Say my name a thousand times...
I can't wait for the upcoming banner!! While I'm a Caleb main, Zayne conquered my heart ç_ç I'll try to get him, Sylus and Caleb. What about you?
I have no words for what Infold did with Love And Deepspace. I don't even know the future of the game itself, I just know that my heart and trust are broken.
So I've decided to post this. It's not finished, it will never be, as Valko. It's raw, sad, imperfect. As my feelings. As his story.
As a neurodivergent person - with both ADHD and autism - the whole situation is making me terrible sad to the point I'm crying and feeling an empty sensation at the chest.
It's not about the money spent in the past - I'm happy I've supported artists, VAs, actors, writers.
I'm talking about routine. I usually open LADS after breakfast and before going to sleep, plus a couple of times during the day if work allow me. It was a safe island for me.
I've recently started to hang out with IRL friends, talking about the game; my Threads has been more active since I've decided to connect with the community - with a huge effort by my side due to my mental health situation . I told myself "everything will be ok, this is a game I can rely on, same is for the community".
But everything is uncertain now. I felt in love with Valko immediately -- he has a lot of my IRL boyfriend's features. It was a character that made me feel safe and loved.
I've recently diagnosed, so I still don't know how to handle these emotions right now... I just hope they will bring him back.
[♕]: warnings— fem!reader, makeout session, cum/cock drunk!reader, p in v, bj in xaviers, overstimulation, reader is freaked out, 69ing in rafayels, smut with little plot.
[౨ৎ] synopsis: how the lads men react to you being hornier than usual!
[♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: yall really liked the last one so...here you go! Didn't really proofread much lol.
like these jewels? check out --> lads masterlist
SYLUS.
you had been living with sylus for about a year and a half now, but never, ever, had you seen him look so sexy in a black button down. Yes you seen him in it before, but you haven't seen him like this in it before.
Coming up behind him slow, you let your palms wander over the hard planes of his chest, fingers shamelessly tracing the lines of muscle beneath the thin fabric. You felt him inhale, a little sharper than usual, as you slid your hands lower, down his torso, feeling the warmth of him through the shirt.
“Hey, Sy,” you breathed, soft and affectionate, pressing a tender kiss to the side of his neck. “Whatcha reading?” He turned a page slowly, “Mm… reports. Just work.” His voice was calm, but the way he shifted in his chair betrayed him.
Your lips brushed over the line of his jaw, the faintest hum vibrating against his skin. “You look good like this,” you whispered, your hands sliding down to his stomach again, feeling him tense under your touch. “Can’t stop looking at you.”
His dark eyes flicked to the side, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah?” he teased, his tone lazy, though the faint flush climbing his neck didn’t escape you. “That all you wanted to tell me sweetie?”
Instead of answering, you leaned in, letting your fingers slip between buttons, brushing over bare skin. “No,” you whispered against the shell of his ear, your breath making him shift in his seat. “I want you sy.”
That made him pause, the brown file lowering in his hands. His smirk shifted, deepening into something darker, more intrigued. “Really now?” he murmured, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that always made your stomach flutter.
You didn’t even try to hide the slow smile curling your lips as you leaned in, humming as you pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.
“You always look good every day…” you whispered, your words trailing off as your fingers wandered lower, brushing dangerously close to the sharp line of his v-line. A rush of heat stirring deep in your core, your tongue flicked out to wet your lips as your gaze lifted back to his.
“…but you look really sexy right today.” you breathed, your voice hushed and honest, eyes drinking in every detail of his face. Before he could reply, you moved around the side of the chair, slow and deliberate, until you were in front of him. A low chuckle escaped the white haired man as his eyes follow you, dark and gleaming. "Maybe I should wear this everyday if it makes you this forward then."
As you set the file aside on the couch, your hand graced his shoulder with a gentle push, swinging a leg over his thigh, you straddled him with practiced ease, your body settling against his lap. Hands already coming up to grip your waist and slid up your shirt, "You could wear anything and I'd still wanna get in your pants." You whispered, quickly closing the gap between you two as your arms wrapped around his neck.
Your lips crashed against Sylus’s, heat sparking the instant they met. One hand slid up instinctively, fingers threading through the pale strands at the nape of his neck before curling into his hair, giving a soft, desperate tug.
Soft moans spilled against his mouth as you shifted in his lap, grinding forward with a needy roll of your hips that pulled a rough curse from him. Veiny hands clamped harder on your waist, thumbs digging in like he needed to hold on or lose himself.
You barely broke the kiss, lips brushing his as you breathed, shaky and hot, “More…” before crashing back into him, kissing deeper, tasting him, pressing yourself flush against him as your hips rocked again—another groan tearing from his chest.
“You’re insatiable, kitten…”
ZAYNE.
