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caxasy · 1 day ago

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thinking about your caleb oral fixation fic and i raise you: reader who loves candy, but loves Caleb more.

i’m talking bout a reader who sees Caleb put an apple hard candy in his mouth so reader pulls him to a private area and makes out with him so hard so he can steal the candy from Caleb.

i’m talking bout a reader who’s about to give a big speech, notecards in hand, before realizing he has a lollipop in his mouth. so he finds Caleb backstage and gives him his lollipop for “safe-keeping” and so Caleb won’t “miss him too much” while he’s on-stage giving his speech.

bonus: mc who loves candy because of reader and Caleb, getting a cavity, so her only way to “eat” candy is to taste the leftover sugar on Caleb’s or reader’s mouth after they’re done with it.

does this make sense or am i insane…

i like this so much i will now be writing a little headcanon now basically with everything you just said.

cw: suggestive, sharing candy, so saliva is being shared too yall, lowk spit kink LMAO sorry im self indulgent

not proofread, i got excited and wanted to post this asap rocky please ignore any oddities in the writing if there are any.

— keep all the seeds

the sound of hard candy against teeth was such a satisfying sound. the sound alone can make you salivate. so when you heard even the tiniest sound of it, you were walking into caleb's room without any hesitation.

he knew how much you loved hard candy. he knew how your eyes would zero in on any piece of sugar that he has, how much you truly loves sweets. at this point, he was doing this just to get this exact reaction out of you. but it's okay, you'll give it to him. indulge him in his comedically unsubtle foreplay of what was to come.

"hey, what're you doing here? looking for something, you look like you're looking for something," he asked, a smirk on his face because he already knew the answer.

"shut up, you're such a brat," your words are harsh, but they're delivered with a smile on your face. you toss the phone he was holding to the side, kneeling on his bed and pushing him against his headboard.

without any more words exchanged, your lips were against his. he smiled, the hard candy in his cheek more visible now with the stretch of his lips. it was an aggressive kiss, you'll admit, but with the way his fingers were gripping your hips and waist, you knew he wasn't complaining.

your hand was on the back of his head, keeping him still while the other moved down his neck. gently squeezing, you forced him to gasp, allowing you entry into his mouth. he moaned into you at the feeling of your tongue against his.

but then he whined when you pulled away, taking the sweet candy from his mouth with a victorious look on your face.

"you're mean," he shuffles beneath you, rutting his hips ever so slightly upwards into you, "c'mere, please,"

"i like when you beg like that," you suck loudly on the candy in a mocking way, "but no, you got exactly what you wanted, babe,"

"not enough,"

"you're just so greedy, huh?"

"please," his bottom lip juts out as his eyes zero in on your cheek hallowed in, sucking the apple candy with a smirk on your face. his jaw is hanging open, tongue peaking out very slightly, begging you to come back to him.

you hum at the sight, a coo coming from you that makes him melt like putty underneath you. you adjust your positioning over him, biting back the smile as you feel him underneath you. he whimpers at the weight, fingers digging so hard into your skin you're sure he'll leave bruises.

with you now more comfortable on top of him, you're almost towering over him. you lean down and he's already shutting his eyes in preparation for your kiss, making you smile at his adorable expression.

you squeeze his face, forced his mouth open. his eyes widened instantly at the feeling, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. but then he sees you, balancing the now flat candy on your tongue and a sinister smirk on your face.

understanding you instantly, he drops his jaw open for you like a tired dog begging for a sip of water, tongue out and waiting for you. when you drop the candy back onto his tongue, he instantly closes his mouth and sucks on the sweet candy you two have now shared.

"good boy," you praise, roughly patting his cheek in encouragement, "now i'll leave you alone to deal with that problem of yours,"

"help your boyfriend," he groans, annoyed at you for getting off of him and pleadingly looking at you. "hey, hyung, i'm- please!"

you laugh, walking out of his room and enjoying the sound of his whines.

