Here’s the thing about trying to do something nice for someone who is annoyingly capable of doing everything himself: it doesn’t work.
You’ve been trying for three weeks.
Three.
And you have nothing to show for it except a slightly bruised ego, a jaw that aches, a pussy that’s always throbbing, and a creeping, maddening awareness that Caleb Xia Yi Zhou might actually be impossible to spoil.
His birthday is in two weeks.
Two weeks, and you’ve cooked him exactly zero meals because every time you shuffle into the kitchen with some grand intention — a recipe pulled up on your phone, ingredients arranged on the counter — Caleb is already there.
Already at the stove.
Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.
He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.
You tried cleaning.
You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.
You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.
Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.
You may have crumpled that note aggressively.
You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.
Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.
Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.
“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.
“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.
“Caleb—“
“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”
And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.
You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You are not dwelling on any of that.
You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.
But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.
And you have done nothing.
Zero.
You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.
Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.
Fine. Fine.
If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.
The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?
You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.
It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.
Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.
You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.
Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.
You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.
You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.
But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.
Size matters a lot.
You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.
You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.
Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.
Okay, so bending is out.
Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.
If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.
You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.
The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.
You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.
“Okay,” you say.
Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.
You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.
“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”
Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.
You do not give her the opportunity.
You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.
You stop outside his door. You breathe.
You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.
“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”
There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.
“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.
“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”
Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.
“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”
That’s your cue.
You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.
Caleb goes completely still.
He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.
His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.
His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly
You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.
He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.
His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.
You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.
“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”
And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.
“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.
You swallow.
Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.
You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.
You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.
Then Caleb stands up.
He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.
You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.
You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.
You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.
“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.
The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.
His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.
Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.
Caleb stares at them.
And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.
He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.
You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.
“Caleb—“
He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.
He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.
There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.
He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.
He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.
“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.
Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.
Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.
His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.
“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”
Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.
His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.
You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.
His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.
He cums.
Just like that.
A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.
“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.
You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.
“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.
He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.
The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.
You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.
He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.
“Oh, fuck.”
His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.
He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.
Then he looks up at you.
“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.
With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”
“Caleb—“
“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”
You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.
“You did this to me,” you manage.
“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”
He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.
He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.
“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.
Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.
You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.
He grabs your hips instead.
His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,
“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.
His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.
You are in so much trouble.
Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.
He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.
Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.
He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.
The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.
“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.
He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”
“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.
“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”
This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.
“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”
“Are you talking to it—”
“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”
You are going to lose your mind.
In fact, you are already losing it.
You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.
And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.
“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.
“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.
His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”
He cums.
It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.
The uniform is destroyed.
It is a complete loss.
There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.
You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.
“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.
He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.
He tries. He genuinely tries.
His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.
He doesn’t move.
The room is very quiet.
After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”
You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.
There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.
Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.
“Are you dead?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”
You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.
His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.
“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.
Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.
a/n: wanted to finish some drafts to get out of writer's block before starting two recent requests!
headcanons masterlist
Zayne — Light sleeper. He always takes a shower before going to bed; he can't fall asleep otherwise. Has plain pajamas in cool tones, but in summer, he can sleep shirtless (🫦). Doesn't move much during the night and breathes softly, letting soft sighs pass through his lips when he's fully asleep. As a doctor, he is aware of the rule of no screens before bedtime, but 1) sometimes he goes straight to bed after typing reports, and 2) he likes to chat with you before going to sleep, so he doesn't follow it that much. When you're sleeping by his side, he either lets his arm open so you can cuddle beside him or he fully spoons you.
Rafayel — Heavy sleeper, but he wakes up at random noises, yet NEVER the alarm. He doesn't set alarms unless he has plans with you, and yes, he goes 5:50, 6:00, 6:10, 6:20- it's a nightmare. Can sleep very still and stiff when he finally rests after overworking himself (meaning he doesn't fully rest, but sleep is sleep), or in starfish mode. He has a huge bed for a reason, y'know? Gets tangled in the sheets, his pillows get all messy, and he can sleep in the weirdest positions when he's sleeping by himself. If you're with him, he needs to hug you or touch you in any kind of way.
Xavier — HEAVY SLEEPER. I don't think there's much I can say about him. We know he can sleep on the sofa, the bed, his bean bag... and he's definitely a pretty sleeper most of the time. Key word: most. When he's been sleeping for over 12 hours, his face gets all smushed on the pillows, his lips a little puckered, and cheeks squished oh so cutely, you have to take a photo! If you tease him too much, he won't wake up, but will start mumbling and bury his face in the pillows. Cuteness aggression goes hard with him. Rewarding of his clothes... whatever is comfy and warm will do. If you're sharing a bed, ditch one of the pillows; you're either sleeping on top or underneath him, so no more than one pillow is needed at this point.
Sylus — Oh, he's big. He's taking up a lot of space on the bed, that's why he has a custom-made mattress: perfect size, perfect cushioning. Wears fancy pajamas/robes or sleeps straight up naked/in underwear, on his stomach and face smushed on the pillows too... but he's too handsome, even his smushed face looks handsome, and kissable, too kissable... Don't kill me, but I think he snores a little bit, but it's more like a low grumble. He's a heavy sleeper, but his senses are too sharp; he will wake up if he perceives any weird noise. Most likely to sleep on top of you and bury his face in your neck. Sleeping on your bed will force you to snuggle closer, but oh well... can you reaaaally complain?
Caleb — My poor baby is a light sleeper :( I think it's rare if he gets to the REM phase, so he's always alert and frustrated because he can't fully rest. When he was younger, even if he had nightmares, he could sleep a bit more soundly. Of course, his sleep quality goes exponentially up when you sleep by his side. Spooning you is enough for him, and he likes it when you cling to his arm or put a hand on his chest. He feels like he can finally relax.
Tag list: @hirayalia @totallyuniquenut @foxfairylights @cherrysherryblossom @hilliserose @emowitchwithatwist @violasepals @animegamerfox
I hope that tagging you for headcanons is also okay !! If you don't want to be tagged, just tell me :)
⚠️headcanon: titanic sized, shark-like Lemurian Sea God
The Lemurian Sea God, amused by the tiny invader intruding in His waters, contemplates whether to eat you or be merciful and keep you in the deep sea with him as His treasure.
♱⋅── about: caleb loses a bet and surrenders control to you for tonight. he thinks he can handle it. he can’t.
♱⋅── word count: 2.9k
♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, pwp, cw breeding kind, tied up caleb, slight themes of cnc, riding him, unprotected sex, overstimulation, > gege lots of gege < , sub!caleb mostly, questionable moral code is applied yes.
art credit to @/damn-i-exist
Oh, he was wrong.
Caleb had miscalculated grievously and was so, so, terribly wrong.