Your Zayne was always a respectful, always gentle. A sweetheart. Never wanting you to think that sex was simply a means of pleasure, that it was an act of love between the two of you that went beyond words and terms of endearment.
Though at this very second, you wanted the farthest thing from that.
You had come for the third time that night but the need seated deep in your cunny still burned, not as big- but hot. So when zayne kissed your shoulder and asked if you were okay all you could breathe out against his pillows was, "Harder."
His breath caught, the soft murmur of your request seeming to coil around his spine and snap something loose. “Harder?” he echoed, voice low, almost disbelieving, like he needed to hear it again to be sure.
You nodded quickly, hips still rolling back against him, needy and slick, a tremor running through your thighs. “Yes—need it,” you gasped, “need you to make me take it please zaynie.” You whined out.
For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. Then you felt it—his body tense behind you, a sharp inhale drawn through his teeth. The twitch of his cock in your walls as he breathed.
“My angel …” he rasped, as one of his hands slid up your spine, fingers splaying over your shoulder blade like he was grounding himself. “You say things like that—” his voice broke into a low groan, “—and you don’t even know what it does to me.”
You felt the soft brush of his lips against your ear, his words spilling over you like molten honey. “You want me to make you take it?” His voice was lower now, rougher, almost feral. “Then hold on, because I won't stop until you beg me to.”
Then suddenly Zayne’s hands, which were always so tender, suddenly tightened—fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as he shifted behind you. You felt him press in deeper, the head of his cock deliciously kissing your cervix, making your mouth drop open in an 'o'. But what really made your eyes roll back was the way he almost fully pulled out before thrusting all the way back in your walls, practically fucking the air out of your lungs as you screamed.
A sharp cry tumbled from your lips, half-pain, half-pleasure, and he growled low in your ear, “Like that?” Your nails curled into the sheets, head dropping forward as another wave surged through you. “Yes—fuck, yes yes!"
Your body jolted with every movement, legs trembling as the coil inside you wound tight again. Brain melting as you felt his cock drag against every trembling, swollen spot inside you, stroking deep enough to make your vision blur.
“Zaynie—” you whimpered, voice breaking, “you’re so deep—s'good—” The words spilled out unchecked, raw and hungry, nothing like the shy murmurs you usually gave him. “Your so good love, s'good. Love you so much zaynie."
You felt him twitch at that, hips stuttering for just a fraction of a second before he groaned into your neck, the sound guttural and strained. “Yes,” you gasped again, louder now, back arching as another thrust drove you forward, “just like that—fuck me harder, Zayne—ruin me, please—!"
A strangled curse tore from his throat, his rhythm snapping into something even rougher, hips slamming forward with a force that left you crying out against the pillows. Soft gasps and groans further spurring you on. Dirty words continuing to fall from your lips, frantic, breathless, shaking as you chased the edge:
“Want it—wanna feel you so deep it stays in me—shiit, you’re gonna cum with me, aren’t you? Fill me up zaynie, fuck—yes, please, please—”
Your own voice cracked as the tension finally snapped, pleasure tearing through you in a hot, blinding rush. Your legs quivered violently as you cried his name, the world narrowing to nothing but him—his grip, his thrusts, the deep, ragged groan he let out as your body clenched down hard around him, milking him as you finished with a shuddering, bliss-drunk whimper.
“Such a dirty girl,” Zayne rasped against your ear, his voice wrecked, thick with the strain of holding on. His hips stuttered once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt, a broken moan ripping from his chest as he spilled into you.
XAVIER.
There was something hypnotic about Xavier that night—the way he stood at the counter under the warm glow of the kitchen light, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms flexing with each careful slice of the knife. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just chopping vegetables, but there was a quiet focus in his movements, a softness in the curve of his shoulders, that made your pulse quicken and your thighs press together under the oversized shirt you’d stolen from him.
You crept up behind him barefoot, the cool tile under your feet a stark contrast to the heat pooling in your belly. Your arms slipped around his middle, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades as you breathed him in—soap, faint cologne, him.
He chuckled low, a rumble you felt through his back, clearly used to your little hugs while he cooked. But when your hands drifted lower, fingertips tracing over the waistband of his sweatpants before cupping the growing heat there, his knife paused mid‑slice and his breath caught in his throat.
“Baby,” he murmured, a warning tangled with amusement, “I’m trying to cook.”
You hummed against his back, lips grazing the space between his shoulder blades as your palm cupped him more firmly. Your other hand snuck in to tug at the drawstring of his pants, loosening them.
He paused, then slowly turned around, eyes warm as he cupped your face and leaned down to kiss you—soft, slow, like he wanted to savor the moment and satiate your hunger with just that.
But you broke the kiss, breathless, shaking your head. “Need more..” you whispered, voice thick with need. " 'need a different kiss from you.”
His eyes darkened, heart hammering in his chest as you sank to your knees right there on the tile. You looked up at him, lips parted in that slow, sinful smile you knew drove him wild.
