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“Nice’s birthday is next week,” Lin Ling says miserably, poking at his muffin.
Moon doesn’t look up. “You better not be about to say he doesn’t want anything.”
“He doesn’t want anything,” Lin Ling says, sinking lower in his chair. “Why couldn’t he just ask for a new shirt or something.”
Moon lowers her sunglasses. “No. That’s a trap. Every man wants something.”
“He said ‘I just want to spend time with you.’ And then he smiled like that was a normal thing to say!” Lin Ling sighs, “But he has to entertain his fans for the entire day, so all we have is late at night and I can’t make any reservations since all he eats is salads and I don’t know any healthy places and he doesn’t even like eating in restaurants because they’re not sanitized properly—“
“That’s suspicious,” Moon cuts him off. “People who say that want one of two things, a surprise party or a sexy surprise. Based on Nice’s shitty antisocial personality, I’m voting sexy.”
Lin Ling frowns, ignoring the blatant insults to his boyfriend for as long as Moon is giving him advice. “You think?”
“Sexy surprise,” Moon says again, sipping her latte. “I did it for one of my old flings once. Harnesses and everything.”
Lin Ling stares at her across the cafe table. “…You used harnesses?”
“To spotlight the goods,” Moon said flatly. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I could do sexy,” Lin Ling mumbles, immediately defensive.
Moon hums, like a disappointed teacher that Lin Ling just handed a half finished book report. “You? Your idea of flirting is asking someone if they’ve eaten yet and then walking away. The only reason you seduced Nice is because he’s a freak of nature.”
“I’m tender!” Lin Ling snaps, hugging himself like she might actually peel his hoodie off with her eyes. “Nice likes that, it’s not weird.”
Moon scoffs. “Please. That guy’s a freak. The calm ones always are. He’s probably into something he hasn’t told you about because you’re about as hardcore as a vanilla ice cream cone.”
“That’s not—” Lin Ling starts, then cuts himself off. “…He does look at me a certain way when I wear his dress shirts.”
Moon raises one perfectly arched brow. “So?”
Lin Ling takes a breath. He can do this. He’s a damn hero, he’s done harder things than finding the confidence needed to.. to give himself like a present to Nice. “Let’s go shopping.”
Moon smirks. “Finally.”
____
“Absolutely not,” Lin Ling says, recoiling like the lingerie set might bite him. He lied. He hasn’t done harder things than this.
“Absolutely yes,” Moon says with glee, holding up a white and gold ensemble with sheer lacy panels and a cut out across the chest where Nice’s pseudo gemstone sits above.
Lin Ling points an accusatory finger. “That looks like Nice’s costume!”
Moon turns it slightly so the light hits the fabric just right. “Yeah, that’s literally the entire point.”
“There’s a cape,” Lin Ling hisses.
Moon’s grin sharpens. “Exactly. It’s cosplay.”
He feels a full body cringe ripple through him. A cape. She wants him to wear a cape in the bedroom. The last time he wore a cape (besides when he was pretending to be Nice), he was nine, and he tripped down a flight of stairs because he tried to jump off the top step and fly.
“I am not wearing a cape while trying to seduce my boyfriend,” Lin Ling says, scandalized. “I’m not even sure I know how to seduce someone. What if I get tangled up and fall over and then he just sees my ass in the air and leaves me for someone with dignity?”
Moon doesn’t even blink. “You’re gonna end up with your ass in the air one way or the other, he’s not going to complain.”
Lin Ling makes a high pitched noise and covers his face with both hands. “Why are you like this?”
“Because someone has to get you laid properly before your next reincarnation,” Moon says sweetly. Lin Ling doesn’t mention that he gets laid frequently and enthusiastically. Nice didn’t seem to have a preference for it either. Whether Lin Ling was head to toe in a fancy suit for a hero gala or in his ratty pajama shirt eating a bag of shrimp chips, Nice was always ready to undress him and take him apart methodically. Their sex life was anything but dull.
“Also, let’s not ignore the psychology here. You’re giving him a version of his costume. You think he doesn’t want to fuck himself? With that ego? Come on.”
Lin Ling peers through his fingers. His boyfriend was, admittedly, a bit of a narcissist, but only in ways that pertained to perfect standards. “So what?”
“It’s the best gift.” Moon, undeterred, tosses the outfit into their shopping basket. Lin Ling wisely keeps his mouth shut. She snaps the basket closed and starts toward the changing rooms.
Lin Ling trails behind her. He is going to die. He is going to actually die. On Nice’s birthday.
But also… What if he doesn’t? What if Nice does like it?
Lin Ling’s been noticing things. The way Nice stares at him when he wears his clothes, like he’s not supposed to look but does anyway. The way his voice goes a little lower when Lin Ling is flushed from training. That tiny smirk when Lin Ling bends to pick something up and doesn’t realize his shirt’s riding up until it’s too late.
Well, maybe that’s all just typical horny Nice.
The dressing room is the size of a shoebox with the ambiance of a morgue. Lin Ling stares at himself in the mirror under fluorescent lights designed specifically to make people question their confidence.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
Behind the paper thin curtain, Moon lounges on a plastic chair, scrolling on her phone. “Tick tock. You’ve got five minutes until I come in there and start adjusting straps myself.”
“You’re not even an employee,” Lin Ling hisses, fumbling with a complicated set of gold buckles. “What the fuck is this?”
“Suck it in,” Moon reminds him, cheerfully ignoring the sound of fabric stretching.
Lin Ling swears the lace is going to rip as he yanks it over his shoulders. It stretches across his chest, the sheer panels clinging to his skin. His entire torso is on display, and the designer had the audacity to make the slits of the costume come up to the upper part of his thighs, as if that made it functional. It kind of feels like a body suit, or one of those one piece uniforms a lot of female heroes wore.
“I look like I lost a bet,” he mutters, finally managing to slide the thigh straps up. The cape falls down his back with a dramatic swish. Unfortunately, it is floor length and keeps getting tangled around his ankles.
He stumbles against the mirror with a thud. “I can’t even walk in this.”
Moon’s voice floats through the curtain. “That’s because you haven’t put on the boots.”
“I am not wearing the boots,” Lin Ling snaps.
“They’re part of the costume,” she replies. “They match the cuffs. Don’t half ass this.”
“Cuffs?!”
“For your wrists. Or ankles. Dealer’s choice.”
Lin Ling buries his face in the crook of his elbow and lets out a long, low groan. He is a public figure. He fights villains. And yet somehow this is what undoes him, standing in a room that smells like hairspray and lemon cleaner, dressed like the world’s most erotic knockoff of his boyfriend.
After several more minutes of theatrical sighing, accidental wedgies, and a small battle with the cape’s interior snap, he emerges.
“It fits,” he mutters, pulling at the collar. “It definitely fits.”
Moon doesn’t look up immediately.
When she does, she stares for one full beat, her mouth twitching.
“I feel ridiculous,” Lin Ling says, arms awkwardly at his sides.
Moon is absolutely silent. Then she reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone, and takes a photo.
Lin Ling jolts, covering himself. “Hey!”
“For posterity,” she says, too casually. “Are you sure Nice is the one you like?”
Lin Ling freezes, caught mid adjustment of a gold strap that’s doing something unconventional to his inner thigh. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t do this for my birthday.”
“I am in a relationship,” Lin Ling says, scandalized, clutching the cape to his chest like it’s a virtue shield.
“Mmhm.” Moon leans in slightly, elbows on her knees. “But are you sure you’re not looking for new doors to open?”
He turns back to the mirror, shoulders tense. “Nice is the one I want.”
“Of course he is,” she rolls her eyes, placating. “I’m just teasing. Don’t get your garter in a twist.”
“It’s already twisted,” Lin Ling mutters, struggling with it.
Moon snorts. “That’s the spirit. Now hold still, I’m taking another photo.”
“If you send it to anyone, I will haunt you.”
“You’ll have to die first,” Moon singsongs. She taps a perfectly manicured nail against her chin. “You know, it’s actually better than I thought it’d be. The high collar makes your neck look longer. Also, your thighs look great. He’s gonna cream his pants.”
Lin Ling covers his face again. “Stop saying things.”
