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Xavier Twitter Links

Author's Note: I kinda rushed this one, but I hope my Xavier girlies still like it <33 Please Check Out The Artist! (Artist & Original Post)

Xavier doesn’t pause the match; he doesn’t have to. One glance at you whining across from him, and he’s already slipping two fingers into your needy cunt. “Shh. Be good and let me finish this round,” he whispers as his fingers curl just right. He hopes his teammates don’t hear you; but the way your slick coats his knuckles, and the way your whimper? Part of him wants them to. ⭐

Xavier is a jealous man. You smile a little too sweetly at the guy down the hall, and an hour later, Xavier’s in your bedroom like a storm. No warning. No words. He bends you over the nearest surface and fucks you mean, hips snapping hard enough to make the furniture creak. ⭐

It’s not just about fucking you; it’s about burying himself in you, over and over, until the only thing left in your head is him. “Let him hear how wet you get for me,” he groans, breath hot against your spine. “You think anyone else could fuck you this deep?” And when you cum? He keeps going. ⭐

It’s rare, but Xavier gets needy. He won’t say he’s begging, but the way he grips your thighs like he’ll die without you says otherwise. You press them together just right, and let him rut between them like a desperate thing. His cock slides through the plush squeeze of your thighs, flushed and throbbing, the head brushing your folds but never breaching. ⭐

The second you’re both off the clock, his fingers are in your panties. Doesn’t matter if he’s half-asleep or still in his hoodie; Xavier needs to touch you. His middle finger grazes your clit, slow at first, then rolling with more urgency as you lean into him. ⭐

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#need that man in my drawlllsss neooowwww meow

Rafayel Twitter Links 🐚

Author's Note: here’s your filth, my raf girlies. don’t say i don’t feed you <33 Please Check Out The Artist! (Artist & Original Post)

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Shower Sex is a MUST with Rafayel. He loves the way water sticks to your skin, tracing every curve he’s already memorized. It's art. He watches you stroke him with a sloppy rhythm, lips ajar, eyes glazed. One of his hands holds the back of your head, while he kisses you deep, cock twitching in your palm. He doesn't speak, just groans low in his chest as you wring a moan out of him. 🐚

I will say this until the day I die: Rafayel is the pussy-eating king. That man lives, breathes, and survives off your pussy. He’ll cancel plans, skip meals, and reschedule entire exhibitions just to spend the afternoon face-first between your thighs. 🐚

Thigh-highs, lace, ribbons—Rafayel’s got a problem. You walk in wearing something sheer and frilly and this man is already on his knees, murmuring something about “divine inspiration” while kissing up your inner thigh. He’s an artist, yes, but he’s also just a man completely obsessed with how lingerie clings to your body. 🐚

Rafayel’s fucking you in a storage room ten minutes after his exhibition ends. You barely locked the door before he had you pulling over a crate, whining into your neck like he hadn’t just been charming a room full of patrons. “You were just so pretty today, Miss Bodyguard,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I couldn’t help myself.” 🐚

Don’t let the eye rolls and sass fool you; Rafayel loves when you stroke him clumsily, lazy, cruel. He acts bored at first, like he’s indulging you, until his breathing hitches and his thighs start to tense. His hands flex like he doesn’t know where to put them; on you, in his hair, clawing at restraint. He's so pretty like this. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters, already halfway gone. But he doesn’t tell you to stop. 🐚

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HE'S SUCH A SWEETHEART IM DYING

Zayne's Love Languages!

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the late upload, had some personal stuff come up, but my zayne girlies must be fed!! Thanks for being patient and understanding, ilysm!!! Check Out The Artist! (Artist & Original Post)

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Silence is special: Zayne doesn’t fill space with noise. He doesn’t rush to answer, doesn’t speak unless it matters. But when he’s with you, his quiet isn’t distance: it’s presence. He listens in a way that makes you feel known. He answers you in hums, in looks, in the soft press of fingers against your wrist when he wants you close. And when he does speak, it’s always exactly what you needed to hear.

Care = Love : He notices everything. The faintest crease in your brow, the way your hands tremble when you're overstimulated, the slight hitch in your breath when something’s off. He doesn’t ask “Are you okay?” He just hands you your noise-canceling headphones. Or dims the lights. Or puts a blanket over your shoulders without a word. Every gesture is purposeful, because he never wants to get it wrong with you.

Something sweet for you (always): Zayne has a soft spot for desserts: little candies, pastries, anything warm and sugary. But ever since you came back into his life, he’s started saving the best bites for you. You’ll find them tucked into your bag, left on your desk, set aside with your name written on a sticky note. He doesn’t say why. He just thinks of you, and his first instinct is to give. Because when he thinks of comfort — he thinks of you.