He considered himself a man able to withstand many things, and the four years in the Academy made him into a living weapon, equipped with utmost self-control, unquestionable stamina, and the unwavering strength of a soldier.
And yet five minutes into losing his bet with you, he feels his body and mind begin to fail him entirely.
“Earth to Caleb, I hope you’re not going to give in already.” The smirk is audible in your voice, especially as you grind your hips forward and relish in the shuddered exhale that is his response. “Cause that would mean I win.”
It’s intoxicating, confusing, the way his body stopped responding to him the moment you got on top of him. Caleb’s not really thinking of much right now outside of just how nice the orange glow of your nightlight hits your figure, how damn low that tank top is, and when the fuck did those shorts get so small on you?
He jerks his hands up instinctively, the automatic soldier’s reflex to seize control, the want to touch, to grab. To flip you the fuck over and have his way.
But the bind around his wrists catches.
Hard.
Caleb bites back a hiss, teeth grinding at the pull against his arms. “I’m doing just fine,” he grits out, smile crooked in a way that makes you want to laugh. “Fantastic, even.”
“Mhm,” you hum, “keep telling yourself that. I want to see how long that lasts, gege.”
The look he gave you then, frustration, disbelief, a flicker of something dangerously close to surrender, was the kind of thing someone could get addicted to.
Your thumb traces the rough edge of his lips, once, twice, before pushing into his mouth, muffling the surprised grunt he gives you as you lean in.
“Open.”
His eyes widen, jaw falling slack almost immediately as you spit into his waiting tongue, slapping his cheek lightly after. So obedient.
Caleb swallows, and you swear you feel him twitch underneath you.
“Good boy.”
God, he liked that more than you did.
His moan is muffled around your thumb, but the raspy edge of it is enough to have you clenching around nothing. You’re taking more. Now.
Spreading your knees out wider on either side of Caleb’s waist, you rock yourself backward, immediately rewarded with the hard press of his abs and something even more solid below, friction heavenly and far too little all at once. At the mere contact he lets out another moan, muffled as Caleb sucks on your fingers, curling himself up to stare you right in the eyes.
“Please,” he’s begging already. “Please do something- anything- more.”
Your eyes soften, but your smile doesn’t. “Down, boy. I thought we both agreed on what the loser would have to do.” Your fingers skim his jawline, tracing down his throat before pinning him back down to the mattress with just your pointer finger on his chest. He could fight you so easily if he wanted to. “You have ‘ta listen to whatever,” you sing out the word, dragging it out as your nail teases down his chest, “I say.”
“I’m not—” He stops, swallows, and tries again. You’re being so infuriating it’s taking everything not to rip control back from you, fuck you hard and fast and make you a moaning mess like he knows you like. “I am listening.”
You laugh softly, delighted. “Good then, puppy.”
Caleb freezes.
You watch his pupils dilate, nearly engulfing the galaxy in his eyes to an abyssal black, watch the tension ripple across his chest, watch the heat flush the tips of his ears bright red, all at once.
“…Puppy?” he echoes, voice rougher than before.
You tilt your head, studying the way the word seems to unravel him from the inside.
“Mhm,” run your thumb along his jaw, savoring the way he leans into your touch. “My puppy. It suits you, gege.”
This is embarrassing, it’s so embarrassing and he’s so fucking hard right now.
Caleb surges forward, lips smashing onto yours as he kisses you like he’s starving for it. No complaints from you, meeting him as the force clicks your teeth together before his tongue swipes your lip as an apology, drooling into you as his weight presses as close as the restraints will let him.
You tug his face up as his tongue meets yours, hot, sweet, desperate in a way that feels like you’re melting into one another as you lose yourself in the kiss. Not close enough, never close enough, even as you grind closer, the heat between your legs unbearable. You can feel the sweat dripping from his temples, damp heat against your skin, and the kiss melt like hot sugar and something burning.
A hot, undeniable heat of late summer that makes everything in your body boil and sweat, all-consuming and impossible to ignore. The air between you feels thick with it, syrupy, suffocating, every breath shared back and forth until you can’t tell where one of you ends and the other begins. Somewhere in the half-breaths you dare take you throw your shirt off, hardened nipples grazing Caleb’s chest as he feels himself slipping at the sight of your body.
Every kiss only leaves the both of you hungrier, an aching burn spreading through your body.
Standing up on shaky legs, Caleb whines at the loss of you, chasing you up until the scarf tied against his arms jerks him back down.
“Shh, it’s okay, gege,” you tug down your sleep shorts and panties in one drag, letting them fall to your ankles as Caleb’s jaw snaps shut. “I’m just making it easier for you.”
He’d agree to be tied up every second of every fucking day if it meant you looking down at him, completely naked and smiling so damn innocently like this.
Pulling a condom out from your nightstand, you climb back into Caleb’s lap slowly enough to make him watch every movement. Every muscle in his body strains as his skin touches yours, hands fighting the urge to break free before you’re pulling him into a kiss and he simply melts, moaning your name.
A giggle slips from you, swallowed immediately by Caleb’s eager tongue as he chases the sound, kissing you harder, needier, like he can’t stand even a second of distance between you. You let him indulge in it while your hands drift lower, fumbling deliberately with the waistband of his boxers before pulling his poor, leaking cock out, the heft of it springing into your palms.
Caleb full-body shudders, breath catching hot against your mouth, and the reaction alone nearly makes you laugh again. So desperate already.
You toy with the condom between your fingers, peeling the wrapper open slowly while Caleb watches with hooded eyes, every hulking inch of him tense with anticipation. A predator unable to pounce. When you hold it up in front of his face, he leans toward it instinctively, helpless with want.
Cruel delight curls in your chest at the sight.
And then you toss it carelessly across the bed.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing this.”
The whine Caleb lets out will haunt your every dream. “No, no. Pips, princess, please. Don’t— don’t do that to me, let me fuck you. I’ll make you feel so good, please.”
You tilt your head, acting confused as you slide your hips down until you’re hovering right above his dick.
“I never said I wouldn’t let you fuck me.” A smile, evil and so, so satisfied.
And god, you can feel and hear just how wet you’re getting. The loud, obnoxious slap each time you rock forward, the popping suction of your pussy dragging against the wonderfully hard length of his dick, feeling it throb and jump with the hot friction.
Caleb is clenching his jaw hard enough to snap. His entire dick flushed raw pink, twitching and dripping with your slick and an embarrassing amount of precum all drooling down the veins of his dick and sticking to your inner thighs. His hips stutter to meet yours despite himself, despite knowing this was dangerous territory, despite every rock of your bare cunt against him feeling like heaven and sin and fuck his eyes are rolling back at the mere thought of more.
“Stop,” Caleb’s plea comes out pathetically weak. He’s already rocking into you again before the word’s even finished. “Come on, I- I’ve told you how dangerous this is.”