— lollipop

caleb was dressed in his best outfit. today was your graduation ceremony and you were delivering the valedictorian speech. he couldn't be any prouder, so of course, he had to look the part.

he wanted to look good, to make you proud to be heere with him just as proud as he was of you to be graduating at the top of your class. he used lily's camera as a mirror to adjust his tie, the girl huffing in annoyance to have to keep her arm propper up for so long.

"you look fine, caleb, stop worrying about your stupid tie," she says, well, more like whines, "my arm is tired too!"

"is it just me or is it slanted?"

"it's just you," she says with a deadpan expression.

"i just want to look good, pips, help me out," caleb only really cares about looking good for you, but he desperately wants to look good for you.

"why don't you just ask him yourself, he's coming over," lily's face brightens when she sees you walking towards them, a smile on your face and a lollipop pressed to the inside of your cheek.

"you guys are here, i've been looking for you two for so long," you pop the lollipop out of your mouth so the stick end doesn't get tangled up in lily's hair when you go down to hug her.

you then move to caleb, pressing a quick peck to his lips before pulling away, "you look so handsome," you compliment and it makes his cheeks for red.

"you look handsome too, hyung," seriously, you in your graduation gown and cap were doing things to him. you looked so handsome, the amount of chords you had around your neck were also not helping how weak his knees were feeling now. he never knew he'd think intelligience was something that could be this attractive to him, but it was.

"here, can you keep this for me, though? i can't really bring it on stage," he's so spaced out he doesn't even know what you're talking about, he just nods and waits for you to give whatever it was to him.

but when he feels the bulb of your lollipop push past his lips and rest in his mouth, he nearly chokes in surprise. the lollipop you had been nursing and sucking for the past couple of minutes was now resting in his mouth. and you quickly bid them goodbye, shouting a "don't miss me too much!" before you're running off backstage to go practice one more time before the ceremony starts.

if it wasn't for lily to be there to act as a support, caleb definitely would've fell to his knees right then and there.

"caleb! you're heavy, get off!" she cries out, but he's still drowning in the sweetness that you gifted him. "oh my god, you're acting like you two don't do worse than that almost every night. you two piss me off,"

he's still on cloud 9.

— bonus: caleb x male reader x mc

"just a lick! please, it won't hurt!" she whines, tugging on the collar of your shirt to get you to look at her. but you're stronger and more resilient than her, which she usually loves about you, but now it's annoying her. "oppa, please,"

"don't try sweet talking your way out of this," caleb teases, leaning into your other side and nuzzling into your neck, "your punishment for not being responsible, pips,"

"shut up caleb, no one was talking to you," she sticks her tongue out to him, then goes back to begging you. "oppa, please, just a lick,"

you sigh, sensing that continuously denying her won't get you anywhere. so you take the lollipop out of your mouth and you almost have pity for her and give in, but you shove the candy into caleb's mouth instead. he's looking at you offended, but can't even say anything to you as you're now zeroed in on satisfying lily.

"you're gonna stop whining for it afterwards?" she gulps at your tone, leaning into your touch and nodding her head. "i'll hold you to it, lily,"

and you're pressing yourself into her before she can properly react. the kiss is immediately turned into an open-mouthed, sloppy mess, but she isn't complaining. she tastes the sweetness of the lollipop, the ruby red that stains your tongue now transferring onto hers.

caleb can only watch with wide eyes as you two viciously, practically ferally, make out in front of him. lily is leaning into the couch cushions so far that she's practically laying down now, you on top of her with your legs slotted in between hers.

he pouts feeling left out and angrily sucking the lollipop you had given him.

finally, after what feels like forever, you pull away from her and laugh at the cherry red that stains her tongue and lips, so much so it almost looks like a gloss. mixing it in with the saliva coating her lips, it definitely looks like her favorite lippie.

"that enough sweetness for you?"