Moon shrugs. “It’s not my fault you’re hot.”
He glances at himself in the mirror. The reflective surface shows someone flushed and tense and shimmering in gold trim, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment and something slightly less innocent.
He looks… good.
“…You think he’ll like it?”
Moon leans back, satisfied. “He’s going to have a religious experience.”
What if this is what Nice secretly wants? Not something expensive or elaborate, not a surprise party or a fancy dinner, just him, Lin Ling, being bold for once. A little ridiculous. Okay, a lot ridiculous. There’s a cape. He still cannot get over the cape.
He peeks at the outfit again as he’s changing out of it.
The gold trim really does look exactly like Nice’s signature design. The sheer parts are kind of... flattering? Maybe? And it’s not like he hasn’t imagined scenarios before.
Nice will toss his keys on the table, call Lin Ling’s name, like always. Then he’ll step into the bedroom and stop.
Lin Ling imagines himself on the bed, propped on his elbows, legs stretched out, the cape fanned around him like he’s starring in a photoshoot, and Nice would go still. Go quiet.
Not in confusion or in judgment. In want.
Lin Ling swallows hard.
Nice would look at him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He’d say, “You did all this for me?”
And Lin Ling wouldn’t know what to say. Because yes, of course. Of course it’s for him. There’s no one else.
He’d kneel on the bed, hands finding Lin Ling’s thighs, his waist, gripping hard enough to bruise him. Nice always touches like he means it. Like he’s claiming territory. Even when he’s careful, there’s a hunger underneath.
Lin Ling shudders.
He thinks about Nice’s mouth, the way it would brush along his throat, warm and firm, the words whispered there like a secret. “You look so good like this. You belong to me, don’t you?”
Lin Ling would nod. He always would. Always has.
Especially like this, dressed in something just for Nice’s eyes.
Nice would kiss his shoulder. His collarbone. Push the mesh aside and bury his mouth against his skin like it’s all for him because it is.
Lin Ling blinks hard, dragging himself back into the fluorescent lit dressing room where the only thing kissing him is a suspicious draft under the door.
Get a grip, he thinks, adjusting the neckline of the costume, but his hands are trembling.
Nice doesn’t want anything for his birthday… so Lin Ling wants Nice to want him. He wants to give him something no one else can. He wants to be the version of himself that undoes him.
He quickly changes out of the costume and puts it back in the packaging.
“I can’t believe you hide that body under such an unfortunate outfit,” Moon hums when she sees him back in street clothes, waving a flippant hand. “Now pick out a toy or something. You need an accessory.”
He’s not sure if he’s sweating from stress or curiosity anymore. Maybe both. Mostly both.
“An accessory?”
Moon hums as she sways through the accessories aisle like she’s window shopping.
“You need something extra,” she says. “If you want him to ravish you or whatever, you need to give him the necessary tools.
Lin Ling clutches the shopping basket. “Can’t I just wear a necklace?”
“Not unless it’s attached to a collar.”
He nearly drops the basket. “I am not wearing a collar!”
Moon spins on her heel and plucks something shiny off a rack. It dangles from her finger like an invitation to a very specific type of crime.
Handcuffs. She wasn’t kidding earlier.
Not the plastic novelty ones either. These are sleek, gold metal with padding around the edges.
Lin Ling’s mouth gapes. “I’m the hero, I’m the one who puts people in handcuffs, not the other way around!”
“That’s the whole point,” Moon says with a wicked grin. “You just need to lie there and let him do what he’s probably been fantasizing about since the second week of dating.”
Lin Ling’s hands fly up to cover his ears. “Don’t say that, he’s respectful.”
“He’s repressed,” Moon corrects. “He’s probably this close—” she pinches the air, “—to snapping every time you sit on the couch in his hoodie with your legs tucked up like some cozy little prey animal.”
“I’m not prey!” Lin Ling yelps.
Moon tosses the cuffs into the basket. “Just cuff one wrist to the bed before he gets home. You don’t even have to say anything. Just lie there and he’ll fold you like laundry. It’s that easy.”
He groans and buries his face in the nearest scarf rack. His thoughts are not safe. Because, okay, technically, he can picture it.
How Nice would brush his knuckles over Lin Ling’s cheek, then down his jaw, thumb pressed to his lip, tracing the edge, eager to open him up like the gift he presented himself as.
Lin Ling shakes his head violently, coming back to earth.
Nope. Too much.
He stares down at the costume in the basket, cuffs glinting ominously beside the neatly folded cape. They’re halfway to the checkout when Lin Ling slows down, chewing his lip. “Do you think he’s actually going to appreciate this? Like, really appreciate it? Or is there something else I should buy? Maybe something more thoughtful? More—less—”
Moon stops and spins on her heel so fast the hem of her coat flares like a magician about to reveal a dove. “Lin Ling.”
He startles. “What?”
Moon folds her arms, brows lifting. “Nice is crazy about you.”
Lin Ling blinks. “…You hate him.”
“Exactly,” she says without missing a beat. “Which is why it’s so inconvenient that he actually loves you.”
Lin Ling frowns in confusion, hugging the shopping basket to his chest. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Moon tilts her head. “Do you think I’d let anyone date you if they didn’t mean it? You’re insufferable and sensitive and wear your feelings on your sleeve like a neon sign.”
Lin Ling stares at her. “Are you trying to be comforting or threatening?”
“Yes,” Moon replies. “And I haven’t killed Nice yet. So. That should tell you everything.”
Lin Ling is quiet for a moment. “What if he thinks it’s stupid and it turns him off?”
Moon softens slightly and bumps his shoulder. “He’s going to love it. All of it. You’re doing this because you love him, and he’s not a dumbass. He’ll know that.”
Lin Ling exhales slowly. “Okay, yeah.”
Moon grins, smug again. “Besides. Worst case scenario? You trip in the boots, rip the lace, fall into the bedpost, and knock yourself out cold before he even walks in the room.”
“That’s the worst case scenario?!”
“And then he’ll have to undress you like a delicate corpse, which, honestly, might be even more his type.”
“Moon!” Lin Ling gasps, but he’s laughing now, nerves bubbling up into a lighter, easier to carry warmth. Somehow, as horrifying as this all is, it feels right. Like it’s him, in his own weird way, showing up for the man who always shows up for him.
Moon pats his head like a particularly dense dog she’s fond of. “Now let’s go check out before you lose your nerve.”
The checkout line moves slowly, but Lin Ling barely notices. The outfit is folded neatly under the handcuffs, tissue paper crinkling like it knows exactly what it's about to be complicit in.
He hands over his card without flinching. He doesn’t worry about the young cashier who recognizes them being a problem. Who would believe them that The Commoner and Hero Moon were seen in a lingerie shop?
It hits him, suddenly, that he can afford this. The ridiculous price tag, the boots, the accessories, the whisper soft cape that looks like it belongs on a broadway stage, he can afford all of it.
His salary covers more than rent and takeout now. It lets him buy things like this. Not out of desperation, but desire. He has means. He has Nice.
He tucks the receipt into his hoodie pocket, carrying the glossy bag at his side.
The evening air is cooling, soft with the promise of a quiet night. He spent most of the day out with Moon, and they missed the last hour of sunlight. He offers, out of instinct, “You didn’t bring your portal beam, right? You want me to walk you home?”
Moon looks up, pausing mid scroll on her phone. “You’re sweet, Lin Ling, but I’ll be fine,” she smiles.
He hesitates, unsure if she’s brushing him off or just being her usual stubborn self, but she reaches out and tugs his hood gently over his head like an older sister sending her sibling off to a school dance, then nudges him toward the sidewalk.
“Go make a mess of tomorrow.”
Lin Ling ducks his head and mumbles a thanks, walking quickly before she can say anything else to embarrass him.
The hero tower looms against the skyline, glass glinting gold under the setting sun. He taps his keycard at the security pad and heads to the elevator, pressing the button for the tenth floor he and Nice share.
Their floor is quiet. It smells faintly of the rubbing alcohol based cleaner Nice insists on using after he deep cleans the kitchen every Saturday. Everything is perfectly in place, shoes lined up, jackets hung, the little umbrella stand rotated just so. Lin Ling’s hoodie is the only chaos allowed here, and even then it has an assigned hook.