“Ya, we’ve had the talk a bunch when we were kids.” You pout, sitting back as you both look down to the sticky, wet mess between you. One hand goes to pump the remaining slick up and down his dick as the other circles your own clit, Caleb’s eyes racing back and forth between the two as though he can’t decide where to look first. “But I’m an adult now, gege. And I really, really want you inside me.”
Caleb’s going to die.
You’re going to kill him.
But fuck, if you don’t stop moaning through your bitten lips as you play with yourself, he’s not sure he’ll mind.
“Please, baby,” he’s whimpering, gasping out for air as his immobilized body jerks and humps into your hand, dick flushed from the attention but not enough for any real release. It hurts. He needs you so badly it hurts. “Grab another condom, please. Fuck me, use me, I can’t– I can’t stop myself much longer.”
He feels your lips curl into a devilish grin as you lean down, whispering, “Then don’t.”
And the feeling of you slamming down onto his cock, that searing, wonderful pressure, shatters any restraint Caleb had left.
His broken moan is a little more than a sob in your ear, the entire bedframe creaking as Caleb’s back arches, every thick, bulky muscle underneath you flexing as you continue to ride him, a single hand pushing his hips back down to the bed.
It’s all he can think about. Your nails digging into his abs, the sting of your marks as you lose yourself on top of him. The overwhelming heat of your body. The dizzying drag of you rocking up and down again and again until every thought in his head is melting, spinning, just the feeling of you every raw part of you, the way you’re forcing him to hit that spongy spot, the force abusing his oversensitive tip until it’s euphoric pain.
Seeing your strong, protective gege turn absolutely stupid under you only makes you want to push him further. Your thighs burn with the stretch around his impressive quads, legs trembling as you force yourself to go faster. More, you want-need more. You need him to cum inside you.
Caleb whines at that, shaking his head vigorously as he looks up at you through tear-stained lashes. You didn't even realize you were slurring all that out loud. “Don’t, don’t say that. Can’t- won’t stop but fuuuck” he’s moaning again, hips jerking off the bed as the angle forces him right up to your cervix. “I should.”
He doesn’t stop.
You both know he won’t.
The entire bed is shaking when your legs give in, collapsing onto Caleb’s sweat-slicked chest as you keep rutting down into him, clawing into his shoulders for leverage. It’s so much, his tip pressing every spot inside you, the heavy drag of each thrust turning you stupid, drooling into Caleb’s neck as you bite and suck every inch of salty, sweaty skin.
You feel yourself already getting close. “You don’t want to? You don’t want to fill me up?” A whimper, you can’t tell from who as you get tighter, entire body tensing as shocks of pleasure jolt through you. “Please, please. I need it. Please cum inside me, gege.”
Then there’s the loud, undeniable rip of the scarf you’d been using as makeshift binds tearing to shreds, Caleb’s palms slamming onto your hips with a harsh slap.
Raw handprints burn into your skin as Caleb lifts you right into the air, slamming you back down onto his dick. Your eyes roll back, unable to do anything but laugh deliriously as he uses you with every ounce of his remaining strength.
“Again, say it again.”
“P-please cum inside me.” You’re blabbering the words over and over again, body turning to mush as you collapse on top of him.
Feeling every vein, every slap of his pelvis on your clit has you screaming, trembling as your release sprays onto both your thighs. So, so much of it. Your lips open in a silent scream as you squirt around the base of his cock, the mess splattering onto Caleb’s abs as his pupils dilate at the sight.
“Again.”
Then, you’re being manhandled like a doll. Caleb locks you in tight, chest to chest, your tits squished against his pecs, swinging an arm around as he traps you in a headlock, the other slamming your hips down as your head goes fuzzy from the suffocation and bruising, delicious force of him ramming right into your cervix. “Do it again.”
Your nails claw at his bicep, spine arching into his body as the two of you melt into one another, sweat and cum and desperation sticking and dripping from you. Caleb’s strength was failing him too, each grind of your hips, the way your pussy is still convulsing and leaking around him breaking his restraint into something dangerous.
If it is what you wanted, if this is what you needed, then wouldn’t he be such a horrible older brother to deny you?
He’ll give you what you want.
He’ll always give you everything you want.
“This is your fault.” Right as Caleb’s hips falter something else begins to lift you up, gravity itself binding you as his Evol rams you down. “Spoiled you rotten, can’t say no– fuuuck– can’t say no to you.” Up again, down again. Inhumane speed leaving you sobbing as his headlock doesn’t lessen, free hand now moving to your poor neglected clit, quick circles that have you drooling.
“Again.”
“Caleb,” the headlock, the pleasure, it leaves you gasping,”I-I can’t–”
“Again.”
You’re already cumming.
“You wanted this. Begged for this.” He’s drunkenly buckling up into you, hammering his hips into yours. Nose-deep into the crook of your neck as your vision spins from it all. “So take it. Take it, take everything your gege gives you.”
Finally, he gives you what you wanted. The force of his release is dizzying, hot and addictive as you both feel his cum swell your insides. But the thrusts never stop, Caleb’s dick forcing globs of your mixed releases out as he’s already chasing another.
“Greedy pussy needs more. You knew I’d cave, knew I’d fill you right to the womb—” Letting you gasp in air as his palm moves to press down on your belly. You feel every inch of him now. “—but ‘s still not enough, not until you’re swollen with it, begging me this time.” He moans at the thought, delirious, and you whine as you feel him fill you up once more, Evol pinning you as close as possible. Another orgasm.
Immediately, his fingers are at your clit again, a punishing slap to your pussy enough to have you scream before Caleb’s palm comes back up to muffle your cries. Nips your ear in punishment.
“Stop whining and take it, listen to your gege and take it.”
You’re fighting the force of his Evol as bursts of pleasure-pain make you thrash against the binds of gravity, moans and sobs broken behind his hand, nothing coherent left in your mind as you squirt once more. Your legs don’t stop shaking.
Caleb can’t hold on much longer either. The sight of you completely losing control atop of him drives him insane, and the way your pussy keeps hugging him back in wanting more and more. He can’t stop. Doesn’t want to, never wants to after this.
You’re still in the middle of cumming as he thumbs over your clit once more, finally sitting up as the new angle forces you down even further into his lap, and you’re sure your Evol is amplifying his with how much power is behind every thrust, working overtime as Caleb’s hands are pinching and rolling your oversensitive nipples and clit, hugging you tight as his body convulses behind you.
It’s overwhelming, his dick no longer thrusting but grinding, unable to part from you, the swollen head pushing past your cervix as his release keeps filling and filling you. You don’t feel it end, heat sticking to your insides and being shoved deeper, your body still spasming and helpless to do anything but take it.