"hm, i think i need more," she hums, cheekily grinning at you as she plays with the hair at the base of your neck, "oppa's so sweet to me, hm?"

you roll your eyes at her familiar perssuasive tone, bringing her to sit up and carrying her onto your lap, "ask caleb for some more, i'm drained out of all possible sweetness," her eyes widen at that, now laser focusing on caleb that was right next to you two.

"caleb," she says in a sing song voice.

and the other man takes the lollipop out of his mouth, kissing you feverishly for a second before immediately moving onto lily. you chuckle at his greediness, plucking the lollipop from his hands and watching as he shifts lily from your lap onto his.

"two greedy brats," you roll your eyes, sucking the lollipop once more and going back to scrolling on your phone as the two next to you exchange the sweetness lingering on their tongues.

ten minutes later, the three of you are still in, what felt like, a never ending cycle, continuing on with these antics until you finally bite the lollipop down to crush it into mini pieces in your mouth.

"i'm cutting both of you off before you," you point a finger at lily who pouts, "get more cavities, and you," caleb whines as you direct your strict behavior to him, "from getting cavities,"

they both whine and complain for more, but you don't give in to their puppy dog eyes. you seriously had to babysit your boyfriend and girlfriend like you were their father or something.

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yunieful · 11 days ago

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missing & wishing

synopsis: you're a hunter who doesn't really have any friends. you (kinda?) hate everything, mostly yourself. you know MC but not that well. MC starts taking an interest in you, Xavier follows along, and you absolutely do not know what to do with that.

tags: LOTS of self-loathing, suicidal thoughts (no attempt tho), autistic reader, adhd reader, you have brain damage ur welcome, not the main character, but we do have, named main character, you two exist as diff people in the same universe wrow, god for all we know mc has a crush on YOU, some implication u might not be human if u squint, maybe you'll find out what u are...if i ever fuck with this again (not a vampire) mentioned: main character, reader, xavier + rafayel & zayne mention sylus isn't there yet and neither is caleb hold ur horses word count: 3.4k

a/n: not beta read much. please make note of the tags. completely diff universe from my lads au. sorta was a vent drabble at first, then slowly turned into a reader...fic? thing? where this reader has fuckin' lore in my head or some shit now. i am emotionally involved. (now you will be too!)

and this is my first reader fic be nice-

You are ordinary.

So why do you feel like a freak?

You’ve been a mirror all your life, trying to reflect what looks right. Press all the right buttons, keeping note of what gives positive responses and negative ones. You’re confused when people laugh and you laugh with them—then they stop, frowning at you. Sometimes the reflection shatters, and you don’t know how to fix it. When you try to pick up the pieces, you get more hurt. The blood trails form the reflections of people glaring at you, laughing at you, disgusted by you.

You try and you try and you try but they just know something is wrong.

And so, you stop trying to become a mirror, a mockingbird.

Hell, you stop trying to fly, to soar. Staying bright.

You just focus on what you know. What’s as easy as breathing.

And that seems to be Wanderers and fulfilling reports and orders.

You make sure the shadows become your friend, because then no one can see you. You stare at this vessel that is somehow yours, and remind yourself to be something else. Keep people far away or else they’ll find the flaws. Hold your guard because no one can see past these walls. They’ll become more people that just shatter you to pieces, once they see.

They never like you.

And that’s fine.

You hate yourself more.

So why do you live on?

Spite, you think. Because you refuse to be called a coward.

On one hand, someone like you shouldn’t exist. There are so many pieces that fit weirdly and are wrong. But on the other? You want to disappoint the people who want you gone. People who wanted you dead. They don’t get to decide when you end, only you do.

Besides, you’re used to disappointment after so many years. You’re long past questioning why. You just seethe that people are awful as always, and continue building your walls. Because you never need anyone else to point fingers at you to figure out all your flaws. You’re tired of trying to be soft when all they are is sharp. It’s best to put a mask over it all, and no one will even try to get in either.

“Hey, great work today.”

The keyboard clicking stops. You’re in the middle of writing a report. You don’t enjoy them, but they have to be done.