He walks past the sleek kitchen and into their shared bedroom. He hides the shopping bag in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, under an old stack of mission briefs he keeps forgetting to throw out.
It’s safe, for now. He’s barely slid the drawer shut when he hears the front door click open.
Nice is home.
Lin Ling’s breath hitches, like he’s been caught doing something illicit.
He hears the soft shuffle of socks on hardwood, then the metallic sound of keys placed precisely in the tray by the door. A jacket unzipped, footsteps.
Nice appears in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, hair still immaculately combed back despite the long day. His eyes sweep over Lin Ling immediately, like a scanner running diagnostics.
“You moved the mug,” he says mildly.
Lin Ling startles. “What?”
Nice nods toward the counter behind him. “The white mug. It was to the left of the sink. Now it’s right.”
“Nice,” Lin Ling mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Can’t you just say you missed me.”
Nice doesn’t respond, just steps forward, smooth and silent, and presses a kiss to the side of Lin Ling’s neck, right below his ear. “I missed you,” Nice murmurs against his skin, drawing a pleased sigh from Lin Ling.
Nice’s lips linger against the warm skin of Lin Ling’s neck, and Lin Ling feels his knees go a little soft at the contact.
“I missed you,” Nice murmurs again, voice lower this time, the syllables soft and exact like he’s testing them for taste. He tilts his head slightly, letting his lips drag along the curve of Lin Ling’s throat, just enough to make his breath catch.
Lin Ling stands frozen, stiff as a guilty teenager, hands fluttering uncertainly at his sides. “You just got home,” he stammers, trying for deflection, trying not to think about the lingerie and cuffs hidden in the drawer behind him. “Shouldn’t you go shower?”
Nice hums against his skin, a small sound that vibrates just enough to make Lin Ling squirm. “I’m very clean,” he murmurs. “You, on the other hand…”
His fingers skim under the edge of Lin Ling’s hoodie. “…were out with Moon.”
Lin Ling swallows hard. “So?”
“She’s full of bad ideas,” Nice says mildly, but his fingers stay there, just barely under the fabric, like he’s considering how far he wants to go. “Makes you act suspicious.”
Lin Ling jolts slightly. “I’m not suspicious.”
“You were out late,” he murmurs against his skin. “How was your day with her?”
He tries not to squirm.
“It was fine,” he says quickly. “We went shopping. Mostly for her. She made fun of my fashion sense. Business as usual.”
“You’re hiding something,” Nice says, deadpan, but his mouth is now moving down the line of Lin Ling’s neck with reverence, teeth ghosting over skin but never biting. “You keep looking at that drawer. Is it the birthday present I told you I didn’t want?”
“I’m not—” Lin Ling squeaks, backing into the dresser with a dull thud. “That’s not— I mean—it’s not important!”
Nice tilts his head, expression unreadable. “Mm.” He presses closer, crowding Lin Ling between him and the drawer. “Then why are you blushing?”
Lin Ling glares. “Because you’re trying to make a move on me.”
“I haven’t even started,” Nice replies smoothly. “But if you want me to—”
“No!” Lin Ling blurts, smacking a hand over Nice’s mouth before he can say something horrifying in his little monotone. “No words. Go shower. I’m making you dinner. We can have whatever gross healthy food you want. Salad. Chicken breast.”
Nice raises one eyebrow. His tongue darts out just enough to press against Lin Ling’s palm before he leans back. For someone so germaphobic, Nice doesn’t seem to care when it comes to Lin Ling.
“You’re very twitchy today,” he observes, eyes raking over Lin Ling again.
“I’m just excited to see you,” Lin Ling mumbles, cheeks hot. “And I’m a good boyfriend. So let me cook for you while you rinse off your neuroses in the shower.”
Nice smiles faintly at that. Not a big smile, just a shift at the corners of his mouth, like something slipped past his usual filter.
“One last kiss?” Nice asks, leaning in again.
“….Fine,” Lin Ling says, cupping Nice’s cheek. “Just one.”
“Of course.” Nice doesn’t argue. He leans in for one last kiss, brushing his mouth against Lin Ling’s in something that’s too soft to be chaste, but too brief to be anything else. “Wouldn’t want dessert to ruin my appetite,” he mutters against Lin Ling’s lips as they part.
Lin Ling watches him disappear down the hall, that graceful, unbothered walk that somehow makes it look like he’s gliding.
He slumps against the dresser as soon as he’s gone, wiping a hand down his face. He feels a little guilty, keeping things from his boyfriend.
But it’s not like Nice isn’t going to find out exactly what he’s hiding anyway.
____
The bedroom is still dark when Lin Ling feels the press of lips at his temple.
Nice is annoyingly stealthy for someone who’s built like a Calvin Klein mannequin, but Lin Ling still stirs, instinctively curling tighter under the covers as the mattress dips beside him.
“Mmph,” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his eyes. “It’s five in the morning. Go away.”
Nice hums against his cheek. “Press stuff, won’t be back till late.”
Lin Ling somehow makes a groan into his pillow sound like “gross.”
He feels the gentle touch of fingers tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, then another kiss, lower this time, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.
Lin Ling pries one eye open, bleary. “Happy birthday,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” Nice murmurs, calm as ever. “I’ll be back around six.”
Lin Ling gives a sleepy thumbs up. “Don’t crash the car,” he slurs into the pillow, still half asleep. Neither of them have a car, and Nice can fly, but he doesn’t mention the absurdity of it.
Nice’s hand lingers on his hip for a moment longer. “I won’t.”
Lin Ling wakes up again five hours later to find the room sun drenched and far too quiet.
He sprawls for a moment, enjoying the post sleep haze, and then bolts upright with a jolt.
Today.
Today is the day.
Nice’s birthday. The stupid costume. The… situation.
He showers, scrubbing his skin raw and using the expensive body wash that makes him smell like oranges, and he steals a bit of Nice’s lotion which he’ll definitely notice but hopefully be too wrung out to nag about.
He flips on the TV for background noise and watches Nice on screen doing a press panel. He looks polished and reserved, answering questions in his usual measured tone, but there's a brief flicker of real amusement when the host asks about his birthday plans.
“Just spending time with someone important,” Nice replies simply, and Lin Ling nearly drops his spoon into his lunchtime cereal. He stares at the screen. The audience “awws.” Lin Ling scrunches into the couch. Oh god. He has to pull this off.
By the time Nice texts ETA: 1 hour, (because he still hasn’t learned how to text like a regular person), Lin Ling throws himself off the couch.
He pulls the shopping bag from the drawer, the fabric details glinting gold in the light as the cape falls out.
“This was a mistake,” he tells the ceiling.
Still, he strips down, shaking slightly with nerves and cold, and begins the process of becoming a birthday present. He thinks?
First, the bodysuit itself. It’s tight. The sheer chest panel leaves nothing to the imagination, and the gold slits up the thighs are way too high cut to be anything other than erotic.
Than the buckles. He gets the chest strap twisted and nearly chokes himself before figuring out which side goes where. There’s a moment of panic when one thigh buckle gets caught around his knee and he has to hop in a frantic circle to unloop it. The cape takes three tries to fasten, one of which involves him accidentally spinning it around like a matador and tripping over the hem.
Then come the boots. He gets one on and the zipper gets stuck. Sweating. He tries again. Success. Second boot. The zipper breaks halfway. Sweating more.
He finally gets it up with enough force to probably bust a seam later, but who cares. His thighs do look good as hell.
He stands in front of the mirror.
He feels like he’s playing dress up, but he does look fuckable, which was kind of the entire point of this. For Nice to fuck him.
He nods once to himself and grabs the cuffs from the drawer. He opens them carefully, padding to the bed. His heart is doing parkour in his chest.
Moon’s words echo in his head. Just cuff one wrist to the bed before he gets home. You don’t even have to say anything.
He clips one cuff around his wrist. Takes a breath. This is fine. He’s put enough antipower handcuffs onto villains to know how a pair works.
He lifts the other cuff and pauses. Should he? Maybe it’s more dramatic with both?