There’s too much of it, Caleb’s body collapsing atop yours as he trembles. His cock was so, so sensitive but he couldn’t stop cumming, feeling every strand fill you up past your limit, watching the slight bloat of your tummy as the rest leaks down your thighs, staining the mattress from god knows how long it's been. It’s so obscene, so filthy and it just makes him want to fuck you raw again.
The first thing you can make out when reality comes back to you is the quiet laugh as Caleb drops his forehead onto your shoulder, panting into your skin as he leaves open-mouthed kisses there.
He doesn't pull out and you don't want him to either, the two of you falling back into the pillows as you moan at every slight shift inside you.
┈┈˖ ࣪⊹ warnings: religious themes, dubious consent by way of politics and rafayel's powers, implied/referenced baby trapping (again in a political sense), ritual sex, soul sex via bond, exhibitionism, aphrodisiac, breeding kink
┈┈˖ ࣪⊹ notes: set in a version of fires of devotion where mc's coronation is delayed because of the war with murya and takes place after the kindled. rafayel reminds the new empress that sanctarchs used to bless their monarchs with a little more than a kiss on the hand.
“State what you seek.”
The words resonate within the walls of the chamber. Yet, the Sanctarch's tone is almost gentle, could even be mistaken for benevolent to the untrained ear.
The faces of his followers are barely visible from beneath their hoods, but their consideration of you is palpable. You take a breath to steady yourself before shouldering it, allowing its weight to lower you to the ground. Your forehead rests on the tile as you lay yourself prostrate before them. The air thickens. The waves turn. Rafayel’s focus simmers across your scalp with the same vicious interest as the summer sun.
“I come seeking the favor of the Stella Ocean,” you respond.
There’s a performative pause before he prompts, “For what cause?”
“I implore Them to shine Their eyes upon the Empire and carry us in the river of protection,” you intone. “I ask that They grant me the wisdom to guide the stars and the Empire in the light of this new radiant dawn.”
You hesitate at the barely perceptible grunt of satisfaction above you. The seed of a laugh, if only one allowed themselves to nurture it.
“I beseech thee,” you continue, chipping at the edges of the words with your teeth, “O venerated Sanctarch, to serve as holy conduit, that I might be made worthy of the Radiance’s light.”
⟡ pairing: sylus x reader
⟡ word count: 1.8k
⟡ content: Empress!MC, ruthless!MC, suggestive content, heavy petting, dry humping, make out sesh galore, blood, aphrodisiac (hinted at), scent kink, no use of Y/N, Khaosi Sovereign!Sylus, push and pull, denial is a river in egypt, Sylus retains his memories from other lifetimes, miscommunication to the max, poor Sylus can't catch a break from her suspicious nature, unresolved sexual tension, unresolved emotional tension, just all the tension, references to Primordial Chaos, his myths, and other cards so warning: may be spoiler heavy!
⟡ A/N: tryna getting outta my writing rut by responding to @gardenialily's lovely LADS event! and so... I completely misread the prompt LMFAO and I chose "d" based off my blog name 1) dancing 2) denial 3) deja vu, but if I base it on the real rules, it would be 1) dancing 2) repayment, and 3) embrace which still kinda fits?? LOL oh gosh hopefully this can still be part of the event, but either way I'm so happy that this happened as this prompt really got some writing juices flowing! s/o again to gardenialily <3 as for this, it's basically a fever dream mashup of Sylus's Lingering Lust chapters where MC and every other forest animal is addicted to Sylus's scent and his Primordial Chaos card whoot
Something’s wrong.
The lights are too bright, the dull thrum of chatter echoing strangely in your head. Even the tinkle of glass on glass feels like a sharp rattle against your skull. A sudden movement in your peripheral, and you barely recognize the harmless gesture in time — a gentleman’s gloved hand unfolding before you, palm up in askance. A slight push of your finger, and your hidden dagger slides back up your thigh. You narrow your eyes at the proffered hand— the umpteenth one that evening alone— following its arm to the expectant countenance of a simpering nobleman.
“May I have this dance, your Majesty?”
Your head throbs.
“The hour has grown rather late, Lord Volare,” you utter through a facsimile of a smile, ignoring the dawning affront in his twitching eye. “I find I must withdraw for the evening. I trust you’ll forgive my absence.”
If he has an answer, you don’t care to hear it. You’re already halfway down the dais of the throne, cape cascading down the steps behind you. The crowd parts as you approach, heads bowed and gazes averted as you pass.
It’s suffocating.
Syrupy perfume and spiced smoke curling through the heated ozone air, the acrid tang of distillate oozing from bared teeth; your skin crawls long after you leave the brightly lit banquet halls. Your robe weighs heavy on your shoulders, nails dragging against the ornate sleeves of your gown.
It's only when you arrive at your quarters do you even notice the shadows of your ladies-in-waiting, hovering nervously three paces behind you.
How did you not hear them? Something is definitely wrong.
“Leave,” you say curtly.
They bow low in acknowledgement before scurrying away, back down the darkened halls.
You’re burning.
It isn’t until you hear the tell-tale chirp of your door lock do your shaking hands reach for the clasp at your collar; your cape slides off your shoulders, sagging in relief. But it’s not enough. It still feels unbearably hot, the walls of your room closing in. The ties of your bodice are less cooperative, slipping through your clammy hands. Your mind races, painstakingly flipping through every event that transpired today, every person you’ve come in contact with. Were you poisoned? Was it something you ate? Something you drank?
You’re loath to call the imperial physician. You never liked his beady little eyes and his gnarled, wandering hands—
“Running away from the noblesse?” A figure melts away from the shadows. “How unlike you, your Majesty.”
Sylus Qin.
All sharp and cutting syllables of the Khaosi tongue.
The Sovereign in all his glory, his frame imposing against the dim starlight bleeding from the balcony. He leans against the curved end of the chaise, smirking— the relaxed confidence of a predator with no equal. A slumbering dragon coiled at your side, but with one eye slit open, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
Is this his doing?
Your accusation withers on your tongue when you catch a thread of scent drifting by. As light as a brush of wayward feathers, so quick that you nearly miss it, but your spine straightens, your nerves alight. Fighting the instinctive urge to draw it deeper, to chase before it completely dissipates, you level your glare in his direction.
“Your Majesty?”
He’s taken a step closer, a slight crease between his brows.
“…Lord Sylus.”
You do your best to keep your voice steady, the ring of steel under silk that he’s come to expect from the Cosmic Empire’s Empress; but his uncannily sharp senses notice something amiss despite your efforts, a flash of uncharacteristic unease in those ruby red eyes. He strides over before you can think to keep your distance, a new wave of the delicious smell making you sway in place.
“What happened?” His touch is gentle on your cheek, much gentler than you would’ve given him credit for. If you were in your right mind, you might’ve laughed and swatted it away. “What’s wrong?”