Time bends for you: Zayne’s schedule is brutal. Meetings, surgeries, research. He rarely stops. But if you say you miss him; even offhand, he’ll rearrange everything. Suddenly, he’s at your door. “I had a break,” he’ll lie, even though you know he moved his whole day around. Just for an extra hour with you. Just to sit beside you in silence and breathe a little easier.

Overall: Quality Time (Giving & Receiving)

You’re sitting on the couch, legs tangled, doing nothing in particular — and he looks over at you like it’s the only place he ever wants to be.

“You don’t get bored just... being here with me?” you ask.

Zayne blinks, like the question doesn’t compute.

“No,” he hums softly. “This is what I look forward to.”

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ZOOWEEMAMA!!

Sylus Twitter Links 🐦‍⬛

Author's Note: Okay yeah… this is officially turning into a whole damn series. I'm having fun with it! Please Check Out The Artist! (Artist & Original Post)

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Sylus lets you ride him like you own him; not because he’s giving up control, but because it thrills him to feel your hands gripping his chest, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips while you fuck yourself on his huge cock like you can’t get enough. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, breath uneven. “That’s it,” he groans, voice hoarse. “Take what you want. I’m yours, remember?” 🐦‍⬛

He might wear that sleek black suit like armor, but under it? He aches for tenderness. Pull him close after a long day and tangle your fingers in his silver hair, press kisses down his throat until he shudders. When you whisper how handsome he is, how good he makes you feel, he doesn’t respond — not with words. He just clutches your body tighter, and ruts into you faster. 🐦‍⬛

He doesn’t need to degrade you to 'own' you. He wants to feel your walls clench around him over and over, while he pounds into you so deep you swear he’s in your lungs. One hand grips the center of your neck, the other strokes your spine, and he moans in your ear like the sound of you falling apart is the only music he knows. 🐦‍⬛

Sylus pulls over in the middle of the night, bends you over the bike without a word, and fucks you from behind so rough the whole machine rocks beneath you. You find his hand over your mouth, while his other is wrapped gently around your ponytail. You fucking love it. 🐦‍⬛

(Can y'all tell I'm a Sylus-backshot-king truther?) BONUS! 🐦‍⬛

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obsessed

Current Brainrot: Brat Enabler Caleb!

Author's Note: The poll ended 50/50, so I made the executive (and very self-indulgent) decision to go with Brat Enabler Caleb! because sometimes I just wanna be spoiled, okay? Please check out the artist! (Artist & Her Ko-fi!)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, pet names, penetration, overstimulation, praise, light D/S dynamics, slight dacryphilia, and 'usage' of his bionic arm.

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Caleb loves you like it’s coded into him. Like it’s in his blood, his bones, his circuitry.

He does it without effort, like breathing. Like the pulse of a machine: constant, precise, unyielding.

And he’d give you anything. Anything. Just one pout, one whimper, one soft little “Caleb, please”—and he’s dropping whatever he’s doing to hand it over. A brat’s dream. He doesn’t care if it’s indulgent or excessive or unnecessary. If you want it? You get it.

He’s always there. Cooking your favorite meals with one hand while the other; his right, sleek and gleaming with matte black plating—rests on the curve of your hip as you sit on the counter and sneak bites. That arm, the one people used to flinch at, has never once made you nervous. It’s part of him. Him, who tucks you in like you’re something breakable, who lifts you like you weigh nothing, who touches you with inhuman control and completely human care.

And right now, he’s using both hands: one warm, flesh and blood; the other cool, mechanical precision; to ruin you in the most delicious ways.

You’re spread out under him, legs trembling, body already gone boneless from orgasm after orgasm. You’ve stopped counting. It doesn’t matter. Caleb never stops at one. Or two. Or three.

His thick cock is buried in you, slow and steady, dragging against the places that make your vision flicker. One hand cradles your jaw; his real one, calloused and gentle. The other, his metal arm; is between your legs, thumb pressed to your clit, writing his name into you in soft, pretty patterns.

C. A. L. E. B.

Over and over again. Cold metal, careful pressure, devastating control.

Your skin is flushed, sticky with sweat. Your hands tremble where they grip at his broad shoulders, desperately trying to ground yourself. One of your legs is hooked over his waist, the other shaking helplessly against the mattress, every muscle twitching with the tension he’s building back up in you.

You're crying now, sobbing openly, your voice gone hoarse from how much you’ve moaned and gasped and begged. But he’s not stopping. He’s adoring. Reverent.

“Fuck Pips,” he groans, voice wrecked with how hard he’s holding back. “You’re everything.”

His thumb strokes another letter and you keen, your hips jerking. “Can’t—Caleb—too much, it’s too—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos, leaning in to kiss your parted lips. His tongue traces yours, measured and possessive, like he has all the time in the world. “You can take it. You are taking it. You always do.”