“Let me taste you, Xav,” you said, already tugging his pants and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free, thick and flushed, the head already leaking precome. His hands gripped the counter like he needed the anchor. “God… you’re gonna kill me star.”
You leaned in and licked a slow stripe along his length, your tongue curling around the head before you swallowed him deeper, lips stretching, your fingers curling around the base to guide him. His hips jerked forward with a groan, knuckles white where they clutched the counter.
“Fuck—sweetheart, you don’t—” His voice broke off into a strangled sound when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deep until the head bumped the back of your throat.
You moaned softly around him, your free hand gripping his hip, pulling him in just a little deeper, your eyes fluttering closed as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue. “So good, hah star—” Xavier’s hand left the counter to tangle in your hair, not pushing, just holding, his hips rocking forward helplessly as you set a rhythm—deep, eager pulls, the wet sounds echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Your own voice was muffled around him, but you managed to breathe out something filthy against his skin, your lips brushing the sensitive underside as you worked him: “Want you… wanna taste you so bad… fill my throat, Xav, please—give it to me.”
His thighs trembled under your hands. “Baby—fuck, don't say that, you're gonna make me—” You didn’t let up, sucking harder, your nails digging into his hips as you pulled him into your mouth, your throat relaxing as you took more, swallowed more, until his rhythm broke entirely.
“God—” he gasped, hips jerking, before he spilled deep, hot, filling your mouth as he groaned out your name in a raw, shuddering rasp. You stayed there, eyes closing, swallowing every drop, your hands still holding him steady until his breathing evened out and his grip on your hair loosened into something tender.
“Fuck,” Xavier whispered, breathless and wrecked, looking down at you like you’d just undone him completely. His thumb brushed over your cheek as you looked up, licking your lips. "You taste so sweet xavy..cmon lemme have another."
CALEB.
Caleb was always patient, always soft with you.
Every time you two ended up tangled in the sheets, he treated you like something fragile—something precious. Even when his chest was heaving, when sweat was dripping down his temples, his voice stayed low and soothing, always checking on you, always asking if you were okay.
But right now, there wasn’t a shred of that patience left in you.
Your thighs were already trembling, sticky and sore from riding him through two hard, messy releases, but the ache between your legs was a fever that wouldn’t die down. You sat straddling him in the dim glow of your bedroom, his back propped up against the headboard, his chest still rising and falling heavy as you ground your hips down in slow, circling rolls.
“Pips…” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, a hand sliding over your thigh like he wasn’t sure if he should stop you. “You already—fuck, you already got me twice.”
You only whimpered in response, nails digging into his shoulders as you rocked your hips forward, dragging his sensitive cock against your slick walls but never lifting, never giving him a chance to slip out. “I know,” you gasped, your voice shaking, desperate, “but I still need it—need you still, you feel so good—”
He groaned low, head tipping back against the headboard, the tendons in his neck flexing as you rolled your hips again, deliberately grinding your clit down against the base of him. The wet drag made his hips twitch up in reflex, a broken sound falling from his lips.
“God, baby—” his voice cracked, hips shifting helplessly under you, his hands gripping your waist tight but not pushing, not stopping. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me…”
Your eyes fluttered half-shut as you kept moving, circling your hips, leaning forward so your chest brushed his, your lips brushing against his jaw as you panted against his skin. “Then let me,” you whispered, feral and shaking, “please—let me take it, Caleb. Let me make you come again. Wanna feel it—want you so bad.”
He shuddered hard, and you felt him twitch inside you, overstimulated but thickening again from your desperate rhythm, from the wet sounds filling the room and the way you whimpered every time you ground yourself down onto him.
Caleb’s hands slid lower, gripping your ass now, but only to hold you there, to anchor himself as his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re fuckin insane pips,” he rasped, voice breaking as your walls clenched around him again. “You’re gonna—shit—”
The next grind had him choking out your name, his hips jerking up hard in an instinct he couldn’t stop, and you moaned deep in your throat, nails raking down his chest as you rode the motion, grinding faster, harsher, lost in it.
“C’mon,” you begged, voice high and broken, “do it again, 'leb, give it to me—I need it, I need it—”
His breath hitched, a shudder running through his whole body as he suddenly buried his face in your neck, hips bucking up once, twice—then a strangled groan ripped out of him, low and raw, as you felt him spill deep again, twitching hard inside you, thick and hot as you squeezed down around him.
You gasped out his name, trembling on top of him, still grinding in tight, slow circles as he whimpered through the overstimulation, hands clutching you like he couldn’t tell you no even if he tried.
“Shit pips, you’re—” his voice broke into a ragged laugh against your throat, “you’re too much…”
But he never stopped you.
Even as he shook from the sensitivity, even as you kept rolling your hips with a wild, hungry rhythm, he just held you close, letting you take everything you wanted, letting you ride him through every aftershock and beyond—panting, desperate, both of you dizzy and undone and still needing more.
