoken to you like that. not ever. i don’t care how bad my day was, i don’t care how angry i felt, none of it excuses what i said to you.”

he gulps down the stinging in his lungs and persists.

“what i said was so cruel. it was disgustingly wrong. it was aimed to hurt you, and i knew that while i was doing it. and that’s the part that makes me feel sick to my stomach.”

you stay silent, but your ears are definitely pricked.

“i took everything i was feeling and i threw it at you because you were there. because you wouldn't yell back. and that’s disgusting of me.” his voice dips. “i made you feel small. i made you feel useless. i made you feel like a burden in your own home.”

you press your face into your knees. your eyes start to sting all over again.

“but baby, you are none of those things,” he says a tad louder because he needs you to hear this part clearly. “not even close. i don’t know how i let that shit come out of my mouth when the truth is the complete opposite.”

he exhales slowly, gathering himself just to let go again.

“today's class was rough. just stupid thing after another, more stupider thing.” a pause. “and i came home already angry, already looking for somewhere to drill it.”

his voice breaks a little. “and i took it out on you.”

another fill of quiet and you still don’t make a sound nor open the door.

“i love you,” he mumbles desperately. “i love you so much it seriously scares me. im not usually one for relationships, but i told myself i'd try my best with you, because you mean more to me than anyone else..." his voice cracks like he might cry. "and tonight... i acted like someone who doesn’t deserve you at all."

his forehead stays against the door and his shoulders sink.

“everything i said about you not doing enough… about you ruining things… i don’t believe any of it. not for a second. i was lashing out, i was trying to hurt something because i was hurt.”

he lets out a strangled sound that might of been a laugh if it didn’t flatline only a second after sounding.

“you cook for me every single day. you make food that reminds me to slow down and actually eat instead of skipping meals like an idiot. you clean even when i tell you not to worry about it. you organise my class notes when i forget. you remember my deadlines better than i do. you wake up early just to see me off with a smile like i’m the best part of your morning.”

your fingers shake into the blanket beneath you.

“you ironed that shirt because you wanted to help me,” he continues. “because you thought about me while i wasn’t even home. and i stood there and tore you apart for it.”

his voice drops lower. “i’m appalled by myself. truly. i never wanted to be the kind of man who raises his voice at you. i never wanted to be the reason you look scared in your own house.”

he shifts on the floor outside, the faint sound of him sitting down against the door.

“you do so much for me,” he says softly. “you do more than i made it out to look. you make this place feel like a home, you make me feel so steady when everything else is a chaotic mess. and i stood there and told you that what you do doesn't matter..."

his hand lifts and presses flat again to the door, right where your back would be if you were standing there.

“i am so, so sorry my love."

his apology pours through the door and it feels earnest and aching, but it doesn’t erase what’s already been said. the words he used still sit under your skin, sharp and lodged deep in your pumping arteries.

outside, nanami closes his eyes with a deep breath, he knows there’s no guarantee you’ll forgive him. he knows apologies don’t rewind time, and he knows he might have undone months, maybe years, of trust he'd built between the two of you, especially with such a shy girl, in a single night.

his throbbing head drifts softly to the first time he met you. you were timid, you spoke softly and avoided all of his eye contact, you were careful with everything you did. he remembers promising himself he’d never be another voice that made you shrink away like a snail into its shell.

yet tonight, he was 10x worse than that.

he stays there, back against the door, replaying every sentence he'd spat down at you. every moment he could have stopped and didn’t. every chance he had to walk away instead of cutting you down.

“i’ll wait,” he says quietly, not sure if you’re still listening. “as long as you need. i’m not going anywhere.”

...

the door clicks, then slides open gently leaving nanami's back without a rest.

"baby?" he flicks his head around, now looking up at a very sad, yet very pretty girl.

he practically jumps to his feet, flattening down his shirt and running a hand through his hair.