In a moment of blind impulse, he locks the second cuff around his other wrist, one to each side of the headboard with a sharp click. His arms are a little twisted, and he still has a while till Nice returns, so he figures he can just take them off for now.
He tugs experimentally. The cuffs don’t budge. That’s okay, he can just fiddle around for the safety latch. He twists his arms uncomfortably, scratching at the keyhole where a tiny lever is supposed to be.
The cuffs don’t have a safety latch.
Moon swore they did. She promised they were novice friendly. That if anything went wrong, he could just reach for the key and let himself out.
The key is right there, on the nightstand. Like, comically close, practically taunting him. But Lin Ling is spread eagle and double cuffed, and no matter how much he wiggles or stretches or contorts, he can’t quite reach it.
He considers using his powers to bust the cuffs. He could do it. Just flex hard enough and pop, freedom. But he’s already committed this far. He can’t just ruin the outfit now.
He tries flopping dramatically to one side, kicking the nightstand with the toe of his boot like maybe he can scoot it closer. Instead, the key falls to the floor with the lightest metallic clink imaginable.
He lets out a soft, incredulous gasp, and that’s when his phone, left on the other nightstand, starts ringing.
Nice is calling.
A slow, sick horror unfurls in Lin Ling’s stomach.
The ringtone continues, soft and polite, because Nice is too proper to assign him anything fun. Lin Ling stares at the screen like it’s a bomb timer.
He can’t answer and Nice is going to think something is wrong.
Because of course he will. Nice is the kind of man who notices if a mug moves two inches. He’s going to notice that Lin Ling isn’t answering his phone during the exact window of time he usually does. And then he’ll spiral into a million thoughts that all make no sense.
The call ends, and immediately it rings again.
“Call Nice!” he tries to say to the stupid voice command device that Nice likes to use when he’s in the kitchen because he can’t touch his phone while he’s cooking for some reason.
“Calling Niece.”
“No! No, hang up!”
He kicks uselessly at the sheets, wrists straining slightly in the cuffs.
The ringtone stops.
His phone buzzes with a text, then another.
Nice doesn’t spam text. Nice doesn’t text twice unless someone is dead.
Lin Ling twists his head toward the screen, groaning as he tries to read the messages sideways.
[Mr Clean]:
Are you okay?
You always answer.
I’ll head back immediately.
Lin Ling’s blood runs cold. Nice was already on his way, and now he thinks Lin Ling has been kidnapped. Or died. Or fainted in the shower. Or got called to handle a villain fight and is probably obsessively checking the news updates.
Lin Ling thrashes again. He glances toward the window like maybe he can somehow scream at Nice through ten floors of bulletproof glass.
“Damn it,” he mutters, going still.
Okay. No panic. Nice will be here soon, Lin Ling just has to lie here and try to be sexy. And not move. Or sweat. Or rip the cape.
The TV still murmurs faintly in the background.
Lin Ling closes his eyes.
He better be into this, he thinks furiously. He better walk in and lose his fucking mind.
____
Nice unlocks the door with one hand, shoulder balancing the paper grocery bag as he nudges it open. “Lin Ling? I brought those sweet sesame crackers you like,” Nice calls. “And the ginger soda. You here?”
The condo is clean. Too clean.
Which is saying something, considering how meticulously he usually maintains it, but this is unnervingly silent. No faint hum from Lin Ling’s favorite songs playing off the tablet. No kitchen fan. No clatter of utensils. No socks strewn suspiciously close to, but never in, the hamper.
He sets his keys in the tray and calls out, “Lin Ling?”
No response.
A strange tightness settles in his chest. He glances at the clock.
Nice’s fingers tighten on the grocery bag. His thoughts move too fast, not panicked (never that, he’s better than that) but direct. He’d found it alarming when Lin Ling didn’t answer his phone, but he assumed the man just didn’t charge it properly or was busy with something else. He tried not to think about intrusive ideas like Lin Ling being injured, or helpless, or leaving.
He stops himself. Lin Ling wouldn’t leave without saying something. Nice moves through the kitchen silently, the snacks he bought for Lin Ling still cradled in his arm.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. He nudges it open. “Lin Ling—“
The grocery bag slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a dull thump, an apple rolling across the floor.
Lin Ling is in their bed.
No… Lin Ling is posed in their bed, framed by golden hour sunlight and the dark curve of their headboard. Both wrists are cuffed above him, arms stretched over head. The cuffs glint gold, real metal. There’s a cape, his cape. Or at least something designed to look like it. It pools around Lin Ling’s bare thighs in shimmering folds, matching the gold accents cutting across the suit.
It’s inspired, intimately and shamelessly by his suit. Nice’s mind catalogs the outfit like a machine. The high gold collar, slits up the thighs so high they leave nothing to the imagination. Buckles and straps where his usual golden armor would be.
His vision swims with white and gold.
Lace where there shouldn’t be lace. Sheer panels tracing the sides of his waist and a ribbon across the sternum that mimics the stripe on his chest armor.
There’s a chest window exposing smooth, flushed skin, the white fabric pulled tight over a lean torso he knows intimately. Boots, knee high.
Lin Ling’s cheeks are flushed deep pink. The single white wisp in his bangs that falls right in the middle is stark against his brown hair. His lips are parted, eyes wide, not from innocence but something closer to sheer, agonizing anticipation. Brown eyes, round and luminous in the soft light, glossy with embarrassment.
Nice has seen that face under a thousand conditions. Covered in dirt and sweat from a battle. Squished into his pillow when he oversleeps. Twisting in laughter when Moon insults him. Wet with tears, gasping under Nice’s hands on fresh sheets at night.
But this? Lin Ling on the bed, flushed and squirming, wrists cuffed to the headboard, legs pulled up slightly.
This is new. A performance, just for him.
Nice’s throat goes dry. He takes one step forward.
“Hi,” Lin Ling croaks. “Happy birthday.”
Nice stares. Lin Ling tries to smile.
“Uh,” Lin Ling says, very quietly. Then louder, with a brave but miserable attempt at charm, “You said you didn’t want anything. So I figured… you could unwrap this.”
Nice doesn’t answer. He’s still processing. He’s still trying to look at all of it. There’s so much skin. So many familiar shapes turned new by context. The flush across Lin Ling’s chest dips lower than the window reveals. His collarbones are sharp and delicate and framed by the costume, not hidden. Even his thighs, always tucked under sweatpants or curled under Nice’s arm on the couch, are showcased now, gold trimmed, booted, flexing faintly as he tries not to squirm.
The lingerie is unmistakably modeled after his uniform. Down to the glint of his gemstone sewn subtly into the collarbone.
His eyes rake over Lin Ling again. He could say a hundred things. About the absurdity, the recklessness. How all his blood immediately rushes South.
When Nice finally speaks his voice is hoarse, and all that comes to mind is, “You… didn’t answer your phone.”
Lin Ling winces. “I got a little stuck.”
Nice’s gaze drops to his wrists. A delicate flush around the edges where he must’ve fumbled. And he’s not even properly bound, one wrist slightly bent awkwardly, the other turned too high, clearly not positioned by anyone who’s done this before.
Nice exhales through his nose.
“Is that why your left arm’s twisted?” he asks mildly.
“I thought I could reach both if I arched—”
“You thought.”
“I panicked!”
Nice hums. He looks at Lin Ling’s thighs. Then at the way his chest heaves under the flimsy lace.
He drags his eyes up his neck, to his mouth, where his lower lip is caught between his teeth.
Lin Ling stares at him, eyes wide. Waiting.
He doesn’t even know, Nice realizes suddenly, fingers curling against his own knee. He has no idea what this is doing to me.
Nice leans in closer, putting one hand on the mattress beside Lin Ling’s head.
Lin Ling sucks in a breath. He runs a knuckle slowly along Lin Ling’s thigh, watching the muscles twitch, then trails it along the hem of the outfit, over the gold piping, along the edge of the ridiculously soft, sheer panel stretched over his abdomen.
“The keys?”
Lin Ling’s eyes widen. “They’re on the floor.”
“Are they?”
“Yes—Nice—”
Nice walks to the side of the bed. He crouches to pick up the key, turning it over in his fingers.