RAFAYEL.
You had been shy with Rafayel at first. Not just in the way you looked at him, but in what you let him do to you, what you allowed yourself to ask for. There was something about him—his calm voice, his warm hands—that made you feel safe, and yet when he looked at you sometimes, eyes dark and patient, it scared you how much you wanted to give him.
So when he whispered softly one night, “Let’s try something new, hm cutie?” your heart almost jumped out of your chest.
“Rafayel—wait, I—” you stammered, lying back against the sheets as he eased you onto your side, then onto your back. Your breath stuttered as he kissed the inside of your knee, sliding your leg over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I… I don’t know if I can—”
He stilled, gazing up at you with that soft, unwavering expression that always made your pulse race. “You can stop me anytime,” he murmured. “But I want to taste you while you taste me. Only if you want it.”
Your mouth went dry. You’d imagined it before—shameful little flashes in your head when you were alone—but now, with his calm hands guiding you, your body trembled with a heat that frightened and thrilled you all at once.
“Honey…” you whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.
But then his lips brushed your inner thigh again, slow, tender, and something in you broke. You reached for him, tugged at his arm, your face hot as you whispered, “Okay… okay. I… I want it.”
-
The world tilted as he guided you, careful and slow, until you were both lying opposite ways, his broad shoulders bracketing your thighs while his cock, already heavy and flushed, hovered inches from your lips.
Your breath caught as his tongue found you first, hot and slow, teasing until you whined and shivered beneath him. Your hips twitched, trying to press back against his mouth, but your attention quickly shifted to him—how thick he felt in your hand, how the head already leaked warm across your fingers.
You licked him softly at first, shy little flicks of your tongue that made his hips jerk against you. A soft groan rumbled from his chest, the vibration spilling through your cunt and making you moan around him.
“Mhm… good girl,” Rafayel breathed against you, his voice ragged.
Something in you melted at that, and you wanted more—needed more. You took him deeper, lips stretching, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked, tasting salt and skin, desperate to make him lose that careful composure.
He groaned louder now, hips jerking again, his hands flexing against your hips but not pulling you away. “F‑fuck, cutie, you’re—ngh—” His voice broke into a rough sound as you bobbed your head faster, saliva dripping down your chin, your moans humming around his cock.
His rhythm on you faltered; you felt it—the twitch in his length, the way his thighs tensed under your hands. And you didn’t stop. You wanted it. Wanted him undone.
“More…” you whimpered around him, words garbled, desperate. “Need you—need your cum, please honey—”
That broke him. A strangled groan ripped from his throat, his hips thrusting shallowly into your mouth as he spilled hot and sudden over your tongue, pulse after pulse flooding you. You moaned helplessly, swallowing around him, sucking him through it, milking every last drop until he trembled above you, voice breaking on your name.
And still—still—you didn’t stop.
Your mind went dizzy, drunk on the taste of him, your jaw aching but refusing to let go. He twitched in your mouth, over‑sensitive, and you whined, licking and sucking slow, greedy, as if you could keep him hard forever.
“Angel—oh… oh god—” Rafayel’s voice was wrecked now, hips jerking despite himself as your tongue swirled around the head, your spit slicking him down as you took him again, deeper this time.
You were cock‑drunk, eyes fluttering, moaning low as you rocked your hips against his mouth without thinking, needy and lost in him. His hands trembled where they gripped your thighs, but he didn’t stop tasting you either—licking, sucking, groaning into you as if your desperation was contagious.
You moaned louder, the sound breaking around him, your throat working greedily while your legs shook around his head. He cursed softly, hoarse and shaken, as you swallowed him down again, relentless, chasing another twitch, another pulse, even as he shuddered and spilled every ragged sound into you.
By the time you pulled off him, panting, lips swollen and chin wet, your voice was nothing but a trembling whisper: "Please… need more raf.”
And the way he groaned at that, dragging his tongue against your clit again, let you know he wasn’t going to stop until you both got exactly that.
® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !
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.
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.
“Shh, shh… Don’t make a sound, pips. You'll wake him.”
Caleb’s morning voice is raspy, a low whisper against your ear. Your eyes catching sight of Sylus still sleeping soundly in the bed, just a few feet away. “Can you feel how much harder mine gets for you in the morning?”
You can only let out a breathless moan. Your legs dangle around his waist as he slams your weight down onto him, fucking you wide awake while he stands. Your fingers have been clawing at his shoulders but he doesn't even break his rhythm, carrying you to the sofa while buried deep inside you, finally laying you down and gently sliding a pillow beneath your hips.
Yeah, keep telling yourself he’s being sweet. Every time he cushions your back means your legs are going to tremble like a newborn fawn for the rest of the day.