“are you okay?” he asks quietly like he’s afraid the question alone might do some more irreversible damage.

you can't muster up and answer, you don't try to tell him something you're not even sure of yourself, so you stay quiet looking up into his solemn eyes.

he spots a dried track of salt running down your cheek and his arm reaches up instinctively to wipe it away. after, you gently push his arm away, but too keen on him thinking he can touch you just yet.

“i’m fine,” you say. your voice is steady, even if it doesn’t quite match how you feel. “really.”

he nods, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t believe you, not one bit. he drops his hand back to his side like he’s been reminded of his place.

“i’m sorry,” he chirps again. “i know i already said it. i just… i need you to know i mean it.”

the way nanami looked right now would send your past self into a coma. he was shrunk into himself, his eyes were hollow from stressing out over you, and his voice was shaken and impossibly weak. still. even if he was sorry, the fact that he'd done what he did still remained.

“i don’t forgive you,” you say honestly.

he flinches, just a little. but he doesn’t interrupt.

“not yet,” you add. “but i don’t want to shut you out either. i just… i need some space from what you said.”

he lets out a big exhale with relief and guilt all tangled together. “that’s more than okay,” he says. “i understand, honey. completely.”

he steps forward then, giving you time to move away if you want to. when you don’t, his big, grounding arms slither around your shoulders and hold you tenderly against his chest.

you let yourself melt into him, after this hell of a night you needed some tlc, even if it was from the very root of your discomfort.

“i’m taking tomorrow off,” he says softly, chin resting near your hair. “no class, or homework, nothing. m' gonna spoil you, baby. i promise you."

you pull away to look up at him. “ken., you don’t have to do that.”

he gives a small shake of his head. “i know. this isn’t about getting back on your good side.” his mouth curves into something gentle. “i just want to. i want to spend the day with you. i want to make it a good one after all of the pain i just put you through.”

you shyly mumble, “you don’t need to spoil me.”

“yes, but i want to,” he replies simply. “please, let me.”

his hands come up to frame your face, the pass of his thumbs resting along your cheeks as he strokes lines down where your tears would of fallen.

“i hate that i made your pretty little face look like this,” he murmurs. “i hate that i put that look in your eyes. you deserve softness, my love...not that..”

your lips inch upwards into a small smile despite the situation, and you look him in the eye for half a second.

he notices right away and of course, his own smile follows gently.

“there it is,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your flushed cheem. “that smile. i love that smile.”

he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, his stubble tickling your chin.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers again, another kiss following. “i’m so sorry.”

he guides you back toward the bedroom with a hand at your back, he helps you sit on the bed, then gently encourages you to lie back. his movements are nice and kind, so attentive, he’s really making sure every step feels safe and familiar.

he leans his big muscular body over yours as he peppers small kisses over your delicate skin.

“i’ll never talk to you like that again, okay?” he says quietly between kisses. “never. i don’t care what kind of day i’ve had, you are not where my anger belongs, and i am so sorry for ever getting that mixed up."

you look up at him with shiny eyes. “you.. you really scared me,” you admit.

his expression softens further, if that’s even possible at this point. “i know. and i hate that. i swear to you, i will spend every day making sure you never feel like that with me ever again.”

he presses his forehead to yours, “you’re not a burden,” he insists. “you’re not useless. you’re the best part of my life, [name]. and i am so grateful you didn’t walk away from me tonight even though you had every right to. hell, you still do."

you reach up, fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “i just… need time.”

he nods. “take all of it. anything you need. i’ll be right here.”

pulling you into his side after rolling over, his arm rests tightly around you in such a way that feels protective without being overwhelming and possessive.

“tomorrow, i’ll take you wherever you want. we’ll eat whatever you want. we’ll do whatever you want, we'll do nothing if that’s what you need.” he assures you, sighing contently into your neck.

you let go of a small "mhm." in response, your sore, puffy eyes finally starting to close.