His fingers ghost over the cuffs, and Lin Ling twitches. Nice looks down at the key, but he doesn’t unlock the cuffs. He tucks it into the pocket of his slacks and kisses his mouth, hot and open and brief, pulling back just enough to whisper against his lips. “Then I guess you’ll just have to stay like this until I feel like letting you go.”
Lin Ling shivers.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing along Lin Ling’s thigh where the slit cuts the fabric, skin warm beneath his touch. He traces the edge with surgical precision. “All this for me?”
“It’s your birthday,” Lin Ling says, weakly. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You have,” Nice murmurs, finally letting his hand rest flat against Lin Ling’s hip. He leans forward until their foreheads touch. Lin Ling makes a soft, startled noise.
Nice lets his lips brush along the corner of Lin Ling’s mouth, then lower, dragging across the lace to the bare skin above the chest panel. He presses a kiss to the white streak in Lin Ling’s bangs. “You planned this?”
“I had help,” Lin Ling confesses, biting his lip. “You like it?”
Nice leans over him fully now, bracing one hand on the headboard, his body caging Lin Ling’s in.
“It’s perfect.” He reaches for the light dimmer and brings it even lower, not enough to obscure, just enough to make the gold shimmer glow. “You really shouldn’t have,” he murmurs. He really, really shouldn’t have.
Lin Ling curls inwards, legs bent up, knees together in that soft, nervous angle that only makes Nice want to pry them apart with his hands. His wrists have gone slightly pink, his breathing uneven. “You’re letting me sweat in these?” Lin Ling asks softly. Nice is going to make him do a lot more than sweat.
“You could’ve broken out of these.”
Lin Ling blinks. “What?”
“You’re not weak. You could’ve snapped them. Bent the metal. Gotten free.”
“I mean… yeah.” Lin Ling squirms. “But I didn’t want to ruin them by accident. They’re part of the surprise.”
Nice stares. Something inside his chest does an ungraceful, stupid sort of stumble.
“God,” he breathes. “You’re really fucking cute.”
Lin Ling scowls, clearly flustered, but his words die off as Nice leans in and licks a slow stripe from his sternum to the dip in his throat, tasting salt and heat and nervous anticipation.
Nice kisses him, deep and wet and possessive, and finally lets his hands move. Down Lin Ling’s hips, along the lace edges of the outfit, until his thumbs are brushing over the soft heat between his legs.
Lin Ling shakes, breath catching.
“Still want to be unwrapped?” Nice whispers.
“I’ve been waiting so long,” Lin Ling breathes.
Nice leans closer, eyes dark. “Then say it.”
Lin Ling’s lashes flutter.
“Happy birthday, Nice.”
Nice presses another kiss to the inside of Lin Ling’s knee, right where the soft skin gives way to the tension of muscle, and breathes in slow. The gold trimmed boots slide off one by one under his hands, long fingers curling under the arch of Lin Ling’s foot like he’s holding something delicate.
“No shoes on the bed,” he murmurs again, almost absently now.
Lin Ling lets out a breathy laugh, flushed from the kisses trailing up his leg. “They’re brand new, swear. Haven’t even touched the floor.”
Nice’s mouth curls, not quite a smile. “Good.” He brings his lips to the arch of Lin Ling’s foot and kisses it. “I don’t know what I’d do if you walked outside in these.”
He says it like it’s a threat, or more of a promise. This was meant for Nice’s eyes only.
He rises slowly, discarding the boots. His slacks are tight now, unbearably so. He doesn’t even have to look to know he’s hard. The pressure’s already been building, the kind that starts in the gut and radiates outward, hot and embarrassing and full of hunger.
Lin Ling shifts again under him, thighs brushing together nervously. Nice’s eyes track the movement like a hawk, like prey is squirming underfoot.
He’s aching. Every inch of him is screaming for friction, contact. He wants to pull Lin Ling’s legs apart and press into him until there’s nowhere left to go. His cock twitches against the front of his pants, straining, and he grits his teeth to force himself to focus.
Instead, he looks at Lin Ling’s wrists. “Are they okay?” he asks quietly.
Lin Ling blinks at him, momentarily startled by the gentleness. “Yeah,” he says, and tugs slightly to demonstrate. The metal creaks. “I mean, kind of pinchy, but… not painful. I’m okay.”
Nice hums, brushing his fingers along the tender skin, inspecting each wrist, checking for damage.
His self control nearly buckles. His hands trace over the lingerie again, fingertips sliding across the fabric pulled taut over Lin Ling’s belly.
He presses his hips forward, letting Lin Ling feel it, just how stiff he is beneath his pants, straining for release, for him. Lin Ling gasps, a soft desperate sound, and arches a little, hands tugging instinctively at the cuffs with a faint clink of metal, tilting his head into the crook of Nice’s neck.
Nice drags his palm down Lin Ling’s side, then grips his hip firmly, anchoring him. His other hand cups the back of Lin Ling’s thigh, urging it higher, until Lin Ling’s leg wraps naturally around his waist.
“I could fuck you just like this,” he breathes. “Not even strip you. Just pull this ridiculous thing to the side and take what’s mine.”
He feels Lin Ling nod, cheeks burning.
Nice kisses down his throat slowly, savoring every inch. “But you dressed up so nicely for me,” he whispers. “You wanted to be treated like a gift. So I’ll unwrap you carefully.”
His voice is tight now, controlled, but barely.
“Just don’t complain if I take my time.”
Lin Ling doesn’t, too busy trembling as Nice finally moves lower, tongue tracing the line of gold piping down his belly like it’s a road map to heaven.
Nice lingers at Lin Ling’s waist, just above the sheer panel that dips toward the most obscene part of the costume.
The lace is thin here, more illusion than coverage, spanning between the gold trimmed straps that frame his hips like they were molded for them. The fabric barely clings to the swell where Lin Ling’s thighs meet, sheer enough to reveal the outline of what lies beneath. The mound of his cunt, soft and flushed, peeks through the white lace, slick already starting to dampen the crotch of the costume which has darkened the white into something translucent. The shape of him is barely concealed, warm pink and glistening faintly from arousal, plush folds gently cupped by the lace.
Nice drags his thumb along the inner edge of Lin Ling’s thigh, where the fabric cuts high. The skin is soft there, paler than the rest of him, untouched by sun or time. The flesh gives under his hand, tender, with a faint tremble that tells him Lin Ling’s trying very hard not to squirm.
He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, right where the seam ends, close enough that Lin Ling shivers violently.
“Look at you,” Nice murmurs, tracing one slow finger along the edge of the costume. The detailing along Lin Ling’s chest dips between his pectorals, forming a tight arch that only draws the eye downward. The costume’s neckline leaves very little covered. Nice lets his eyes wander.
His nipples are visible, dark against the white fabric, faintly swollen and flushed from the heat of arousal. One of them is caught just under the strap, pulled slightly so it stands perked and sensitive beneath the tension. Nice brushes the pad of his thumb over it, feeling the nub stiffen immediately.
Lin Ling gasps. The sound goes straight to his cock, sharp and involuntary. Nice exhales, shaky, then leans down to drag his tongue across the fabric, mouthing gently through the lace. He lingers, letting it wet and cling to Lin Ling’s skin, then moves his mouth directly over the sensitive flesh and closes his lips around it.
Lin Ling lets out a high, breathless noise, his back arching just slightly, the cuffs clinking faintly above his head.
Slick has dampened the lace completely now, sticking to the softness of Lin Ling’s pussy like a second skin.
Nice groans, low in his throat.
He presses his fingers against the fabric, feeling the wetness gather at the tip of his middle finger, watching Lin Ling’s mouth fall open in silent need. The fabric clings to the slit, to the soft outer lips, to the warm curve that leads inward.
It’s warm. Soft like nothing else. All his.
Nice cups him fully through the lingerie, palm warm, watching the slick squish gently beneath his touch. His thumb rubs slow circles, feeling the folds part and press into the lace, begging for contact.
Nice doesn’t rush. He wants to. Fuck, does he want to, but this is all for him. He can take his time.