“Ngh… damn, baby, you’re so tight…” Caleb’s jaw ticks, muscles flexing under his skin. His eyes look completely predatory.
He acts as if yesterday wasn’t enough. Only a few hours have passed since the three of you finished, and you honestly can’t handle both of them again this morning. You desperately need rest, even while your body craves every bit of the friction.
Caleb pounds harder. You feel a heavy tug every time his tip blunts against your sweet spot—the kind of intense depth and pace that if continues will definitely leave your womb aching for days. But right now? You don’t give a fuck.
“Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you call my name.”
Your jaw drops, the wet fabric slipping from your teeth. You exhale his name, a breathless prayer rather than a scream. Somehow, the soundless shape of his name on your lips drives him completely mad.
Caleb delivers one final slam, pinning you to the cushions as he cums deep inside you.
He leans down, kissing you with a tender softness that completely contradicts the brutal pacing from seconds ago. He lifts your trembling body back into his arms, his length finally slipping out of you as he carries you back to the bed, thick white liquid dripping down the floor.
He sets you down gently onto the mattress. But the moment your head hits the pillow, a faint, warm breath brushes your cheek.
You turn your head.
A pair of crimson eye stare back at you. A dark smile blooming on his lips.
You’re screwed.
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The thing is, you always knew how quietly romantic Zayne could be—how deeply devoted he was, especially with the way time kept slipping through your fingers. Between your schedules, the missed calls, the late nights, and long shifts, it would’ve been easy to drift. But he never let that happen.
He always made time for you. Even if it was just a two-minute video call with sleep still in his eyes, a text at dawn checking in before rounds, or a quick thirty-minute coffee date in the middle of his shift—his hand wrapped around yours, a shared slice of cake between bites and kisses.
You loved him for that. For how he quietly, consistently chose you. For how he put you first in ways no one else ever noticed, but you always did.
Because you understood him in ways others didn’t. You saw through the cool exterior, the worn-out silences, the professional walls. You knew how much love he held behind all that restraint—how desperate he was to give affection, to be touched and seen and pulled close.
His hand always found you. At the small of your back during lazy weekend walks. At the nape of your neck, fingers playing with your hair as he kissed you gently after switching ice cream flavors with you. Or under your skirt in the passenger seat of his car, resting there possessively, massaging slow circles into your thigh as he drove through quiet streets at night with only the hum of tires and low music between you.
Zayne was all-consuming in the softest, most patient ways. And you craved him like you craved a breath of fresh air. You craved the way he tasted your chapstick with a contented little sigh. Craved his hands on your bare skin late at night—not just for the way it made you ache, but for the tenderness in his touch, the reverence in every slow caress.
He would hold you all night long, your back pressed to the warmth of his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you like he couldn’t bear a single inch of space. He’d bury his lips into your hair and breathe in deep, whispering words meant for no one but you.
You felt cherished in those moments—loved in a way that went deeper than anything you’d known.
When he turned you to face him and eased you beneath him, his kisses turned languid, unhurried, sensual. He’d part your thighs and rub slow circles into the soft skin between them, his touch confident yet gentle, savoring every shiver, every quiet gasp that escaped your lips.
Then he’d kiss the curve of your neck, whispering love into your skin—not grand declarations, but soft, aching truths, raw and real and only meant for you.
And when he’d finally push inside, it wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about closeness. His forehead resting against yours, voice catching in a low groan when you’d clench around him, your hands finding his back, his shoulders, anything to pull him closer. You needed him against you—skin to skin, heart to heart—lost together in the rhythm of your shared desire.
Together, you’d chase that edge—not just for release, but for the feeling of being completely known. Completely his.
Hey, friends! I deeply wanted to thanks everyone who shared and commented my artworks and writings lately.
These past weeks has been tough. I've quit my job (leaving a lot of friends and colleagues, which made me sad), and I've visited my parents after almost a year. My father has cancer and my mother doesn't walk properly. It was painful to see them like that, even if I had a horrible relationship with them until a while ago.
I want to take my life and my freedom back, and be happy again. Your kind words helps my soul every single day. Thank you so much for supporting me.
I loved Sylus' card 😭 one of my favs! He was so unhinged, but the card overall was pretty funny. :D Did you get him?
Full spicy version on my X, link here.
I loved Sylus' card 😭 one of my favs! He was so unhinged, but the card overall was pretty funny. :D Did you get him?
Full spicy version on my X, link here.
The silence of the apartment was a palpable thing, thick and insulating, like the walls were holding in every secret Y/N had ever whispered to herself. She sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, the blanket pooling around her like a confession she couldn’t make. Outside, Linkon City’s perpetual twilight glowed against the windowpanes, casting the room in a dim, blue-grey light that felt both intimate and accusing.
Her mind was a single, looping track. Zayne. Masturbating.