The flex of his hips deepens; calculated, but heavier now. Like he’s letting himself feel just a little more, just enough to tip you further. You feel him everywhere: inside you, against your clit, in the weight of his chest brushing yours, the tremble in his breath. He smells like sweat and heat and you. “You wanted this, remember? You asked for it. And you know I’d never say no to you.”

You grip at his back, your nails catching on the seam where flesh meets metal. He shudders; groans low in his throat, more sound than word.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. “So pretty when you cry for me. So sweet, you were made for this. Made for me.”

You weep at the reminder—how easy it is with him. How good he is to you. The worship, the rapture, the indulgence of it all. The fact that you don’t even have to earn it. You just have to be.

His robotic hand doesn’t falter. Ever. Each movement is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Meticulous. Devoted.

You can feel it building again; your body tightening, coiling, heat spilling down your spine like liquid fire. Your walls flutter around him, desperate and close and so overstimulated. He feels it. He always does.

His voice drops into a growl, desperate and reverent all at once.

“Give it to me. C’mon, Pips—give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

You come again; shaking, sobbing, gripping him like a lifeline. Your cries fill the room, gasping and broken, and he keeps moving, keeps whispering, like your pleasure is something holy.

He was bullying your poor sloppy cunt, but in the sweetest way a man could: just enough to make it mean something, dragging it out so every pulse of pleasure felt personal. A gift he was determined to give you again and again, until you had no words left but his name.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my girl. Mine. Always.”

Only when you’ve gone limp beneath him, body completely undone, does he finally let himself go. His hips stutter, cock twitching deep inside you as he moans your name like a prayer. He stays buried, locked to you, his metal hand stroking your thigh now, pleasant and patient.

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your swollen mouth.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, like he didn’t just wreck you with love and machinery and absolute, overwhelming need. “You did so good. My pretty girl.”

And even though you’re trembling, tears drying on your cheeks, the only thing you can do is nod: because it’s true.

Caleb would do anything for you. Break himself in half. Hold you together. Build you a new world with his bare hands.

And you would let him.

Because no one loves like he does.

No one ever will.

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he's so dreamy bruh

Current Brainrot: Drunk Reader! w/ Boyfriend Caleb!

Author's Note: I wanted to write something sweet again—him being a little overbearing but it’s cute. This is Caleb and his girl being gross and cringe, and in love, as usual. Please check out the artist! She's such a sweetie, and she's talented! (Artist & Original Post)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB!reader, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use (reader), slight dub-con (if you squint), suggestive ending.

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Caleb is the kind of boyfriend who says, “Go have fun, baby,” and means it; but still stands posted, watching, in the corner of every bar you drag him to. He lets you dance, drink, flirt with your friends, yell-laugh at karaoke, and scream-sob over fries in the back booth like it's a sacred ritual. All while he nurses a single drink and watches you with the kind of soft-eyed amusement that says: That’s my girl. Loud, messy, gorgeous. Mine.

Anyone who looks too long gets a stare. Not a scowl; not enough to draw attention. Just a faint warning in his eyes. He doesn't interrupt, only hovers. But everyone knows you didn’t come here alone.

You catch his gaze across the bar more than once. He doesn’t budge. Just lifts his brows like, You sure? — and when you pout, he caves. Of course he does.

He doesn’t even like dancing. He just likes you.

And he follows you like it’s instinct. Loyal in that quiet, unshakable way; like a dog who’s chosen their person and never once thought of looking back. He keeps the dog tag you gave him years ago in pristine condition, always polished and shining on the chain around his neck. You joked about it once, calling it his collar.

He’d smile, fingers brushing over it absentmindedly. Like it was a privilege he never planned to take off.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling extra bratty, you'd call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Big. Loyal. Always underfoot. Quick to roll over and give you anything you want.

He usually snorts, eyes gleaming. “I’m a Colonel, Pips, not a pet.”

“Uh-huh,” you hum, poking at his chest. “You follow me around all night, you take my boots off, you carry my bag, and you’d probably bark if I asked.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. He considered it, for a moment at least.

You pause, then snicker. “Actually, you’re more like a German shepherd.”

He just shrugs, smirking. “I bite if I have to.”

“Yeah, yeah. My big tough lapdog.” You slur as those glossy lips lifted into a grin.

That earns you a growl: low, playful, and way too pleased.

By the time he gets you home, you’re giggling at nothing and absolutely useless. Your boots are halfway off, your eyeliner is migrating to your temples, and you're swaying on your feet like the floor’s made of jelly.

But Caleb? Caleb lives for this part.

He’s all quiet efficiency now. Scoops you into the bathroom with one arm around your waist and sits you on the counter. He holds your chin with his cool metal hand as he swipes away your makeup with a cotton pad, eyes fixed on your face like you’re some precious artifact.