Your fingers curl in annoyance at being interrupted, ready to snap at whoever dares to approach you and ruin your workflow, because who the hell—

“Melody,” you say.

Someone else assigned to Unicorn along with you, and for whatever reason, she’s spoken to you once or twice before. Very small moments never lasting long around each other. Some boy is with her or Tara or Simone or someone, unlike you, never having a single person approach you or be around you.

She’s one of the top hunters, and you were paired together with her for a mission earlier today. A shock to you, since you don’t consider yourself one of the best hunters out there. You just make sure you’re efficient and that there’s no civilian casualties, if it can be helped.

You never worked with Melody before this. The partners you had were quiet and efficient, knowing to not bother making any small talk with you and only focus on the mission. Yet Melody tried to strike up conversation. It made you wonder if she even took her job seriously, but she quickly proved you wrong in combat. Her guns worked well around your scythe, one of a few weapons you specialized in. You both easily made quick work of the enemies and saved a few civilians caught in the crossfire.

But that was the end of it. Mission accomplished.

You had no clue why she’d be here bothering you.

Melody blinks, maybe thinking you were going to say something else, but you just stared boredly at the center of her forehead so direct eye-contact wouldn’t kill you on the spot. “Right. Um. I was thinking, maybe we could work together more often? When my partner Xavier isn’t around anyway.” You don’t say anything, just glance back at your monitor and continue typing again. “We work well together.”

“Was just doing my job,” you mutter.

It truly is baffling that this girl is even trying to strike up a conversation with you. Out of the corner of your eye, you can spot at least one or two co-workers around whispering and glancing your way. Since some people act like it’s still high school, you’re the outcast being talked to by the popular girl, and that shouldn’t happen.

“Well, you do a hell of a job.” Oh, shit, you’re writing some of the words Melody is saying. You immediately backspace. “You work as quick as Xavier, I swear.”

Your eyes narrow. This “Xavier” has been mentioned twice now. You have no idea who the fuck that is. “Xavier…?”

Melody tilts her head. “Xavier! You know, silver hair, blue eyes, hangs around with me sometimes?”

People watching sometimes happens, if you don’t especially hate them that day. You go through your repertoire of memories that barely hold together like your attention span.

Your brows slightly rise when you land on it and nod solemnly. “Twinkle Boy.”

A strange noise leaves Miss Hunter. “I’m sorry?”

You bother to spare a glance at her. “Twinkle Boy. That’s his name.”

“His name is Xavier.”

“Not to me.”

“Well, you remembered my name.”

“Yeah,” you say slowly, “you’re Melody.” You’re not sure how to explain without starting to develop the cracks on your facade you don’t want anyone to look too closely at. That’s how it sometimes starts. You’re just Melody shaped, you try to reason in your little pea brain. I don’t fucking know.

She giggles a bit, tilting her head at you, and for some reason, you don’t feel like she’s laughing at you, like so many others do. Something in her eyes says something you’re not quite familiar with and you’re not sure what to do with either.

You decide you don’t like it.

“Anyway,” you lean back in your seat, and also lean back metaphorically from this entire conversation, “I gotta get this report done, so—”

“Oh, yeah, of course!” Melody waves it off. “For real, though, I hope we work together again.”

You dare glance up one more time, and she’s smiling. At you. You’re almost tempted to look back to see if she’s looking at anyone else, but no. And it almost seems…genuine.

She can’t truly mean it, can she?

“Yeah, sure,” is all you can muster. “See ya.”

She waves before turning and leaving you to finally get this damn report done.

And yet, your mind dares to wander, to try and assess what it is she possibly wants from you. Because it certainly has nothing to do with your overall presence. Does she truly just mean working together on another mission? You don’t have any special skills. Your Evol doesn’t count, in your opinion, since it’s—

You clear your throat, as if it’ll chase those thoughts away, and type.

But they’re never gone. They cling to you tightly, shaped like thorns.

You can’t decide if some higher being hates you or loves you.