Lin Ling’s legs are pulled open now, his body loose and ready, sheer white lace catching against the dim lighting, and there’s no part of this image that Nice wants to waste.
He pauses above him, fingertips hooked in the waistband of that delicate lace, and leans down. Without a word, he presses a kiss through the lace at the apex of Lin Ling’s thighs. The sensation is muffled, but Lin Ling gasps, hips lifting involuntarily as Nice nibbles at the edge of the panel.
“You’re trembling,” Nice says. He noses gently against the heat between Lin Ling’s thighs, bumping against his clothed clit.
“N-Nice—”
“Shh,” he croons. “This is your gift to me, remember? Let me open it.”
Lin Ling gasps as Nice parts his legs wider. He kisses the lace and drags his tongue along it, from his entrance to clit, letting the fabric muffle the contact just enough to make Lin Ling sob.
He flattens his tongue and licks through the lace again, slower this time. The taste of Lin Ling’s arousal bleeds through the fabric, warm and heady, and Nice nearly groans. “You got this wet just waiting for me?”
Lin Ling nods, eyes glassy.
Nice drags his tongue up and down, pressing deep, letting his nose bump against the fabric of the lingerie where it stretches taut across Lin Ling’s lower belly.
He pulls back slightly, breath hot. “What a mess,” he murmurs.
He tongues him through the lace until it’s dripping, his own face slick, the soft fabric clinging between Lin Ling’s folds. Every sweep of his tongue sends shivers through Lin Ling’s body, down his spine, into the tips of his fingers still cuffed above. Nice’s breath is warm against his skin, heady with the promise of more.
Nice’s so hard it hurts, pressing tight against the sheets, hips grinding subtly for friction without meaning to. He doesn’t try to touch himself, all his focus is on Lin Ling, on the sounds he makes, the way his body lifts when Nice drags his tongue up the lace, letting the friction catch.
He laps at Lin Ling’s slit through the sheer fabric first, slow, reverent strokes that leave wet trails across the lace. Then, with a hiss, he pushes the fabric aside, the first direct contact sending Lin Ling’s back arching against the headboard.
“Please,” Lin Ling breathes, voice thick.
Nice doesn’t speak. He devours him like it’s the only thing that matters tonight, nosing aside every fold, swirling around his swollen clit, teasing just enough to keep Lin Ling on the edge. His hands spread Lin Ling’s thighs wider, pressing firm as his tongue works.
Lin Ling’s moans fill the room, ragged and unguarded. Nice lifts his head to study the effect on Lin Ling, eyes dark, pupils dilated, drawn to every droplet of sweat that beads on Lin Ling’s thighs.
He sinks back down, tongue pushing in deeper. He tastes the salt of Lin Ling’s nerves, every pulse of need echoing in his own chest. Lin Ling’s hands clench the leather cuffs, knuckles white, as he pushes himself against Nice’s mouth, seeking more.
Every shiver he earns makes his spine tighten. He can’t help the way his hips grind once, dry and sharp, against the mattress. His fingers ache with how tight he’s gripping Lin Ling’s thighs.
His own face is wet now, jaw sticky with Lin Ling’s slick. The messy feeling would bother him if he wasn’t so completely absorbed.
From his end, the sensation is addictive, the softness, the taste, Lin Ling’s insides clenching around his tongue. Nice groans into it, savoring the way Lin Ling’s thighs close around his head without thinking.
His cock throbs against the mattress, untouched. The ache of restraint is dizzying, but he wants to earn this, wants Lin Ling to fall apart on his tongue first. He wants to give, not take.
Nice hums around him, a low vibration that sends tremors through his core. He flicks his tongue fast, switching rhythms, digging right at the sweetest spot. Lin Ling cries out, hips bucking wildly, body folding in on itself.
With one last, deep lap, Nice pulls back. Lin Ling is trembling, like thread unspooling.
He settles between Lin Ling’s legs again, pressing a single kiss to the heated flesh in the sensitive spot that is always ticklish for Lin Ling, and holds him still.
Lin Ling lets out a broken laugh that turns instantly into a moan when Nice finally pulls the lace aside and presses his tongue directly to the slick heat of him.
“Oh—oh fuck,” Lin Ling gasps.
Nice hums, “Tell me what you want.”
“More.”
“More what?”
“More tongue,” Lin Ling whines, wrists flexing in the cuffs. “More you—please—”
Nice flattens his tongue and licks deep, slow, over and over, until Lin Ling’s legs are trembling around him and his cunt is dripping against Nice’s chin. Every flick of his tongue is precise, dragging along his clit in flat, broad strokes just the way Lin Ling likes.
Lin Ling moans, hips jerking. “Nice—please, I—I can’t—”
Lin Ling’s body arches. His back bows tight. He cries out, high and gasping, thighs trembling as he comes hard, pulsing around nothing, voice cracking as he spills hot against Nice’s mouth.
Nice groans into it, licking through the aftershocks like he’s starving for more.
Lin Ling collapses into one final cry, and Nice holds him close, pressing gentle kisses up his stomach, across his ribs, until Lin Ling is shaking in his arms, spent. When he finally goes boneless, chest heaving, Nice sits back on his heels.
Lin Ling’s breathless, slick between his thighs, lace wrinkled and shifting out of place, one strap slipping off his shoulder.
Nice wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and pulls his shirt off.
His skin is damp, slick with Lin Ling’s arousal. His jaw, chin, even the front of his shirt. If it were anyone else, if it were any other context, his body would be locked up tight with disgust. He’d be standing under scalding water for forty minutes, scrubbing in tight, methodical circles until his skin turned red and raw and his breathing evened out.
Here, he doesn’t move.
His knees are still sunk into the mattress, his hands braced on either side of Lin Ling’s thighs.
The bed is a mess. The sheets are soaked in places, rumpled in others. The pillows are off center. Lin Ling’s hair is sticking to his cheek in fine, sweat damp strands.
This was the part he needed. Lin Ling’s body moving beneath him like choreography, tension and tempo and breath, and Nice following every cue. He listened to the way Lin Ling trembled when he flattened his tongue, the staccato twitch when he circled his clit, the arc of his back when Nice changed rhythm.
Sex, he realized some time ago after sleeping with Lin Ling, is a performance, but not the kind he’s used to, no cameras or brand deals or interviews. This is closer to ballet, a pas de deux, every movement calibrated for response.
Lin Ling had responded like a violin. A single note away from falling apart.
That should terrify him, or even repulse him, make him want to sterilize every part of the room.
Instead, he wants to do it again. He wants to feel the stutter of Lin Ling’s breath against his mouth when he teases him to the edge. He wants to test his limits, find the exact tremor that means more, don’t stop, don’t speak. He wants to push him back onto the sheets and conduct his body all over again, until the crescendo breaks like thunder.
He hadn’t thought he’d ever enjoy this kind of control. Not with his brain and its safe, clean categories for everything. There are none of those with Lin Ling, and Nice needs the release of that perfect mess like a drug.
He sits back slowly, his knees pulling up from the mattress with a faint stick of sweat and skin.
Lin Ling blinks up at him, dazed and pliant, hair a mess across the pillow. He swallows, shifts slightly, and the cuff pulls taut with a soft clink.
His hands are steady even though his pulse feels like it's trying to break through his skin as he reaches down and unbuckles his belt. The leather slips through the loops and the tension behind his fly becomes impossible to ignore. He tossed his slacks onto the floor, ignoring the itch beneath his skin.
He’s been grinding into the mattress for so long his hips ache, and now that he’s free, his cock presses up against the soft cotton of his briefs with zero grace. It’s flushed, leaking, stiff with need, and Lin Ling’s gaze dips down, then back up, eyes hazy from the orgasm Nice gave him.
Lin Ling’s lips are parted like he hasn’t quite remembered how to close his mouth yet. His thighs are slick and shining, his skin flushed all the way down to his chest. His hair is a wreck, flattened in places, standing up in others, that one stray white piece stuck to his temple.
But he’s smiling, a little curl at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what he looks like, and he likes that Nice is looking.
Beautiful in the way a fall is when you know there’s no net waiting, this person trusts him so easily, gives so easily.
Nice leans over him, wrapping a hand around himself slicking himself with pre.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, voice low. “Is that what you wanted?”