It wasn’t a new obsession. It had started months ago, a seed planted during one of those rare, unguarded moments. He’d been at her place, reviewing some medical files on her couch, his glasses perched low on his nose, his long fingers tracing lines of text. She’d gone to fetch him a drink and returned to find him leaning back, eyes closed, one hand resting on his thigh, palm open, fingers slightly curled. The image had struck her with a force that was almost physical. The utter stillness of him. The potential. The thought that those same hands, scarred and precise, capable of saving infant hearts, could be used for something so primal, so selfish, so human. The contradiction was delicious. The stoic surgeon, alone in his sterile apartment, his disciplined mind surrendering to base need. What would he look like? What would he sound like? Would his expression remain that composed mask, or would it fracture into something raw and desperate?
She’d constructed countless scenarios. Him in his office after a long shift, the white coat discarded, his back against the door of his private bathroom. Him in his bed, the neutral tones of his sheets rumpled, his glasses forgotten on the nightstand. Him thinking of… her? Someone else? The thought of him thinking of her while he did it sent a molten coil of heat straight to her core. It was a fantasy she fed daily, adding details, refining the imagery until it felt more real than her own memories.
Tonight, the fantasy had a specific, dangerous edge. She’d orchestrated it. A text, sent an hour ago. ‘Can I come over? I have a headache. Your place is quieter.’ A lie, but a believable one. He’d responded with typical brevity. ‘Sure. I’m home.’
She’d arrived, he’d examined her with a clinical, gentle touch, his hazel-green eyes scanning her face. “No fever. Tension, likely,” he’d concluded, his voice a low, familiar rumble. He’d prescribed a hot shower and rest. She’d taken the shower, but the rest was a different matter. She’d slipped into his bed wearing only one of his long-sleeved black t-shirts—it hung loose on her, the fabric soft and smelling faintly of him, of clean linen and something subtly antiseptic. She’d waited until he’d finished his own nightly routine, until he’d entered the bedroom, already dressed in his own sleep clothes—simple grey pants and a white tank.
He’d paused at the sight of her in his bed. “Comfortable?” he’d asked, a trace of that backhanded tease in his tone.
“Very,” she’d said, her voice purposefully soft.
He’d joined her, lying on his back beside her, not touching, the space between them a charged gap. The city’s hum was the only sound for long minutes. She’d turned on her side, facing him. His profile was sharp against the faint light, his black hair slightly messy from drying, the silver wire frames of his glasses now resting on the bedside table.
“Zayne,” she’d started, her pulse a frantic drum against her ribs.
“Yes?”
“Do you ever…” She swallowed, forcing the words out. “When you’re here, alone… do you ever touch yourself?”
He didn’t move. His breathing didn’t change. But the atmosphere in the room shifted, the air becoming heavier, denser. He turned his head toward her. In the shadows, his eyes were unreadable pools. “That’s a direct question.”
“I’m curious.”
“About my personal habits?”
“About you,” she whispered. “About what you… need.”
A beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. “My needs are managed,” he said, his voice even. But it wasn’t a denial. It was a deflection.
She shifted closer, the mattress dipping under her weight. The hem of his shirt rode up her thigh. “I think about it,” she admitted, the confession leaving her lips hot and shaky. “I imagine it. Your hands. On yourself. I want to know what it’s like for you.”
His gaze held hers. The stoic facade was there, but beneath it, she saw a flicker—a spark of something dark and intrigued. He was a man of control, of rationality. But he was also a man of deep, hidden passions. The contradiction was the key.
“Why?” he asked finally.
“Because it’s the most private part of you. The part you don’t share with anyone. I want to see it. I want to… have it.”
His jaw tightened slightly. A minute reaction. Then, he let out a slow, controlled breath. “Your curiosity borders on intrusion, Y/N.”
“I know,” she said, unashamed. She reached out, her fingers brushing over the scars on his forearm, tracing a faint, raised line. “But you’ll let me intrude. You always do.”
That was the truth. His cold demeanor was a fortress, but she had the key. His fondness for her, the history woven between them since childhood, granted her access to rooms no one else entered.
He watched her trace his scars. Then, his hand moved. He caught her wrist, not harshly, but with a firm, undeniable grip. His skin was warm. “You’re playing with something you don’t fully understand.”
“I want to understand,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a hushed, pleading tone. “Show me.”
Another silence, thicker than before. His thumb pressed against the pulse point on her wrist. He could feel her heartbeat, wild and frantic. He could feel her want. Slowly, he released her wrist. His hand retreated, settling on his own stomach.
“Watch, then,” he said, the words low and final.
It was permission. It was surrender. A thrill, electric and vicious, shot through her. She sat up slightly, propping herself on an elbow, her eyes fixed on him.
He didn’t look at her. He looked at the ceiling, as if conducting a private, solemn ritual. His left hand, the one she’d just touched, slid down the front of his grey sleep pants. She watched the fabric tent, then strain, as his hand moved beneath it.