Oh, you’re surrounded by it. Swimming in a scent so delicious your mouth is watering, easing the burn of your lungs. Turning your cheek into his palm, you can’t help but huff it in.
“Your scent…” you murmur against his hand. “It’s…”
“It won’t be long,” he says, crimson eyes glittering under the harsh Khaosi sun. “Until we’re at each other's throats.”
“My scent?” Sylus echoes, gaze flitting over your features with an unsettling focus, fingers sliding to the pulse point pounding in your throat.
Close enough to circle your neck and squeeze.
You didn’t think this day would arrive so soon. You also didn’t think the Khaosi sovereign would resort to such underhanded methods either. Your mistake. Mistakes you will pay for dearly.
“Don’t play coy,” you say, hands roving up his onyx scale-leather, caressing the embossed pieces of twinkling ruby. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh?” He chuckles, the sound dark and rich, and you can only watch his face in fascination as his warmth breath fans over your lips. “Then what does suit me, your Majesty?”
“I look forward to us,” he says, too low for the officiant to hear, as he slides the blood-red erythrostone ring over your finger; the cool metal settles into place with the finality of a trap springing shut, “overturning the cosmos itself.”
“A sword through my heart,” you breathe. “I rather expected a drawn out duel to the death. But drugging me? Does the thrill of battle no longer hold its appeal, Lord Sylus?”
His eyes widen, as if startled by your answer. And for a moment, he searches your face. Sweeping across your features with an inexplicable shuffle of emotions too fast, too heavy— breathless hope? rancorous grief?— foreign as it is familiar, hitting you with a disorienting sense of déjà vu. But the moment is over as soon it comes, crimson gaze fluttering down as he lets out an odd, self-deprecating chuckle.
“Your instincts are as astute as ever, your Majesty.” He raps his knuckles on your forehead. “But no, potions and draughts are not among my particular talents.”
Irritation surges over confusion, prickling hot along your skin. What game is he playing at? Why does he bother to deny what he’s done? You’re certainly not denying yourself any longer either, digging your nails into the lapels of his uniform, tugging on the decorated braids to pull him in, his scent closer. He doesn’t resist, grip tightening at your hip when you drag your nose up the column of his neck.
“Your Majesty,” he says, voice dipping a husk lower. “As much as I enjoy your undivided attention, we have another matter at hand...”
If you’re paying the price, then you’ll exact the same from him, pound for pound, flesh for flesh. He’s not escaping from this unscathed; you’ll make sure of it. Curling your fingers around the nape of his neck, you mold yourself against the warmth of his body. Replacing nose with teeth, you nip hard enough to leave a scattering of bruised pink. His hands flex at the small of your back, caressing lower with every new mark you impart on his skin, keeping you flush against him inside the cage of his arms. The cadence of his breath, still infuriatingly steady, but when you turn to face him, a wicked satisfaction purrs at the dilating darkness of his gaze.
“Had your fill?” Sylus asks with the same indulgent amusement one reserves for a particularly obstinate pet.
The gall of this man to mock you. You’re going to wipe that smug smile off his face even if it’s the last thing you do. Your scowl as dark as your intent, the reassuring imprint of your hidden blade against your thigh as you shift forward to sneer along his cheek.
“Not even close.”
You kiss him hard enough to bruise.
And he welcomes you, a datura bloom unfurling at dusk, beckoning you to drink. A cool balm to your aching lungs, sweet and heady as the burst of pomegranate seeds on your tongue. An abysmal hunger clawing up from the cavity of your chest, prowling along the silk of his hair under your hands, pulsing at the hard press of his thigh between your legs. You hum a sound of approval when his tongue slides against yours, and he shudders, deepening the kiss, a purr in his chest answering in kind.
It’s not enough.
Digging red crescents at the nape of his neck, grinding your hips on him to feel sparks shoot up your spine, triumph waxing full as he curses between feverish kisses, breathless and dazed.
If you’re going to burn, then he's going to burn with you.
“Dragons are long lost to this world.” He comes closer, closer than you’d ever allow, but you can’t retreat, tethered by his hold on your wrist. “But we,” —his fingers cradle your wrist as if in supplication, and not the iron chain it actually is—
“We can be dragons.”
You bite down hard on his lip, relishing the iron that blooms on your tongue. He groans helpless into the kiss, hauling you higher up his body. And then you’re weightless, held up only by his arms and the intoxicating whirlwind of being devoured— he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you— like parched lips pressed to a chalice of wine, like claws sinking into a long coveted mountain of gold, like a starving creature of the night finally allowed to feed. Like you’re the piece of him he’s been searching for over a millennia, within his grasp at last, and he doesn’t plan on ever letting go—
A sweep of vertigo and then you’re on your back, the mattress dipping underneath his weight as you slide back into the heat of his body. Gown ties unraveling as he tugs the ribbons between his teeth, your skin ablaze where he reclaims his blood from your skin with his tongue. Panting hard, blood smeared down his chin, his right eye glows as he presses hungry kisses down your stomach. But before he can go lower, your fingers knot in his hair, yanking his gaze back to yours. He submits with a grunt, and you reward him with a smile split wide with menace. Tracing the darkening flush across his cheeks, your fingers tease down the shell of his ear, flirting with the promise of chasing the pretty color down his collar.
“Didn’t you say, Lord Sylus,” you drawl, fingers tipping up his chin in challenge, “that you could satisfy my heart's every desire?”
“I can,” he rasps, more growl than words, more oath than answer. “In the entirety of the cosmos,” —the ruby of his eye burning brighter than the blood welling from his split lip— “only I can.”
𓏲ּ𝄢 featuring 𓂃 XAVIER, RAFAYEL, ZAYNE, SYLUS & CALEB — how lads men would give you head.
𓏲ּ𝄢 content warnings 𓂃 lots and lots of cunninglingus, they EAT it (that's the main point here), pwnp, somno in xav’s part, lots of focus on female orgasm, praise & degradation, clitplay, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, fingering, sixty-nine position in zayne’s, oral for both f&m in his part too, riding nose for sylus, caleb is stealing panties (.... again), whimpering and begging for him as usual... (I don't know what else)
𓏲ּ𝄢 cherry’s note 𓂃 I've spent embarassing amount of time and effort into this. so, if this flops I'll blow up with everyone here. thank you @lunarkyn & @beatricetonguedi for helping me sorting out xav ’n raf’s part...also, this ask right here....you guys saved me there. big kisses for y'all <3
沈星回 ⛦ XAVIER !
Xavier slips through the door just past three a.m., the apartment dim and quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. His shoulders sag under the weight of the day —endless missions, blood, light-blades, paperwork— but the moment he sees you curled in the middle of his bed, everything else fades.