“thank you,” you whisper.

he kisses your hair. “always.”

he might of been an asshole who misplaced his anger, and he might of been the single most asshole-ish guy in the universe tonight, but when a man like nanami makes a mistake? you best belive he never, ever makes it again.

that's why you stay curled up in his arms as he strokes your back gently. you could tell he meant every word of the apology, and you knew that this was a one time thing.

nanami wasn't the prefect boyfriend, but after that night, he promised himself he'd be the closest thing to it. for you, his sweet, gentle girl.

you stopped yourself from carrying a box in the trunk, and turned around to see a fine, hot man. a man above six foot with a muscular build, brown hair paired with purple eyes. how come someone look so hot wearing a boring ass tank top and sweatpants? he looks like a krispy kreme glazed donut, is the best way to describe him.

you got out of your trance, and finally responded with a smile. "w-well, i could use a bit, yeah. these boxes are quite heavy." you sounded like you were flirting with the way you said it and how you tucked your hair behind your ear... but anyhow. you pointed at a box for him to lift, and he did so effortlessly. "where do i put this, ma'am?"

"just on the porch is fine, dear." you said as you take the lead, him following beside you. "will do! name's caleb by the way." he said as he dropped off the box on your porch, and turned to look at you. probably waiting for your acknowledgement.

"i'm y/n. thank you for the help, dear." you flash a smile and caleb smiles back. damn that handsome smile. a few more boxes and words exchanged later, you found out that you and caleb clicked really fast. you expressed your gratitude, and waved goodbye as he walked back to his house—which was just directly next to yours.

days, weeks went by and you can say that you and caleb are great friends. you two go on morning jogs, do some gardening here and there, even casual movie nights at either of your houses. it's nice to have a friend in your neighborhood when you're new.

but little did you know that after he got back to his house from a movie night, he was holding himself back. as soon as he closed his door, an image of you came to mind—specifically when he was about to approach you for the first time. you were bending slightly down, maybe trying to find something within your car trunk but he doesn't care about that.

your ass was where his eyes were at. you were wearing gym shorts and it really defined your ass and thighs- as if his eyes were super glued to it- actually no. it was as if your ass was the one who looked at him first.

caleb went upstairs, took his towel and headed to the bathroom. he took off his clothes, turning on the shower as all he could think about is you. caleb bit his lip as his hand started to stroke his growing erection. i really shouldn't be thinking of her like that. he thought, guilt already washing over him. "heavens above, help me." is all he could mutter to himself as he's doing a "sinful" act.

you gotta understand. after all, you're an older woman. you probably like men your age— men who are much more mature and dependable than he is. and the way you were talking about how you wanted to achieve goals and be the best version of yourself, he just doesn't think fucking with a guy almost two decades younger than you is a part of that.

but he can't stop. kinda only seems to jerk himself off faster with all his dirty thoughts. caleb never fucked someone so much older than him—he wonders how it feels. he wants to be taken care of by your experienced touch. he wants you to control him, tell him what to do and be your little plaything.

he pleads to you, more like to his imagination of you, "p-please use me! i-i'll do anythinggg, please ma'am!"

he's frustrated, wanting more than touching himself—he wants- no, he needs to be touched by you. it doesn't matter to him how, just any form of touch would be enough for him for the next five years.

but if given the chance, he wants that ass all over his face until he can't breathe, smother and suffocate him with all that and he'll gladly take it. he blames it all on those gym shorts, where the swell of your pussy is even more evident in it. he whimpers at the thought. god he wants that fat pussy taking his big cock, and maybe eat out both your cum after while looking at you with lust and hunger.

his right hand only strokes his dick faster, while his left hand is balled up into a fist resting on the wall. huffs and whimpers echoing in his bathroom, closing his eyes once he feels himself get close and borderline shouts, "f-fuck-pleasseeeei'mcumming-" and he finally orgasms into his hand.

curse that woman for looking so fucking sexy. caleb thinks, as he washed his body completely and lowkey kind of cringed as he cleaned himself up.