“You had fun tonight,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. “You look like a raccoon.”

“You love raccoons,” you grin, and he huffs a laugh.

He helps you out of your clothes next — not even in a weird way (not yet, anyway), just slow and patient, peeling off layers like you're delicate. Your socks are the last to go, and he rolls them down with that same robotic hand, his touch cold but sweet as he kisses the inside of your ankle.

He adores this. Taking care of you. Spoiling you. Making sure you never have to lift a finger if you don’t want to. You’d barely have to ask; Caleb would already be there, already doing it, like it’s wired into him.

“You’re such a sap,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut.

“Maybe,” he says, lips brushing higher up your leg. “But you’re mine.”

His voice dips on that word. Not playful. Final.

And when he presses one more kiss — higher, warmer, slower; your breath hitches just a little.

Not so drunk now, are you?

He chuckles at the look on your face. “C’mon, Pips,” he says, voice low as he leans in. “Let me tuck you in. And if you’re real good…”

His mouth brushes your ear.

“…maybe I won’t stop there.”

You barely get a breath in before his lips trail along your jaw, down your neck, unhurried like he’s tracing a map he’s already memorized. His metal hand drifts up your thigh, cool and relaxed, while his other curls behind your knee, tugging you just a little closer to the edge of the counter.

“You were drivin’ me crazy tonight,” he murmurs, and your skin begins to vibrate. He was electrifying. “Spinnin’ around like that, laughin’ like I didn’t want to drag you out of there and keep you all to myself.”

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” you catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely Caleb—clean, a little musky, and completely intoxicating. “All night, I wanted to touch you—wanted to pull you close, but I held back.”

“I was good,” he hums, voice low. “I waited. But damn, it was hard not to just… reach for you.”

There’s no teasing in it. Just that low, confessional tone he gets when he’s close to breaking. When he’s been good for too long.

“I watched you have your fun,” he says, lips brushing your sternum, “now let me have mine.”

Your head lolls back against the mirror as his tongue flicks against your skin, warm where his hand is cold, and your whole body goes pliant under his touch. He kisses down your stomach, sinking to his knees without a single word of warning, spreading your legs with a reverence that makes your pulse stutter.

“Shh,” Caleb soothes, but a shiver and a flash of heat travels through your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as he presses a kiss between your thighs, like a thank you. Like a promise.

“You don't have to do anything else tonight, Pips,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

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OH MY GODDD PLSSSS

HES ACTUALLY THE CUTEST

Caleb's Love Languages!

Author's Note: Caleb is my favorite (obviously) and it only felt right that he’d be the first in this little love language series. He’s just so ugh?!! Check out the artist! (Artist & Original Post)

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Cold hand, warm heart: Caleb’s metal hand might be cool to the touch, but he always uses it to cup your face when you’re tired or hold your waist when he’s guiding you through a crowd. He claims it’s because it “calms your nervous system,” but he also loves how you lean into it every time.

Food = love: He’s always cooking for you. Always. If he’s not home, there’s something labeled in the fridge (with a heart drawn next to it, of course). If you mention craving something in passing, you’ll find it on your plate the next day. You once said his cooking was better than any five-star restaurant. He hasn’t shut up about it since.

You talk, he listens: Caleb remembers everything you say; even when it seems like he’s not paying attention. You mentioned once that your favorite flower is out of season? He’ll find a way to get it anyway. You like your water with lemon? He’s already set it down before you ask.

Little helper, big show-off: He insists on doing the heavy lifting. Carries all the groceries. Changes your light bulbs. Reaches every tall shelf. And sure, it’s helpful, but it’s also an excuse. You catch him glancing at you while he’s hoisting something heavy, looking goofy as hell. “Go on, say it,” he’ll tease. “Tell me I’m strong.”

He brags. Just a little. Just for the praise: Caleb doesn’t boast much, but when it comes to you, he gets so smug. “Pips said I’m the best cook she’s ever had.” “My girl can’t sleep without my hand on her.” It’s obnoxious. Well, it’s actually kind of cute; like he’s proud of how well he loves you.

Overall: Acts of Service (Giving) & Words of Affirmation (Receiving)

You never have to ask twice. Or once. He just does things. Keeps your car topped up. Fixes the crooked picture frame. Gets the oil changed. It’s how he says I love you, I see you, I’ve got you. And he loves being needed.

“This is sweet but you don’t have to do all this, you know,” you tell him one morning, as he ties your shoes because you’re still half-asleep. As he fusses with the laces, you reach down and run your fingers through his soft brown hair. He smiles.

“I know,” he says simply, without looking up. “But you let me.”

And that’s what makes him happy.