You’re wearing his favorite oversized sweater, the one that smells like him even after a wash, sleeves slipping over your hands, hem riding high on your thighs. Nothing underneath but a whisper-thin pair of panties—pale blue, already darkened at the center with the faintest hint of want. You’re on his sheets, in his clothes, breathing slow and sweet… it’s the only reward he ever needs.
He exhales, long and shaky, kicking off his boots. Doesn’t bother with the light. Just shrugs out of his jacket, peels away the holster, and crawls onto the mattress like a starving man finally allowed to eat.
You stir when the bed dips, murmuring his name in that sleepy-soft voice that makes his cock twitch painfully against his zipper.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your knee as he settles between your thighs. “Go back to sleep. Just need my dessert.”
He starts slow—god, so fucking slow—like he has all the time in the world. Mouth warm and lazy, kissing over the damp cotton first, breathing you in through the fabric until the panties are soaked twice over. Only then does he hook a finger under the gusset and tug it aside, humming at the sight of you make—swollen, glistening, already fluttering for him.
The first lick is a long, flat stripe from entrance to clit, deliberate, savoring. He groans like he’s tasting something forbidden and perfect, the sound rumbling straight into your core.
“Fuck… missed this all day,” he mumbles against you, voice thick with exhaustion and hunger. “Missed this pretty pussy waiting for me.”
His thumb settles over your clit, pressing in slow circles—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk—while his tongue pushes inside you, slow and filthy, curling like he’s trying to drink you dry. Every tiny reaction you give him—the gasp, the whimper, the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head—he catalogues it, stores it, uses it. He learns you like he learns constellations: reverent, obsessive, permanent.
Hours. He stays down there for hours.
Sometimes he pulls back just to watch his thumb work you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips shiny with you. “Look at you leaking for me already… such a messy girl.” Then he dives back in, lips sealing around your clit in a tight, perfect “O,” sucking soft and steady while two fingers slide in to stroke that spot that makes your back arch clean off the bed.
You’re close—so close—when he suddenly changes.
It’s like a switch flips.
The lazy worship turns feral in a heartbeat. Tongue flicking fast and hard, thumb grinding rough circles, fingers curling and pumping with ruthless precision. The wet sounds are obscene—loud, sloppy, echoing in the quiet room. He growls against you, hips grinding into the mattress because he’s so hard it hurts, chasing his own edge just from the taste of you.
“Give it to me,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Cum on my tongue—wanna feel you fall apart, baby, please—”
You shatter—sobbing his name, thighs clamping around his head, whole body shaking as he drinks down every pulse, every gush, licking you through it like he’ll die if he misses a single drop.
When the aftershocks fade, he doesn’t stop. Just slows again, gentle now, soothing, pressing sleepy kisses to your swollen folds, your inner thighs, the soft crease where leg meets hip. His lower face is drenched—chin, lips, even his nose glistening—and he doesn’t care. Wipes it off on your thigh and smiles, drowsy and satisfied.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
He gathers you close, pulling you into his chest, your back to his front, legs tangled. His cock is still hard against your ass, but he ignores it, nuzzling into your hair.
“Love you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Love how you taste… love how you sound you make when you come for me… love you in my sweater, in my bed…”
You feel him smile against your neck, hear the soft, contented hum as he finally lets sleep take him.
“Just needed my dessert,” he mumbles, already half-gone. “Best part of the whole damn day.”
And with your taste still on his tongue and your body limp in his arms, Xavier drifts off—happy, full, and utterly yours.
祁煜 ⛦ RAFAYEL !
Rafayel comes to you pouting.
You hear it before you see him— the dramatic sigh, the keys tossed onto the counter with theatrical flair, the soft thud of his shoes kicked off one by one.
“Cutie ignored me all day,” he announces to the empty living room, voice lilting like he’s wounded. “Left me to rot in that boring studio while you were out doing… whatever mysterious human things you do.”
You’re on the couch in nothing but his silk button-up—three buttons done, the rest hanging open) and a pair of lace panties he bought you “as a joke.” The joke’s on him; they’re already ruined.
He stops in the doorway, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that dangerous little smirk.
“Oh. Look who decided to dress up like a present.”
You don’t even get to answer before he’s on you, knees hitting the rug, hands sliding up your thighs and spreading them wide like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.
“Missed this pretty cunt,” he murmurs, voice velvet and venom. “Bet it missed me too, hm?”
He starts slow, cruelly slow. Kisses everywhere except where you need him: soft presses along the crease of your thigh, the delicate skin just above your clit, the lace edge of your panties. Every time you twitch toward his mouth he pulls back, laughing under his breath.
“Rafayel—”
“Shh. Good art takes time, baby.”
He drags the flat of his tongue over the soaked fabric once, just once, then blows a cool stream of air right through it. Your hips jerk; he pins them down with one hand like it’s nothing.
“Sensitive tonight? Cute.”
Finally, finally, he tugs the lace aside with his teeth. The first real touch is just his lips: plush, warm, closing over your folds in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. He makes out with your pussy the way he kisses you when he’s trying to ruin your lipstick: deep, lazy, filthy, lips sliding and catching and sucking like he’s trying to drink you through them. A soft, wet sound every time he pulls away and dives back in.
You feel it in your spine.
He hums some annoying pop song that’s been stuck in his head for three days, the vibration rolling straight into your clit. Your hand flies to his hair on instinct.
“Yes—fuck—pull it,” he breathes against you, tongue flicking out to trace your entrance. “Use me, cutie, c’mon.”
You do. You fist those soft violet strands and shove his face exactly where you want it. He moans like you just gave him a gift, nose bumping your clit, rubbing it in messy circles until it’s shiny with you. Then he pulls back just far enough to spit, once, twice, watching it drip down your folds with half-lidded eyes.
“Pretty,” he whispers, and seals his mouth over you again.
He edges you twice. Brings you right to the cliff with that wicked mouth and those long artist’s fingers curling inside you, then stops, blowing cool air over your throbbing clit until you’re shaking and cursing his name. The third time you sob, actually sob, he laughs softly and gives in.
“Alright, alright. Greedy baby.”
And then he doesn’t stop.
He sucks your clit between those sinful lips and flutters his tongue so fast your vision whites out. Fingers scissoring, stroking, spitting again just to hear the wet sound when he pumps them back in. You come with his name cracked in half on your tongue, thighs clamping around his ears, and he just groans like he’s the one unraveling, drinking every pulse like it’s paint and he’s starving.
You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he starts again.
Second orgasm. Third. Fourth. By the fifth you’re crying, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his forehead while he licks you open like he’ll never get enough.
“R-Raf—please—too much—”
He pulls off just long enough to flash you a lazy, smug grin, lips swollen pink, chin dripping, eyes glassy with lust.
“One more,” he coos, voice hoarse. “You can give me one more, can’t you? For your poor neglected boyfriend who missed you all day?”