Lin Ling nods, lips parted. “Yes. Please. Want—want you to feel good—”
Nice kisses him, hard and open, licking into his mouth with the same intensity he’d just used on his cunt. Lin Ling moans into it, legs wrapping weakly around his waist. It’s all he can do with his hands tied. Usually Lin Ling left such deep marks down his back.
He fists his cock at the base and drags the head along Lin Ling’s folds. Lin Ling shudders, hips twitching, slick soaking them both. Nice lines up, watching Lin Ling’s face as he pushes in, inch by aching inch.
Lin Ling gasps, rattling the cuffs like he was trying to free his arms and wrap them around Nice’s neck. “F-fuck—”
“Shh,” Nice whispers, bracing a hand beside Lin Ling’s ribs. He buries himself to the hilt in one long thrust.
Lin Ling arches up against him, mouth open, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re perfect,” Nice utters, jaw clenching. The heat, the slick tightness around him, he could die like this. He could stay inside Lin Ling forever and never regret a single second.
“You feel that?” he breathes. “Feel how well you take me?”
Lin Ling nods frantically, back bowed as Nice’s hips press flush with his. “So deep—gege, I—”
The rhythm builds fast. Wet and hot and filthy. His hips slap against Lin Ling’s ass and the back of his thighs, the sound echoing in the room with each slick thrust. The cuffs rattle with every rock of their bodies.
Nice presses kisses down his jawline, bites his neck, groans into his skin. “So good. All mine.”
Lin Ling cries out, eyes wide, lashes damp. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
Nice reaches between them, fingers rubbing quick circles against his clit, not letting up.
“Come for me,” he pants.
Lin Ling cries out, coming hard. Nice swears loudly, hips slamming deep as Lin Ling spasms around him, pulsing tight and squirting around his cock. Nice grits his teeth and follows, groaning as he empties inside him, hot and thick and unrelenting, his whole body collapsing forward.
Nice sits back after a minute, hands sliding gently along Lin Ling’s hips. His legs part instinctively when Nice touches him, soft and pliant, and Nice can’t help dragging his fingers down, memorizing the give of plush skin.
He braces Lin Ling’s waist, strong and careful, and lifts him.
Lin Ling’s arms are still bound, his balance off, but he curls forward, muscles flexing, until his chest is pressed against Nice’s and his legs straddle either side of Nice’s lap.
The cuffs remain attached above, stretched high. Lin Ling’s arms stay raised, shoulders taut, torso long and bare between them, back arched ever so slightly as he adjusts, thighs hugging Nice’s hips. He shifts on instinct, knees planting on either side of Nice’s thighs, weight settling forward.
Lin Ling tilts his head to the side, lips brushing near Nice’s ear.
“Let me ride you,” he murmurs, voice slurred with exhaustion. “You did all the work…”
Trying to ride him, even though his legs are shaking and his balance is fragile and his orgasm addled body is practically melting from overstimulation. Nice should help. He could take over easily. Grip his hips and thrust up, take control like he always does. A sadistic part of him wants to see Lin Ling struggle instead.
Lin Ling’s brown hair hangs loose and soft around his face, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks in wisps. His lips are parted, rosy, kiss swollen.
Big, dark eyes blown wide with pleasure stare down at Nice. He shifts his hips, slowly lowering onto Nice’s cock, taking him in with a shaky gasp.
Nice moans, fingers digging into flesh. Lin Ling whines, hips jerking as he tries to settle deeper.
The stretch is obvious.
He’s still dripping cum from earlier, cunt fluttering as he sinks down inch by trembling inch, but his legs are barely holding him. His thighs quiver, knees pressing against the sheets like he’s trying not to collapse.
“Can’t—” he gasps. “It’s too deep like this—”
“You can,” Nice breathes, a little mean. “You are.”
He lets his hands slide up Lin Ling’s trembling legs, worshipping every inch, the softness of his inner thighs, the faint sheen of sweat behind his knees, the tremble in the way he’s trying to brace himself with no hands.
“You’re doing so good,” Nice whispers.
Lin Ling lets out a breathless sob. “Want to be good,” he murmurs.
Nice sits up more, hands cupping his hips. Lin Ling rises a little, just barely, then sinks back down, the friction deep and overwhelming, his walls fluttering around Nice’s cock.
Nice can feel his desperation in the way Lin Ling shifts, legs shaking harder every time he moves, in the whimper behind every exhale.
“Tell me what it feels like,” Nice says, voice dark.
“So full,” Lin Ling gasps. “Feels so good, gege.”
Nice strokes his thighs again. “You look gorgeous. Do you know that?”
Lin Ling shakes his head.
“You do. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you like this.”
His hair falls over his eyes as he moves again, slow and shaky. Nice brushes it aside gently, holding his gaze, watching the way Lin Ling’s lips part around a moan.
“You’re close, aren’t you?”
Lin Ling nods helplessly. He bounces using the strength in his thighs, sloppy little grinds and rolls of his hips that make him drool. It’s not enough for Nice, but he doesn’t dare move to help, getting off on the view of Lin Ling’s struggling alone.
Nice leans up to kiss his neck, then bites softly at his jaw. “Then take it.”
Lin Ling does. He rides him, trembling, desperate, crying out with every movement. His body clenches tighter and tighter until the tension snaps again, orgasm crashing through him like a wave. He sobs out a moan, shaking in the cuffs, collapsing forward into Nice’s chest.
Nice wraps his arms around him instantly.
“You did so good,” he whispers. “You were incredible.”
Lin Ling murmurs something into his neck, dazed and blushing. “You..”
“Hm?” Nice kisses the top of his head and holds him through the tremble.
“You didn’t come,” Lin Ling says, eyes wet with tears.
Nice pulls out and Lin Ling goes limp, pussy fucked loose and fluttering around nothing. Nice reaches down for his discarded pants, he hadn’t even folded them in his desperation to be inside Lin Ling, and fishes the key from his pocket to undo the cuffs.
It’s not that they’re tight, he checked them three times, but Lin Ling’s skin is pink beneath them from too much friction.
He breathes in slowly and lifts one hand to the latch. The cuff clicks open and Lin Ling’s arm slumps down against his shoulder. The second one follows. Another click, a soft drop of weight onto him.
Lin Ling doesn’t even seem to register the shift. His head rests against Nice’s temple, breath warm where it fans over his cheek. The faintest sound of relief escapes his throat. Nice holds him there, hands curled gently around the base of his spine, and breathes him in.
Lin Ling’s arms finally move, slow and clumsy, wrapping lazily around Nice’s neck. His fingers don’t even grip, just resting there, soft and trusting.
Even like this, Lin Ling is pliant in Nice’s hands. Boneless and flushed, breathing in quiet, open mouthed little gasps. His hair clings to his cheek, lashes heavy, and when Nice whispers “Turn over for me,” he obeys, wordlessly.
Nice helps him shift, rolls him carefully to his front, then coaxes him up onto his knees, guiding his hips until he’s arched, thighs spread.
Nice adjusts his grip, sliding one hand beneath Lin Ling’s belly, the other to the base of his neck. He eases Lin Ling down and forward, guiding his weight as he moves.
Lin Ling goes with it until he’s on all fours, elbows shaky, hair falling in his face. Nice reaches around Lin Ling’s neck and pulls off the cape, discarding it to the unused side of the bed. He didn’t need anything getting in the way of this view.
The lace of the ruined costume bunches around his waist, riding high, leaving the curve of his ass exposed and glistening with slick, cum trailing down the inside of his thighs.
Lin Ling is beautiful beneath it. Not in the way magazines or polished, airbrushed models are, but too genuine and real. All sharp collarbones and long limbs, lean and strong and utterly unguarded. Nice presses his thumbs into the dimples of his lower back, then drags his finger upward. The skin is warm beneath his touch, and the muscle beneath it shifts with every breath. His back was narrower than Nice imagined when he first met him, tucked into a hoodie twice his size. But now he sees it all, the taper of his waist, the soft curve of his lower back, and above that, the sculpted tension of a gymnast, someone who trained for his strength.
Nice traces each vertebra.