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ambouttocummmm

Zayne Twitter Links ❄️

Author's Note: Yeah, I can write for other guys too. But Zayne? He’s my number two for a reason; and tonight, he’s the star. (Artist & Original Post)

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Zayne loves punishing you when you act like a brat. Every time he smacks your ass, he watches it flush bright red, biting back a smirk because your cute, stinging cheeks make him want to spank you more. He’s not just putting you in your place; he’s savoring every second of you squirming beneath his touch. ❄️

Don’t let his cool act fool you; after a long shift at the hospital, Zayne can’t wait to get off work just to fuck you. The second you’re in the car, he’s already got his hands on you, and you’re all too happy to reward him with your sloppy, eager cunt. ❄️

Zayne revels in being your primary physician—because “checking on you” is just an excuse to slip his talented fingers deep inside your pussy whenever he wants. He loves the way you twitch under his touch, biting back moans as he makes sure you’re exactly where he wants you—wet, desperate, and completely his. ❄️

When the hospital’s quiet and his office is empty, Zayne would call you in to “keep him company.” But the second the door locks, you’re bent over his desk, moaning into your arms as he pounds you with his thick cock; one hand gripping your hip, the other over your mouth to keep you quiet while he ruins you between patient rounds. ❄️

Zayne pretends he’s too composed for filthy thoughts, but the truth? He gets hard the moment you wear anything remotely short or tight around him. He’ll pull you into his lap under the guise of being “tired,” but really, he just wants to feel your thighs squeeze around him while he grinds you against his cock, whispering in that low voice how you’ve got no idea what you do to him; or maybe you do, and you want to be punished for it. ❄️

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UGH CALEB GET IN MY BED NEOWWW

Current Brainrot: Drunk Reader! w/ Boyfriend Caleb!

Author's Note: I wanted to write something sweet again—Caleb being a little overbearing in the most loving way possible. This is Caleb and his girl being gross and cringe, and in love, as usual. Please check out the artist! (Artist & Original Post)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!

CW: AFAB!reader, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use (reader), slight dub-con (if you squint), suggestive ending.

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Caleb is the kind of boyfriend who says, “Go have fun, baby,” and means it; but still stands posted, watching, in the corner of every bar you drag him to. He lets you dance, drink, flirt with your friends, yell-laugh at karaoke, and scream-sob over fries in the back booth like it's a sacred ritual. All while he nurses a single drink and watches you with the kind of soft-eyed amusement that says: That’s my girl. Loud, messy, gorgeous. Mine.

Anyone who looks too long gets a stare. Not a scowl; not enough to draw attention. Just a faint warning in his eyes. He doesn't interrupt, only hovers. But everyone knows you didn’t come here alone.

You catch his gaze across the bar more than once. He doesn’t budge. Just lifts his brows like, You sure? — and when you pout, he caves. Of course he does.

He doesn’t even like dancing. He just likes you.

And he follows you like it’s instinct. Loyal in that quiet, unshakable way; like a dog who’s chosen their person and never once thought of looking back. He keeps the dog tag you gave him years ago in pristine condition, always polished and shining on the chain around his neck. You joked about it once, calling it his collar.

He’d smile, fingers brushing over it absentmindedly. Like it was a privilege he never planned to take off.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling extra bratty, you'd call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Big. Loyal. Always underfoot. Quick to roll over and give you anything you want.

He usually snorts, eyes gleaming. “I’m a Colonel, Pips, not a pet.”

“Uh-huh,” you hum, poking at his chest. “You follow me around all night, you take my boots off, you carry my bag, and you’d probably bark if I asked.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. He considered it, for a moment at least.

You pause, then snicker. “Actually, you’re more like a German shepherd.”

He just shrugs, smirking. “I bite if I have to.”

“Yeah, yeah. My big tough lapdog.” You slur as those glossy lips lifted into a grin.

That earns you a growl: low, playful, and way too pleased.

By the time he gets you home, you’re giggling at nothing and absolutely useless. Your boots are halfway off, your eyeliner is migrating to your temples, and you're swaying on your feet like the floor’s made of jelly.

But Caleb? Caleb lives for this part.

He’s all quiet efficiency now. Scoops you into the bathroom with one arm around your waist and sits you on the counter. He holds your chin with his cool metal hand as he swipes away your makeup with a cotton pad, eyes fixed on your face like you’re some precious artifact.

“You had fun tonight,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. “You look like a raccoon.”

“You love raccoons,” you grin, and he huffs a laugh.

He helps you out of your clothes next — not even in a weird way (not yet, anyway), just slow and patient, peeling off layers like you're delicate. Your socks are the last to go, and he rolls them down with that same robotic hand, his touch cold but sweet as he kisses the inside of your ankle.

He adores this. Taking care of you. Spoiling you. Making sure you never have to lift a finger if you don’t want to. You’d barely have to ask; Caleb would already be there, already doing it, like it’s wired into him.

“You’re such a sap,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut.