Her own breathing stopped. She could hear the soft, sliding sound of cotton against skin. Then, she saw his fingers, pale against the dark fabric, curl and take hold. The outline of his cock, now in his grip, was clear—a thick, promising shape. He wasn’t shy. He didn’t hide it. He simply began.
His motions were, at first, methodical. A slow, upward pull of his fist along his shaft. His knuckles brushed against the soft cotton. His breaths remained steady, but deeper. She saw the muscles in his forearm flex, the scars there shifting with the movement. God, his hands. The same hands that held surgical tools with peerless precision were now gripping his own erection, pumping it with a growing rhythm.
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry. Her own cunt was clenching, empty and aching, a slick heat gathering between her thighs. She was mesmerized by the visual—the stark contrast of his clinical persona and this raw, sexual act. The neutral colors of his bedroom, the orderly space, all framed the secret, moving shape under his pants.
He began to speed up. The pulls became longer, more deliberate. A soft, wet sound emerged—the sound of his palm gliding over his now-slick skin. He’d produced lubrication from his own body, and the friction had turned slick and quiet. His hips shifted, a subtle rock into his own hand. His head tilted back against the pillow, his throat exposed. A low, almost imperceptible groan escaped him. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation.
“Zayne,” she whispered, her voice a broken thing.
His eyes opened. They turned to her, and the hazel-green was clouded, dark with a focus that was entirely on his own pleasure, yet somehow aware of her watching. “Does this satisfy your curiosity?” he asked, his voice rough, but still holding that thread of control.
“Yes,” she breathed. “More.”
His hand moved faster. The fabric of his pants was now stretched tight over the aggressive motion of his fist. She could see the shape of his cockhead, the bulge where his thumb might be circling. He was working himself thoroughly, his discipline applied now to the task of his own orgasm. His breathing fractured. It became a series of sharp inhales, held, then released in shallow gusts.
Then, his phone, lying on the nightstand beside his glasses, buzzed. The screen lit up with a caller ID.
Caleb.
The timing was absurd, cruel, perfect. Y/N’s eyes darted from Zayne’s moving hand to the glowing screen. A wicked, desperate idea seized her.
“Answer it,” she said.
Zayne’s hand stopped. He looked at the phone, then at her. His expression was a conflict—annoyance, surprise, and a dawning understanding of her intent. “Why?”
“Talk to him,” she urged, leaning closer. The scent of his skin, clean and male, mixed with the subtle, musky scent of his arousal, filled her senses. “Keep going. Let me watch you do both.”
A challenge. A test of his control, of his ability to compartmentalize. A surgeon’s skill, applied to a different kind of performance.
Zayne stared at her for a long moment. The phone buzzed again, persistent. Caleb wouldn’t stop calling; he was obsessive, protective, and he often checked on her. Finally, Zayne’s lips pressed into a thin line. He reached for the phone with his right hand, his left hand still buried in his pants, still holding his cock. He accepted the call and put it to his ear.
“Caleb,” he said, his voice remarkably steady, only a slight tightness at the edges.
Y/N watched, her blood pounding. She could only hear Zayne’s side of the conversation.
“She’s here,” Zayne said. His left hand began to move again, a slow, deliberate stroke. “She had a headache. She’s resting now.”
Caleb’s voice, filtered through the phone, was a cheerful, familiar baritone. “A headache? Is she okay? Let me talk to her.”
“She’s asleep,” Zayne lied smoothly. His hand pumped once, twice, a little faster. His thumb, she could now see through the fabric, was pressing in a specific, circular pattern at the tip. He was stimulating himself with focused expertise.
“Asleep? At your place?” Caleb’s tone shifted, a hint of that hidden possessiveness bleeding through. “You sure she’s just sleeping, Zayne?”
Zayne’s eyes closed for a second. A shiver ran through his body, a fine tremor she could see in his shoulders. He was getting closer. The pleasure was building, and he was fighting to keep his voice level. “Yes. She’s sleeping.” His hand moved with more urgency now, the strokes becoming shorter, harder, his hips lifting slightly off the bed to meet each thrust of his fist.
Y/N leaned in, her ear almost touching the phone. She could hear Caleb’s sigh.
“Alright. Just… tell her I called. Tell her I’ll check in tomorrow. You know how she is, Zayne. My little pipsqueak needs looking after.”
Pipsqueak. The old childhood nickname, delivered with Caleb’s trademark mix of affection and underlying control.
Zayne’s breath caught. His eyes snapped open, and he looked directly at Y/N. His gaze was blazing, intense. The phone call, the nickname, her watching—it was all converging on him, a pressure wave of stimulation. His voice dropped, lower, thicker, when he replied, “I’ll tell her.” Then, almost as an afterthought, a slip of his controlled facade, he added, “My jasmine is fine here.”