Lin Ling twitches once beneath him and sighs, soft and low, as Nice’s hand glides higher, up the ridge of his spine to the spot just between his shoulder blades.
There’s a faint bloom of red hand marks on his waist, where Nice had gripped too tightly. He stares at it, chest tight.
“Sorry, Ling’er,” he murmurs, barely audible, as he leans down and presses kisses along his back. He feels Lin Ling’s skin ripple under his mouth, another tiny twitch. He moves up, leaving gentle kisses behind, and at the base of Lin Ling’s neck, he lingers.
He opens his mouth and sucks, leaving the faintest mark. Nice pulls back, eyes sweeping over the body beneath him. The curve of his hips, the back of his thighs, the scatter of faint freckles he’d only just developed in the warmer season. All of it. His.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, running a hand down the line of Lin Ling’s spine. Lin Ling whimpers softly, turning his face to the side against the pillow.
Nice grips his hips, thumbs pressing into the softness just above Lin Ling’s thighs, and sinks into him from behind, slow and unrelenting.
Lin Ling moans. It’s not quiet. It’s open and sharp, a moan that makes Nice bite down on his own tongue to stay steady. Lin Ling’s arms are wrapped around the pillow in front of him, arching his spine instinctively to take more.
Nice watches, mesmerized, as every inch of him disappears inside. The stretch is visible, Lin Ling’s body yielding, taking him deep, the plush give of his cunt dragging slick and tight around every inch. He can see Lin Ling’s back ripple, his legs shaking already.
Lin Ling gasps, hips rocking back into him instinctively, pussy flushed and dripping around the base of Nice’s cock. His back is damp with sweat, breaths coming in soft, unsteady little gasps.
Nice pulls out slow, savoring the tight slide of his cock dragging through soaked folds. Lin Ling’s pussy stays open for a moment after, glistening, fluttering like it doesn’t want to let go. The way his hole clenches around nothing, wet and flushed, makes Nice groan under his breath.
His cum is mixed with Lin Ling’s, sticky and warm across his inner thighs, dripping down slowly over the barely there triangle of white lace that had once been part of a proper costume. Now it’s just wet fabric, stuck to the curve of Lin Ling’s pussy, stretched thin and see through, riding crooked on his hips. Nice grips his hips and pulls him back, thrusting into him hard.
“Feels good,” Lin Ling sobs into the pillow once Nice bottoms out again.
Nice sets a pace that’s filthy, each thrust slow and deep, then sharper, rougher, filling him completely. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, along with the sweet, broken gasps Lin Ling can’t seem to hold in.
“You’re taking me so well,” Nice pants. “Made for me.”
Lin Ling moans, trying to push back weakly, body clenching around each stroke. “Yes—yes, I’m yours—”
Nice snaps his hips harder, driving into him until Lin Ling arches up on a cry, ass bouncing with every thrust. The lingerie rides higher, gold fabric twisted uselessly around his waist, useless but still beautiful.
The costume shifts with every thrust, to the point where it’s practically a ribbon now, the original white and gold satin twisted and wrinkled, pushed up around Lin Ling’s ribcage, exposing the deep curve of his lower back and the way his hips move when Nice fucks into him. The bottom edge of the fabric is hanging lopsided, trim fraying slightly where it had been tugged too hard.
Nice had tried not to ruin it, but Lin Ling moves like temptation incarnate, and the sheer lace panels over his waist had torn under Nice’s hands. Now the buckles at his hips are all that remain, bouncing softly with every thrust.
His moans get higher the deeper Nice goes. “Gege—ah, ahh—s’too deep—”
Nice leans down, kisses the back of his neck. “You can take it,” he murmurs. “You always do.”
He rolls his hips again, pushing deep, filling Lin Ling completely. Lin Ling chokes on a breath, his body trembles, fingers clenching above him, thighs shifting helplessly under the pressure.
“Too much,” Lin Ling gasps, hips trying to rock back into it.
“I know,” Nice groans, voice wrecked. “You feel perfect.”
He pulls back slowly, watching as Lin Ling’s pussy clings to him, slick and pulsing, pulling him back in like he was made to be there.
The noises Lin Ling makes break something open in him, soft, gasping cries mixed with breathy stutters. No filter or shame, just raw, wanton need and heat. Nice’s grip tightens.
“You hear yourself?” he pants. “You’re so loud for me.”
Lin Ling whines louder. Nice’s pace picks up, fucking him harder now, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet of the bedroom. Every thrust rocks Lin Ling forward, sliding against the sheets, and still, still he’s pushing back for more. “Fuck, fffuck, gege, I’m—I’m gonna—”
Lin Ling sobs out a moan, shudders, and comes again, walls clenching around him, thighs trembling under the strain. His voice cracks into something high and broken, and his gushing pussy makes a wet mess of the duvet beneath them.
Nice braces one hand above Lin Ling’s head, the other holding his thigh up for angle and leverage, his hips slapping wet against soaked lace as he drives in again and again, chasing the friction, the heat, the feel of Lin Ling fluttering around him, clutching him like he wants to be ruined.
Lin Ling sobs out a moan when Nice bites his collarbone, then gasps again when Nice thrusts harder, deeper, right into the spot that makes him cry out, Yours, Nice, feels good, all the filthy things that spill from Lin Ling’s mouth, Nice drinks them up like champagne bubbles.
“Say it again,” Nice pants.
“Happy birthday?” Lin Ling whines into the pillow, high pitched and confused, legs tightening around Nice’s waist. He’s so dazed he can hardly crane his neck back to meet Nice’s gaze over his shoulder, eyes red rimmed and face wet with tears.
“Not that,” Nice huffs, and he would laugh if his brows weren’t pulled so tight together with the concentration of not finishing immediately.
“I’m yours,” Lin Ling breathes, catching on. “Yours, Nice. Please don’t stop—”
Nice pushes deep and stills, buried to the hilt, as Lin Ling gasps and trembles, cunt spasming around him. The rhythm of his insides pulsing pulls him over the edge. Nice grits his teeth and follows, hips locked, coming hard and deep inside him.
He leans forward, pressing kisses across Lin Ling’s shoulders. His head is so blissfully blank, he doesn’t even consider sliding out of the warm clutch of Lin Ling’s body.
They clean up eventually, if messily.
Nice doesn’t stop touching him for long. Lin Ling, barely coherent, curls into his chest once he’s free of the costume (which was much more complicated to remove than he expected), letting Nice wipe between his legs with a warm cloth, still twitching when he’s too rough.
After, they lie in bed, sheets tangled, Lin Ling dressed in one of Nice’s tshirts now, oversized, plain white, and slightly wet from his still damp hair. He’s reaching to pull Lin Ling close again, mouth warm against his throat, when Lin Ling pushes lightly at his chest. “Wait.”
Nice blinks. Lin Ling rolls over, wincing a little at the stretch in his hips, and reaches for the nightstand drawer. He pulls something out wrapped in a little crinkly paper bag.
“I got you an actual present too,” he mumbles against his shoulder.
Nice raises a brow. “There’s more?”
He takes out a small remote and shoves it into Nice’s hand.
Nice grins lazily. “What’s this? Another toy?” He kisses Lin Ling’s neck, trailing a hand down his stomach, already touching again.
Lin Ling elbows him in the ribs. “Press the button, pervert.”
Nice winces at the bruise but presses it anyway.
From the hallway, a soft mechanical whir builds. A roomba spins into the bedroom, LED lights blinking happily, dragging a ribbon behind it like a parade float.
Lin Ling stares at it. “It’s the dust mapping one. Top rated. I named him Optimus Prime.”
The roomba hits the doorframe, beeps, spins, then starts circling the room in a zigzag pattern.
Nice stares at the robot, back at Lin Ling, and then he laughs, loud and real, as he falls back against the pillows and pulls Lin Ling into his arms.
“I love it,” he whispers, kissing his hair. He loves it, he loves Lin Ling. He loves holding him in his arms even when their sweaty skin sticks together.
There was a time when Nice dreaded his birthday.
“I knew you would,” Lin Ling says, smug. He lets Nice wrap him up tight in his embrace.
Now he can hardly wait for the next.