“Maybe,” he says, lips brushing higher up your leg. “But you’re mine.”

His voice dips on that word. Not playful. Final.

And when he presses one more kiss — higher, warmer, slower; your breath hitches just a little.

Not so drunk now, are you?

He chuckles at the look on your face. “C’mon, Pips,” he says, voice low as he leans in. “Let me tuck you in. And if you’re real good…”

His mouth brushes your ear.

“…maybe I won’t stop there.”

You barely get a breath in before his lips trail along your jaw, down your neck, unhurried like he’s tracing a map he’s already memorized. His metal hand drifts up your thigh, cool and relaxed, while his other curls behind your knee, tugging you just a little closer to the edge of the counter.

“You were drivin’ me crazy tonight,” he murmurs, and your skin begins to vibrate. He was electrifying. “Spinnin’ around like that, laughin’ like I didn’t want to drag you out of there and keep you all to myself.”

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” you catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely Caleb—clean, a little musky, and completely intoxicating. “All night, I wanted to touch you—wanted to pull you close, but I held back.”

“I was good,” he hums, voice low. “I waited. But damn, it was hard not to just… reach for you.”

There’s no teasing in it. Just that low, confessional tone he gets when he’s close to breaking. When he’s been good for too long.

“I watched you have your fun,” he says, lips brushing your sternum, “now let me have mine.”

Your head lolls back against the mirror as his tongue flicks against your skin, warm where his hand is cold, and your whole body goes pliant under his touch. He kisses down your stomach, sinking to his knees without a single word of warning, spreading your legs with a reverence that makes your pulse stutter.

“Shh,” Caleb soothes, but a shiver and a flash of heat travels through your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as he presses a kiss between your thighs, like a thank you. Like a promise.

“You don't have to do anything else tonight, Pips,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

[gingersplash00]

Current Brainrot: Brat Enabler Caleb!

Author's Note: The poll ended 50/50, so I made the executive (and very self-indulgent) decision to go with Brat Enabler Caleb! because sometimes I just wanna be spoiled, okay? Please check out the artist! (Artist & Her Ko-fi!)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, pet names, penetration, overstimulation, praise, light D/S dynamics, slight dacryphilia, and 'usage' of his bionic arm.

✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖✧₊🦢

Caleb loves you like it’s coded into him. Like it’s in his blood, his bones, his circuitry.

He does it without effort, like breathing. Like the pulse of a machine: constant, precise, unyielding.

And he’d give you anything. Anything. Just one pout, one whimper, one soft little “Caleb, please”—and he’s dropping whatever he’s doing to hand it over. A brat’s dream. He doesn’t care if it’s indulgent or excessive or unnecessary. If you want it? You get it.

He’s always there. Cooking your favorite meals with one hand while the other; his right, sleek and gleaming with matte black plating—rests on the curve of your hip as you sit on the counter and sneak bites. That arm, the one people used to flinch at, has never once made you nervous. It’s part of him. Him, who tucks you in like you’re something breakable, who lifts you like you weigh nothing, who touches you with inhuman control and completely human care.

And right now, he’s using both hands: one warm, flesh and blood; the other cool, mechanical precision; to ruin you in the most delicious ways.

You’re spread out under him, legs trembling, body already gone boneless from orgasm after orgasm. You’ve stopped counting. It doesn’t matter. Caleb never stops at one. Or two. Or three.

His thick cock is buried in you, slow and steady, dragging against the places that make your vision flicker. One hand cradles your jaw; his real one, calloused and gentle. The other, his metal arm; is between your legs, thumb pressed to your clit, writing his name into you in soft, pretty patterns.

C. A. L. E. B.

Over and over again. Cold metal, careful pressure, devastating control.

Your skin is flushed, sticky with sweat. Your hands tremble where they grip at his broad shoulders, desperately trying to ground yourself. One of your legs is hooked over his waist, the other shaking helplessly against the mattress, every muscle twitching with the tension he’s building back up in you.

You're crying now, sobbing openly, your voice gone hoarse from how much you’ve moaned and gasped and begged. But he’s not stopping. He’s adoring. Reverent.

“Fuck Pips,” he groans, voice wrecked with how hard he’s holding back. “You’re everything.”

His thumb strokes another letter and you keen, your hips jerking. “Can’t—Caleb—too much, it’s too—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos, leaning in to kiss your parted lips. His tongue traces yours, measured and possessive, like he has all the time in the world. “You can take it. You are taking it. You always do.”

The flex of his hips deepens; calculated, but heavier now. Like he’s letting himself feel just a little more, just enough to tip you further. You feel him everywhere: inside you, against your clit, in the weight of his chest brushing yours, the tremble in his breath. He smells like sweat and heat and you. “You wanted this, remember? You asked for it. And you know I’d never say no to you.”

