Oral fixation, a persistent obsession with needing something in your mouth. Chewing, sucking, biting; all of it was something Claggor had damaged his belongings with. He tried not to cause any destruction with his needs, really tried, but it failed every time.

You had been a godsend, always giving him an outlet to work the energy out. You were always so understanding with it — never questioning why your spoons with rubber tops had bite marks in them. If he was lucky enough, you’d let him chew on the side of your arm.

It seemed as if it was one of those nights. His languid position across your legs and stomach flipping so he could chew on the hem of your shirt. Thick arms trapped your sides down, your attention drawn to it when the fabric no longer satisfied him.

The bridge of his nose brushed it up, allowing him to nip at the side of your stomach. His eyes peeked up at you, a sheepish smile on his lips. Another nip and he was groaning, sliding up your body. “Please, can I chew on something? Anything, I won’t be picky,” he promised, rolling his head on your shoulder to glance up at you.