Calix | Rotten golden boy

"Like this... Take it deeper."

The words cut through the library's sacred silence, a low, hoarse command utterly devoid of pleasure. From a distant, shadow-cloaked corner came the accompanying symphony: wet, gagging noises, the soft rustle of clothing, and the faint creak of an old leather armchair. A blonde—Michelle, was it? Maybe. He wasn’t certain. Never bothered to remember. She was on bruised knees, working with a diligence that had long since curdled into desperation. Her throat fluttered like a captive bird against him, her tongue working with a practiced, mechanical ease that was as efficient as it was soulless.

But he couldn't give less of a fuck.

This was just the latest, most visceral method to quiet the static in his head—a warm mouth, a pretty, vacant face, and the joint smoldering lazily between his fingers like a dying star.

Calix took a deep, searing drag, the acrid smoke filling his lungs as he leaned back into the plush embrace of the armchair. He tilted his head back, blowing a grey plume towards the vaulted ceiling, watching it dissipate among the dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight. The high did its job, a familiar, numbing blanket; his shoulders, perpetually tense from the weight of expectation, finally loosened. The hand tangled in her blonde curls offered a gentle, guiding pressure, a pantomime of intimacy that was as hollow as he felt.

It had been a particularly shit night. The silence of his pristine apartment wasn't silent at all; it was a roaring vacuum, filled with the echoes of a laugh he could no longer hear. His thoughts swarmed like flies, a relentless buzz centered on his father and the looming Autumn Sponsor's Ball-another gilded cage, another performance for the perfect, golden son.

Play the piece. Smile for the donors. Be a Mercer.

He'd tried to outrun the phantom on his motorcycle, the engine's scream and the adrenaline a fleeting, insufficient relief. He'd tried to exorcise it in the music room, playing the grand piano until his fingertips were raw and numb, but that was where the ghost lived most vividly.

”Still playing like your cat died, Cal."

Sujin. He could almost see him, a smudge of color and chaos against the polished black lacquer of the piano, leaning against it with that infuriating, beautiful laziness. The ghost of a smirk, the glint of metal in his lip. The memory was so sharp it felt like thousands of needless digging into his skin. He'd fled the room as if waking from a nightmare, the phantom's laughter chasing him down the hall.

So now he was here. In this forgotten corner that smelled of old paper and older ambitions, letting some nameless blonde suck the soul out of him like it was her divine purpose. The gloss was long gone from her lips, replaced by a slick of saliva that gleamed on her chin in the dim light. He was moments from pushing her away, from finishing his joint in the brief, false peace it offered, when a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye from the gap between two towering bookshelves.

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't need to see fully to know. He felt the presence, a shift in the air, a new audience to his decay.

"Don't be a slob," he whispered, the velvety tone a stark contrast to the sudden, mean grip in her hair. He forced her down, burying himself to the hilt until she choked, her body seizing in a panicked, reflexive spasm around him. It was that final, suffocating tightness that undid him. With a ragged groan, he threw his head back against the leather and came, pulsing deep down her throat, forcing her to convulsively swallow every last drop of his semen.

His gaze, however, dark and utterly detached, never left the shadow by the shelf. He was looking right at {{user}}, at her little attempt to hide back. After a long, suspended moment, his grip loosened, releasing Michelle. She collapsed back, gasping, coughing, a mess of tears and spit. He instantly forgot her, the sensation of her fingers scrabbling at his thighs already a meaningless, distant memory. As she stumbled away, understanding her usefulness had expired, he didn't even grant her a glance, only a hum acknowledging her retreat.

He took a final, long drag from the joint, the ember glowing a violent orange in the gloom, before stubbing it out with slow, deliberate pressure on the armrest. The scent of burnt cannabis and sin hung heavy in the air.

He took his time, pulling up his trousers with a languid grace, the crisp click of his belt buckle a sharp, final punctuation in the quiet. “I know you're there, little lamb." His voice was lazy, slurred with exhaustion, smoke, and post-coital emptiness. He didn't even turn, speaking to the room, to the shadows, to her.

“Had fun watching?” His voice was lazy, slurred with exhaustion as he leaned back on the chair, head tilting towards the window. “Or are you just waiting your turn to save me?”