"jesus christ, am i some kinda freak?"

well, yes...

he dries himself with a towel and tucks himself to sleep, silently hoping that his dirty and perverted imaginations would come to life.

you stopped yourself from carrying a box in the trunk, and turned around to see a fine, hot man. a man above six foot with a muscular build, brown hair paired with purple eyes. how come someone look so hot wearing a boring ass tank top and sweatpants? he looks like a krispy kreme glazed donut, is the best way to describe him.

you got out of your trance, and finally responded with a smile. "w-well, i could use a bit, yeah. these boxes are quite heavy." you sounded like you were flirting with the way you said it and how you tucked your hair behind your ear... but anyhow. you pointed at a box for him to lift, and he did so effortlessly. "where do i put this, ma'am?"

"just on the porch is fine, dear." you said as you take the lead, him following beside you. "will do! name's caleb by the way." he said as he dropped off the box on your porch, and turned to look at you. probably waiting for your acknowledgement.

"i'm y/n. thank you for the help, dear." you flash a smile and caleb smiles back. damn that handsome smile. a few more boxes and words exchanged later, you found out that you and caleb clicked really fast. you expressed your gratitude, and waved goodbye as he walked back to his house—which was just directly next to yours.

days, weeks went by and you can say that you and caleb are great friends. you two go on morning jogs, do some gardening here and there, even casual movie nights at either of your houses. it's nice to have a friend in your neighborhood when you're new.

but little did you know that after he got back to his house from a movie night, he was holding himself back. as soon as he closed his door, an image of you came to mind—specifically when he was about to approach you for the first time. you were bending slightly down, maybe trying to find something within your car trunk but he doesn't care about that.

your ass was where his eyes were at. you were wearing gym shorts and it really defined your ass and thighs- as if his eyes were super glued to it- actually no. it was as if your ass was the one who looked at him first.

caleb went upstairs, took his towel and headed to the bathroom. he took off his clothes, turning on the shower as all he could think about is you. caleb bit his lip as his hand started to stroke his growing erection. i really shouldn't be thinking of her like that. he thought, guilt already washing over him. "heavens above, help me." is all he could mutter to himself as he's doing a "sinful" act.

you gotta understand. after all, you're an older woman. you probably like men your age— men who are much more mature and dependable than he is. and the way you were talking about how you wanted to achieve goals and be the best version of yourself, he just doesn't think fucking with a guy almost two decades younger than you is a part of that.

but he can't stop. kinda only seems to jerk himself off faster with all his dirty thoughts. caleb never fucked someone so much older than him—he wonders how it feels. he wants to be taken care of by your experienced touch. he wants you to control him, tell him what to do and be your little plaything.

he pleads to you, more like to his imagination of you, "p-please use me! i-i'll do anythinggg, please ma'am!"

he's frustrated, wanting more than touching himself—he wants- no, he needs to be touched by you. it doesn't matter to him how, just any form of touch would be enough for him for the next five years.

but if given the chance, he wants that ass all over his face until he can't breathe, smother and suffocate him with all that and he'll gladly take it. he blames it all on those gym shorts, where the swell of your pussy is even more evident in it. he whimpers at the thought. god he wants that fat pussy taking his big cock, and maybe eat out both your cum after while looking at you with lust and hunger.

his right hand only strokes his dick faster, while his left hand is balled up into a fist resting on the wall. huffs and whimpers echoing in his bathroom, closing his eyes once he feels himself get close and borderline shouts, "f-fuck-pleasseeeei'mcumming-" and he finally orgasms into his hand.

curse that woman for looking so fucking sexy. caleb thinks, as he washed his body completely and lowkey kind of cringed as he cleaned himself up.

"jesus christ, am i some kinda freak?"

well, yes...

he dries himself with a towel and tucks himself to sleep, silently hoping that his dirty and perverted imaginations would come to life.