The use of his own private name for her, spoken directly into the phone while his hand was working his cock, was a detonation. Y/N felt her own body flush with heat. She saw Zayne’s composure crack. His strokes became erratic, powerful. The fabric of his pants was a chaotic, moving blur over his frenzied hand.
“Your jasmine?” Caleb’s voice was sharp, suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean, Zayne?”
Zayne didn’t answer. He was beyond words now. His focus was entirely on the peak rushing toward him. His mouth opened, a silent gasp. His back arched. His left hand was a blur of motion, pounding into his own groin, the sound now a wet, slapping rhythm against his skin. She could hear it clearly—thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap—a filthy, urgent cadence.
“Zayne? You there?” Caleb’s voice came again, confused.
Zayne’s eyes locked with Y/N’s. They were wide, unfocused, desperate. He was letting her see everything. The final unraveling. He gritted his teeth, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat—“Fuck.”—half a groan, half a curse.
His right hand, holding the phone, tightened. His left hand pistoned faster, a final, brutal series of strokes. His whole body coiled, tense like a spring. Then, release.
It wasn’t quiet. It was a visceral, physical event. His body jerked. A sharp, ragged cry escaped him, muffled by his own effort to silence it. His hand stopped, clenched tight around the base of his cock. She could see the fabric of his pants darken, dampen, as the climax emptied into his own grip. His abdomen clenched, his thighs trembled. He held himself there, suspended in the aftermath, for several seconds, breathing in shattered, heaving gulps.
The phone was still in his hand. Caleb was saying something, but Zayne wasn’t hearing it. His world had narrowed to the fire in his veins and the woman watching him burn.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. His breathing slowed, deepened. He lowered the phone, his movements sluggish. He ended the call without another word, dropping the device onto the bed.
The room was silent again, but now it was saturated with the aftermath. The scent of sex, of male release, hung in the air. Zayne lay there, his left hand still under his pants, likely soaked. His eyes were closed. He looked exhausted, spent, but also… peaceful.
Y/N couldn’t move. She was transfixed, her own body aching with a mirrored, unmet need. She had seen it. She had witnessed the stoic Zayne, the award-winning surgeon, in the throes of a private, powerful orgasm. And she had orchestrated it.
After a minute, Zayne opened his eyes. They were clear again, but softer. He looked at her. “You,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “are a dangerous distraction.”
She swallowed. “Did you… think of me?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “What else would I think of?”
The admission sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She shifted, crawling across the bed until she was kneeling beside him. Her hands went to the waistband of his pants. “Let me see.”
He didn’t stop her. He let her pull the fabric down, revealing the aftermath. His cock, now softening, was glistening, slick with his own spend. His hand was coated, white streaks painting his fingers and palm. The sight was intensely erotic—the evidence of his pleasure, messy and real on his scarred skin.
She reached out, her fingertips touching the wetness on his hand. It was warm, sticky. She traced a line up his forearm, mixing his release with the history etched into his skin. “I want to taste it,” she murmured, the idea shocking even to herself.
Zayne’s hand caught hers again, but this time, he guided it. He brought her fingers to his lips. He kissed them, a slow, deliberate press of his mouth against her skin, tasting his own essence transferred to her. “Not tonight,” he said, his voice firming again, regaining its normal cadence.
She looked at him, her desire a wild, open thing. “Why?”
He pushed his pants down further, off his legs, and shifted on the bed. He was naked now, vulnerable in a way he never was. But his expression was returning to its usual composed state. “Because,” he said, pulling her closer so she was lying against his side, his arm around her, “I’m sensitive. After… that.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The orgasm had left him raw, hypersensitive. The idea of her touching him further, of taking control, of pegging him—a fantasy she’d voiced in the past—was too much for his current state.
He was admitting a weakness. A physical limitation born from the intensity of the pleasure she had just witnessed. It was a confession as powerful as the act itself.
She settled against him, her head on his shoulder, her body aligned with his. The shirt she wore was his, and now she was skin-to-skin with him, his release cooling between them. The phone, silent now, lay forgotten. Caleb’s call was a distant echo.
Zayne’s breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm. His hand, the one that had just brought him to climax, now rested on her hip, a simple, possessive weight. “Sleep,” he said, the word a quiet command.
But she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was replaying every second, every sound, every movement. The wet thwap of his hand. The groan he’d tried to stifle. The way his body had convulsed. The phone call. Caleb’s voice. Pipsqueak. My jasmine.
The obsession wasn’t satisfied. It was fed, nourished, and now it hungered for more.
I loved Sylus' card 😭 one of my favs! He was so unhinged, but the card overall was pretty funny. :D Did you get him?
Full spicy version on my X, link here.
I loved Sylus' card 😭 one of my favs! He was so unhinged, but the card overall was pretty funny. :D Did you get him?
Full spicy version on my X, link here.
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