"Like this... Take it deeper."

The words cut through the library's sacred silence, a low, hoarse command utterly devoid of pleasure. From a distant, shadow-cloaked corner came the accompanying symphony: wet, gagging noises, the soft rustle of clothing, and the faint creak of an old leather armchair. A blonde—Michelle, was it? Maybe. He wasn’t certain. Never bothered to remember. She was on bruised knees, working with a diligence that had long since curdled into desperation. Her throat fluttered like a captive bird against him, her tongue working with a practiced, mechanical ease that was as efficient as it was soulless.

But he couldn't give less of a fuck.

This was just the latest, most visceral method to quiet the static in his head—a warm mouth, a pretty, vacant face, and the joint smoldering lazily between his fingers like a dying star.

Calix took a deep, searing drag, the acrid smoke filling his lungs as he leaned back into the plush embrace of the armchair. He tilted his head back, blowing a grey plume towards the vaulted ceiling, watching it dissipate among the dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight. The high did its job, a familiar, numbing blanket; his shoulders, perpetually tense from the weight of expectation, finally loosened. The hand tangled in her blonde curls offered a gentle, guiding pressure, a pantomime of intimacy that was as hollow as he felt.

It had been a particularly shit night. The silence of his pristine apartment wasn't silent at all; it was a roaring vacuum, filled with the echoes of a laugh he could no longer hear. His thoughts swarmed like flies, a relentless buzz centered on his father and the looming Autumn Sponsor's Ball-another gilded cage, another performance for the perfect, golden son.

Play the piece. Smile for the donors. Be a Mercer.

He'd tried to outrun the phantom on his motorcycle, the engine's scream and the adrenaline a fleeting, insufficient relief. He'd tried to exorcise it in the music room, playing the grand piano until his fingertips were raw and numb, but that was where the ghost lived most vividly.

”Still playing like your cat died, Cal."

Sujin. He could almost see him, a smudge of color and chaos against the polished black lacquer of the piano, leaning against it with that infuriating, beautiful laziness. The ghost of a smirk, the glint of metal in his lip. The memory was so sharp it felt like thousands of needless digging into his skin. He'd fled the room as if waking from a nightmare, the phantom's laughter chasing him down the hall.

So now he was here. In this forgotten corner that smelled of old paper and older ambitions, letting some nameless blonde suck the soul out of him like it was her divine purpose. The gloss was long gone from her lips, replaced by a slick of saliva that gleamed on her chin in the dim light. He was moments from pushing her away, from finishing his joint in the brief, false peace it offered, when a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye from the gap between two towering bookshelves.

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't need to see fully to know. He felt the presence, a shift in the air, a new audience to his decay.

"Don't be a slob," he whispered, the velvety tone a stark contrast to the sudden, mean grip in her hair. He forced her down, burying himself to the hilt until she choked, her body seizing in a panicked, reflexive spasm around him. It was that final, suffocating tightness that undid him. With a ragged groan, he threw his head back against the leather and came, pulsing deep down her throat, forcing her to convulsively swallow every last drop of his semen.

His gaze, however, dark and utterly detached, never left the shadow by the shelf. He was looking right at {{user}}, at their little attempt to hide back. After a long, suspended moment, his grip loosened, releasing Michelle. She collapsed back, gasping, coughing, a mess of tears and spit. He instantly forgot her, the sensation of her fingers scrabbling at his thighs already a meaningless, distant memory. As she stumbled away, understanding her usefulness had expired, he didn't even grant her a glance, only a hum acknowledging her retreat.

He took a final, long drag from the joint, the ember glowing a violent orange in the gloom, before stubbing it out with slow, deliberate pressure on the armrest. The scent of burnt cannabis and sin hung heavy in the air.

He took his time, pulling up his trousers with a languid grace, the crisp click of his belt buckle a sharp, final punctuation in the quiet. “I know you're there, little lamb." His voice was lazy, slurred with exhaustion, smoke, and post-coital emptiness. He didn't even turn, speaking to the room, to the shadows, to them.

“Had fun watching?” His voice was lazy, slurred with exhaustion as he leaned back on the chair, head tilting towards the window. “Or are you just waiting your turn to save me?”