He waits until your hand falls limp against the cushion, until your body going soft and trusting again.
Then he dives back in.
By the time he finally lets you breathe, you’re boneless, tears drying on your cheeks, his silk shirt twisted around your waist. He crawls up your body, kisses you slow and deep so you taste yourself all over his tongue, and smiles against your lips.
“Best welcome-home ever,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Next time leave the panties off. Save me thirty whole seconds.”
You’re too wrecked to even roll your eyes.
He just laughs, tucks you into his chest, and hums that stupid song again, content, smug, and absolutely drenched in you.
黎深 ⛦ ZAYNE !
You come home dragging your feet, shoulders knotted, temples throbbing from twelve straight hours of deadlines and idiots. Zayne is already there—white coat traded for a charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed to the elbows, glasses low on his nose while he reviews charts on the couch. He glances up once and immediately closes the tablet.
“Bed. Now,” he says, voice calm, clinical, final. “You’re presenting with acute sympathetic overdrive. Heart rate elevated, trapezius spasming, cortisol through the roof.”
You groan. “I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” He stands, towering, gentle but immovable. “Doctor’s orders: you need to relieve yourself properly. Thoroughly.”
You flop face-first onto the mattress still in your work clothes. He follows, fingers already working the buttons of your blouse with surgical precision.
“And you?” you mumble into the pillow. “You pulled a double shift yesterday. You must be just as tense.”
A low hum behind you. “I am. Which is why we’re going to treat both of us at once. Efficiency, darling.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s sliding your skirt and panties off in one smooth motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing, settling on his back in the center of the bed. His cock is already hard against his slacks—thick, flushed, curving slightly toward his stomach when he frees it. He pats his chest.
“Straddle me. Face down.”
You know the position. You love the position—sixty-nine. Still, your thighs shake as you climb over him, knees bracketing his ribs, hands bracing on either side of his hips. He guides you back until your soaked cunt hovers an inch above his mouth.
“Good girl. Now lower yourself. Let me take care of you.”
The first touch of his tongue is precise—one long, deliberate lick from entrance to clit that makes your arms buckle. He groans, deep and satisfied, hands clamping on your hips to pull you flush against his face.
“Labia minora engorged,” he murmurs, voice muffled, vibrating straight into your clit. “Clitoral hood retracted. Perfect autonomic response.”
You whimper around the head of his cock as you sink down, lips stretching wide. He’s thick, hot, pulsing against your tongue, and the taste of him—clean skin, faint salt, pure Zayne—makes you dizzy.
He starts slow, academic, like he’s mapping you. Tongue tracing every fold, cataloguing every twitch.
“The levator ani is fluttering beautifully,” he says, breath ghosting over your clit. “Pelvic floor tension releasing already. Excellent.”
Then his fingers slide in—two at once, no resistance because you’re dripping for him—and crook upward in that cruel, perfect angle that hits your front wall dead-on. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking in steady pulses while his fingers pump slow, deep, relentless.
You choke on his cock, eyes watering, throat working to take him deeper. He rewards you with a throaty moan that you feel in your spine.
“Sexual release triggers oxytocin and prolactin cascade,” he lectures between licks, voice wrecked now. “Reduces serum cortisol by up to thirty percent. You’re going to come for me at least three times. Minimum therapeutic dose.”
You try to pull off to breathe and he growls, hips flexing up, fucking shallowly into your mouth.
“No. Stay. Breathe through your nose. Relax your soft palate—yes—like that.”
His fingers speed up, scissoring, curling, while his tongue flicks your clit in tight, merciless circles. You come the first time with a muffled scream around his cock, thighs clamping on his head, entire body seizing. He doesn’t stop —just switches to soft, soothing licks while you ride it out, murmuring praise against your folds.
“First orgasm achieved. Heart rate one-thirty and climbing. Preparing second.”
The second hits harder, faster, because he adds a third finger and sucks your clit like he’s trying to leave a bruise. You sob around him, tears streaking into his trimmed hair, hips grinding helplessly.
He’s leaking steadily now, precome painting your tongue, cock jerking every time you swallow around him. You can feel him getting close—his thighs tensing under your hands, breath ragged against your cunt.
“Cum with me,” he orders, voice cracking for the first time. “Third one. Now.”
He curls his fingers hard, tongue lashing your clit without mercy, and you shatter again—vision whiting out, whole body locking up. The clench of your throat around his cock drags him over with you; he spills hot and thick down your throat with a broken groan, hips stuttering, fingers buried to the knuckle inside you while he licks you through both climaxes like he’ll never get enough.
When it’s over you collapse forward, cheek against his thigh, panting. He gently maneuvers you off him, turns you around, gathers you close. His face is flushed, lips swollen and shining with you, glasses fogged and crooked. He kisses your temple, voice soft again.
“Cortisol levels should be negligible now,” he whispers. “Sleep. I’ll run a warm bath in twenty minutes. Hydration and electrolytes next.”
You laugh, hoarse and wrecked. “You’re such a nerd.”
He hums, already half-asleep, arms locked around you like steel bands.
“And you’re cured,” he murmurs against your hair. “For tonight, at least.”
秦彻 ⛦ SYLUS !
Sylus is sprawled on the couch in nothing but low-slung grey sweatpants and that infuriating little smirk, scarlet eyes flicking across the tablet in his hand like the numbers on the screen are more interesting than you.
You’re curled against his side, wearing his black dress shirt and literally nothing else, pretending to scroll on your phone. Except you’re not pretending very well. Your gaze keeps sliding to the sharp, arrogant line of his nose, the way it cuts through the dim light like it was sculpted for sin.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
“Your nose looks so rideable.”
Silence.
Then the tablet lowers, slow and deliberate. Those crimson eyes lock onto you, amusement and pure danger swirling together.
“Come again, sweetie?”
Heat floods your face. You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified, but it’s too late. The smirk spreads, wicked and slow.
“Didn’t know my kitten was so obsessed with my nose,” he drawls, voice velvet and smoke. “How long have you been thinking about grinding that pretty little cunt all over it, hm?”
You squeak. Actually squeak.
He tosses the tablet aside, stands in one fluid motion, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Two strides and you’re in his bedroom, the city glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows behind the massive bed.
Sylus drops onto his back, arms folded behind his head, looking like a king waiting for tribute.
“Well?” He arches one brow. “Ride it, then. Ride until you’re satisfied, kitten. I’ve got all night.”
Your thighs are trembling before you even straddle his chest. He watches, hungry, as you crawl forward, knees settling on either side of his head. The moment your slick folds brush the bridge of his nose he inhales, deep and filthy, eyes fluttering half-shut.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re already dripping for me. Greedy girl.”