You grip at his back, your nails catching on the seam where flesh meets metal. He shudders; groans low in his throat, more sound than word.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. “So pretty when you cry for me. So sweet, you were made for this. Made for me.”

You weep at the reminder—how easy it is with him. How good he is to you. The worship, the rapture, the indulgence of it all. The fact that you don’t even have to earn it. You just have to be.

His robotic hand doesn’t falter. Ever. Each movement is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Meticulous. Devoted.

You can feel it building again; your body tightening, coiling, heat spilling down your spine like liquid fire. Your walls flutter around him, desperate and close and so overstimulated. He feels it. He always does.

His voice drops into a growl, desperate and reverent all at once.

“Give it to me. C’mon, Pips—give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

You come again; shaking, sobbing, gripping him like a lifeline. Your cries fill the room, gasping and broken, and he keeps moving, keeps whispering, like your pleasure is something holy.

He was bullying your poor sloppy cunt, but in the sweetest way a man could: just enough to make it mean something, dragging it out so every pulse of pleasure felt personal. A gift he was determined to give you again and again, until you had no words left but his name.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my girl. Mine. Always.”

Only when you’ve gone limp beneath him, body completely undone, does he finally let himself go. His hips stutter, cock twitching deep inside you as he moans your name like a prayer. He stays buried, locked to you, his metal hand stroking your thigh now, pleasant and patient.

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your swollen mouth.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, like he didn’t just wreck you with love and machinery and absolute, overwhelming need. “You did so good. My pretty girl.”

And even though you’re trembling, tears drying on your cheeks, the only thing you can do is nod: because it’s true.

Caleb would do anything for you. Break himself in half. Hold you together. Build you a new world with his bare hands.

And you would let him.

Because no one loves like he does.

No one ever will.

[gingersplash00]

GAWD #NEEDTHAT

Current Brainrot: Somnophilia w/ Perv Caleb!

Author's Note: This lowkey (highkey) came to me in a very freak-tastic dream. I wasn’t super into Love and Deepspace when it first dropped, but now that Caleb is back? Suddenly I'm saluting, submitting, and spiraling. Oh yeah, and salivating.

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and i'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, usage of she/her, pet names, DUB-CON, SOMNOPHILIA, oral (f! receiving), fingering, Caleb still not beating the panty sniffing allegations.

✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊

Caleb used to be your favorite person. Your best friend. He laughed easily, listened well, did the right thing even when no one was watching. He was golden—too good, maybe. That was before the accident.

Now, there were moments where you couldn't recognize him at all. The way his eyes lingered a little too long. The way he spoke—as if you were his to command. Something clung to him now; something sharp and crawling and wrong.

But maybe this isn't new. Maybe the accident didn't change him. Maybe it just stripped away the part that pretended he wasn't always like this.

Twisted. Wanting. Waiting.

You made the decision on a whim: last minute, impulsive, and, of course, because you missed him. Skyhaven felt strange, quieter than you'd like, a little too still compared to the hum of Linkon. But Caleb was here, and that was enough.

Relief blossomed in your chest as you stepped into his apartment. The key he’d given you still worked. Sweet.

But he wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t. The poor, overworked Colonel; always pulled in ten directions at once.

You were already worn out from the trip, shoulders heavy with fatigue. As you stepped further inside, your body began to unwind almost without permission. The air smelled like him—acute, clean, with that faint metallic warmth you’d never been able to describe but always recognized.

It wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. Comforting. Familiar. Soothing enough to lull you under.

Your eyes were already growing heavy.

A nap wouldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would kill time until Caleb came home.

You kicked off your shoes and sank into the couch, the cushions still slightly molded to his shape. The throw blanket draped over the back carried the scent of his cologne, as if he’d just been here moments ago. It was easy to pretend he wasn’t at work. Easy to let your guard down.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and the quiet of the apartment pressed in around you—soft, still, and almost too quiet.

Just a nap. Just until he got back.

That nap turned into a deep sleep—one so heavy you didn’t hear the click of the front door or the steady footsteps that followed, growing closer. You didn’t even catch the soft, almost reverent exhale that escaped Caleb as he watched you, drifting in a peaceful haze, groaning sleepily.

He missed you too. Much more than you could ever imagine.

A gloved hand landed softly on your thigh. The touch was light at first—gentle, sweetly caring—but then it tightened, squeezing possessively. You stirred, a soft murmur slipping from your lips, but you remained asleep, unaware.

Caleb smiled.

He slowly peeled off his uniform’s coat, the faint clink of metal badges and buttons echoing in the silence. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, his muscles tensing with each shallow inhale. Before him, sprawled across the couch, was his sweet, darling, innocent girl; vulnerable and entirely for him.

He brought himself to straddle you, his massive arms and legs caging you in. He couldn’t resist inhaling against the soft curve of your neck, your scent overwhelming him—rich and intoxicating. His long, gloved fingers slid down your thighs, gripping, kneading, savoring every inch.

"You're so soft," he groaned into your skin, his breath hot and uneven as he trailed down your body, pausing just at the hem of your skirt. He hesitated. As perverse and twisted as he was, he knew he was teetering on the edge of something far beyond a line. It was dangerous.

The hunger in him was undeniable, a constant ache.

But this wasn’t just about that. He was tired of hiding behind small, stolen moments, tired of feeding this obsession in secret. He wanted more. He wanted all of you.

He couldn't help himself, though, bringing his nose to press right up against your clothed cunt. He took the longest whiff of air his lungs could handle. And he loved every second of it. This was what he always wanted. He was tired of stealing a pair of your panties every time you visited. Tired of only having pieces of you.

"You smell so fucking good, Pips," he grumbled against your panties, his breath scalding and heavy. You stirred again, your body responding to the pressure as he grew more urgent. Still half-asleep, you barely registered the flick of his tongue against your clothed clit, the cotton already slick with your arousal, darkening with each slow, deliberate drag.

"Looks like you missed me too," he chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your skin as his tongue circled your panties, teasing, relentless. But that wasn’t enough. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to taste you, to feel every inch of you on his tongue.

Sliding your sloppy panties off, he finally saw all of you; a fucking masterpiece. The sight of you nearly tore through the fabric of his already tight pants. His cock throbbed, aching with need as he dove in, tongue lapping at your cunt. He was like a dog, panting and eager.

Your thighs jerked beneath him. You were waking now, breath hitching, limbs tensing. Good. He didn’t want you unconscious for this anymore. He wanted you aware, trembling, begging.

“Nghh, Caleb?” you moaned, his name spilling from your lips like a cracked secret—part disbelief, part need. Your mind was fogged, floating somewhere between dream and delirium as each surge of pleasure hit you harder, faster, dragging you under.

Then you felt it: his gloved finger, slick and unrelenting, circling your entrance. That was when it clicked. This was real. This was happening.

But you didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. Deep down, you wanted this. You wanted him. He knew it. He always did. And he was right. You missed him. Every filthy, depraved inch of him.

You were getting close. Each breath came shorter, your body tightening beneath him as his gloved middle finger pressed deeper inside you. He moved steadily at first, exploring you with a kind of reverence—then curled, twisted, stroked. You gasped. Your hips lifted to meet every motion, helpless against the way he knew exactly where to touch.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Writhing for me. You’re so fucking pretty, Pips.”

Then he whimpered into your clit, lips trembling against the sensitive flesh. The sound vibrated through you, small and desperate, and your whole body shivered in response. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat of his mouth, the pulse of his voice, or the way his finger coaxed something unbearable from deep inside you—but you were unraveling.

And he knew.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Be a good girl and show me how much you missed me.”

He curled his finger one more time, slow and deep, hitting that spot with unerring precision.

That was it. You shattered.

Your body arched, thighs clamping around his head as the orgasm ripped through you. You came hard, pulsing around his finger, soaking him. It was messy, uncontrollable, and he loved every second of it. His mouth stayed on you, licking through it greedily, like he couldn’t get enough. Like he’d starved for you.

The wet sound of his tongue, your ragged breathing, the soft praise he kept whispering into you—it was all too much. You were gone, lost in the pleasure he’d pulled from you like it belonged to him.

Because it did.

[gingersplash00]

brat enabler caleb.

that's it. that's the post.

[gingersplash00]

brat enabler caleb.

that's it. that's the post.

[gingersplash00]

In case anyone was wondering, you can get the Kickstarter addon wedding dresses through the devconsole. You can use the command "dump" to dump all the codes and IDs into the plugins folder, but for the sake of keeping it simple, here are the codes:

The codes for the Elegant Wedding Attire:

Elegant Wedding Attire: 12000017 Elegant Wedding Shoes: 12300016

The codes for the Twilight Nocturne Attire:

Twilight Nocturne Attire: 12000016 Twilight Nocturne Headware: 12200020 Twilight Nocturne Shoes: 12300015

There's a number of additem commands, but to keep this simple just use AddItemToBag. You write the command first, the code of the clothing item you want, and the number you want exactly. So If I want the Elegant Wedding Attire it should look like this:

AddItemToBag 12000017 1

[gingersplash00]

The moment I met Trudy I dedicated my life to her. Ma'am, I will kick Matilda's ass and get your desk back. A ruin full of poisonous gas and robots? Anything for you, ma'am. I will make Cooper eat his damn hat if he's mean and disrespectful to you one more time, ma'am. Please adopt me you wonderful, self-sacrificing woman.

[gingersplash00]

Unsuur, my autistic king❤️

[gingersplash00]