You sink down slowly, gasping at the first contact (his nose is perfect, straight and firm, slotting right between your lips, the tip nudging your clit). The groan he lets out vibrates through your entire body.
“Move,” he orders, voice rough. “Use me.”
You do.
It starts tentative—little rolls of your hips, testing, savoring, but his big hands slide up to grip your ass, spreading you wider, guiding you harder, faster. Every forward drag smears your wetness along the sharp ridge of his nose; every backward glide has the tip bumping your clit so perfectly your vision sparks.
“That’s it,” he growls against you, tongue flicking out to lap at your entrance between breaths. “Fuck my face exactly how you want. Make a mess.”
You lose it.
Hands flying to the headboard, you start riding him in earnest—hips snapping, thighs burning, tits bouncing under the open shirt. His tongue spears inside you every time you glide back, nose grinding your clit mercilessly when you rock forward. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds and your broken moans echoing moans of his name.
“Sylus—oh god—right there—”
He laughs, dark and filthy, the sound muffled against your cunt. “Not God, sweetie. Just your very devoted boyfriend letting you ruin his face.”
You’re dripping everywhere—down his nose, his cheeks, his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He drinks it like wine, tongue thrusting deep, nose rubbing hard circles until your legs start shaking uncontrollably.
“Close,” you sob, nails scraping the headboard. “Sylus, I’m—”
“Do it,” he snarls, fingers digging bruises into your ass, forcing you to ride faster. “Come all over my fucking face. Mark me up, kitten. Want to smell you for days.”
The orgasm slams into you so hard you nearly collapse. Your whole body locks, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you gush against his mouth, hips jerking helplessly while he keeps licking, keeps rubbing keeps you riding the peak until you’re crying from overstimulation.
When the tremors finally fade, you try to lift off, legs jelly. His arms lock around your thighs like steel.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasps, voice hoarse, face absolutely drenched and gleaming. “I said until you’re satisfied. We’re nowhere near done.”
You whimper, because you’re still pulsing, still empty and aching in the best way.
He grins up at you, wicked and adoring, nose shiny with you, lips swollen and red.
“Round two, sweetie. And this time I’m setting the pace.”
He flips you effortlessly, pinning your thighs open with his broad shoulders, and dives back in like a man possessed.
You’re not leaving that bed until the sun comes up—and neither is the smug, perfect, rideable nose that started it all.
夏以昼 ⛦ CALEB !
You can’t even remember how you got here.
One minute you were storming into Caleb’s room, cheeks burning with second-hand shame embarassment—finding your favorite pair of panties balled up under his pillow like some dirty little secret. The next, he was on his knees in front of you, sunshine smile gone, pupils blown wide, begging in that cracked, desperate voice you’d never heard from him before.
“I’m sorry, pipsqueak—fuck, I’m so sorry, I just—your smell—”
And now it’s been hours.
Hours of him on his knees between your spread thighs, face shoved into the soaked cotton of the panties you didn’t even bother taking off. Hours of his tongue dragging slow, worshipful stripes over the fabric, nose buried so deep he’s practically suffocating himself in you. Hours of him whining like a kicked puppy every time you let him up for air.
You’ve got one leg hooked over his shoulder, knee locked around the back of his neck, heel digging into his spine to keep him exactly where you want him. His hands are fisted in the sheets because you threatened to stop everything if he touched himself.
“Please,” he mumbles again, voice muffled and wet against your crotch. “Please, I’m sorry—”
“Please what, huh?” You tug his hair hard enough to make him gasp, forcing his red-rimmed eyes up to yours. “You thought you’d just get away with stealing my panties like some gross little pervert? Look at you now.”
A broken whimper spills out of him. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against nothing, and you feel the wet spot on his sweatpants brush your ankle.
You laugh, mean and sweet. “Licking my cunt through my own panties like a dog. Pathetic.”
He sobs—actually sobs, hot breath fanning over the soaked fabric. His cock is outlined obscenely in his pants, flushed angry red at the tip, a steady drip of precome darkening the grey cotton. When his hand twitches toward it you kick it away with your free foot.
“Oh no no no. This is a punishment, remember? You don’t get to touch that filthy cock of your’s.”
Caleb’s whole body shakes. He leans forward again without being told, tongue flattening against the gusset, licking broad, desperate stripes like he’s trying to drink you through the barrier. You reward him with a slow roll of your hips, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose, and he moans like he’s the one coming undone.
“You humiliated me, Caleb,” you sigh, threading fingers through his hair just to yank harder. “Ruined everything we had. Our friendship, everything. Least you can do is feel a fraction of it.”
You glance down and, oh. There’s a fresh, darker patch spreading at the front of his sweats. He came just from this. Just from tasting you through cotton and being called a pervert.
You laugh again, delighted and cruel. “Aww, did you just come in your pants? Already?”
He whimpers, nodding frantically, hips still twitching through the aftershocks.
“Poor baby,” you coo, and finally, finally hook your thumbs into the waistband of your ruined panties. “Guess I’ll be nice—ah!—wait, wait—ahhh, fuck!”
The second the fabric is pushed aside Caleb snaps.
Hands shoot up to grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open like he’s starving. There’s a sharp rip as he tears the panties clean in half, and then his mouth is on you, no hesitation, no teasing, just pure, sloppy desperation.
He buries his face so deep his nose is flush against your clit, shaking his head side to side to coat himself in you. Tongue plunging inside, curling, licking up every drop like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted anything good in his life. The noises are obscene, wet, animal, his moans vibrating straight into your core.
You cry out, back arching, fingers tightening in his hair until he whines. He doesn’t care. He’s humping your leg now, cock still hard and leaking through his soaked sweats, dragging himself against your leg like he can’t help it. You twitch at the sheer size of it, the feeling of it dragging against your skin through his pants.
“F-fuck—Caleb—”
He pulls back just long enough to gasp, “Taste so fucking good, pipsqueak, please don’t stop, please—”
Then he’s back, sucking your clit between his lips, tongue flicking fast and messy while his hips rut helplessly against your calf. You can feel how big he is even through the fabric, thick and ridiculous, and the thought alone makes you clench around nothing.
Your thighs start shaking. You’re close, so close, and he can tell because he doubles down, licking into you like he’s trying to crawl inside and never leave.
When you come it’s sudden and brutal, a full-body spasm that has you yanking his hair hard enough to hurt. He moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, drinking you down in greedy gulps, hips stuttering as he spills again in his pants just from the taste of you cuming on his tongue.
When the haze clears you’re both panting. He’s still on his knees, face shiny and wrecked, eyes glassy with devotion and shame.
You loosen your grip in his hair, petting gently now.
“Friendship’s not the only thing ruined,” you whisper, breathless.
Caleb just smiles, small and sheepish and utterly fucked-out. “Good,” he rasps, voice raw. “Was getting tired of pretending anyway.”