You and Melody do end up working together again. The missions continue to go smoothly. You adjust to whatever arsenal Melody decides to give you to work with that day. (“A staff? Seriously?”) For some reason, you start actually talking with Melody. She’s the one that mainly carries the conversations, though, with you saying little of anything.

You just can’t understand why.

You could have told her to stop, to back off. You could’ve told Captain Jenna you didn’t want to work with her again. Yet you don’t do any of that. You let Melody figure out ways to get you to talk and respond to her, and you oblige her for some reason you’re not even sure of yourself.

Oh, come on, you know, your mind argues.

If you’re going to say anything about companionship or even liking this girl, I’m tuning out again, you threaten.

Your mind shuts up, but you can imagine it’d be laughing, if you let it.

Melody is…soft, bright, and—

Well, loved.

Twinkle Boy Xavier makes sure she’s doing okay if they’re not together. You hear about how he checks up on her at times when she’s hurt or has a rough day. Her doctor is literally a cardiac surgeon for her heart problem. They grew up together before he disappeared, and they found each other again like it’s the beginning of a Hallmark movie. Except maybe it could be better than a Hallmark movie. (You are a fan of vintage stuff. Sometimes eras like the 2000’s are fascinating.)

There’s some painter dude Melody has talked to you about now and then that designates her as his bodyguard. You wondered how she got that extra pay, and she says it was from a mission said painter was involved in. Then you recall about the painting that killed some guy named Raymond (“allegedly” but you doubt it).

They text her, they check in on her when they’re available. Sometimes it’s why Melody can’t “hang out” with you, and you always just brush it off. Someone like Melody would be the type to have so many people care. There are just people others are drawn to, like a beacon.

Not you.

And you usually don’t care.

So why does some part of you feel…what? Disappointment? During the few times Melody has had to cancel on you.

When the hell did the disappointment go past yourself and people you hated?

Maybe you miss her.

Whatever little bit of logic your brain is trying to do needs to be flung across the room and stuffed into a drawer far away to never be thought of again. Because your brain is so damaged that, at times, object permanence is truly your nemesis. Now it could potentially be your salvation.

“I am just tolerating them,” you remind yourself, alone in your apartment. “That’s it!”

For whatever reason, Xavier starts checking up on you at work.

And why is it strange he’s doing it at work? Well, the reason you know Xavier happens to be because his apartment is right next to yours. With Melody being below you two.

You never really talked too much. You’d sometimes spot each other and greet each other or acknowledge each other in some way. Though you didn’t bother to continue talking with him when realizing you were both hunters, and he didn’t either. You just kept it to those short moments at your apartment complex.

Simple, distant, controlled interactions.

And now he’s ruining it.

“You should get that checked out.”

He points at the bandage on your head, and you just scoff and roll your eyes while writing some stuff down at your desk. Best to do it now before you forget.

“I have a hard head,” you say, tone flat and dry as it usually is around others. “I’ll go when I know my head is truly in jeopardy.” Which, it usually isn’t; you already have plenty of brain damage anyway. What’s a little more?

“I hope you’re not as dumb as Mel about injuries.” His tone can easily match yours. But him? He’s softer when he speaks.

You? You’re all sharp, keeping as prickly as possible.

You’ve been called worse. “Yeah, let’s hope,” you mutter, clearly not interested in what he has to say.

“What are you writing?”

Your eyes widen, hearing how close he is, but you try to keep your voice as neutral as possible. “Please don’t look over my shoulder like that. You’re too close.” You poke at him with your pen, not daring to turn around and very careful in making sure it’s just the pen touching him and not any actual part of your body.

Thankfully, he listens. You can feel the pen start to fall to prove he’s leaning back.

“Sorry.”

You breathe deeply, shutting your eyes briefly. The pen becomes your anchor for a moment, gripping on it hard enough the leather of your gloves squeaks a little.

You don’t even reassure him it’s fine, because, well, it’s not. There is a very definitive reason why you can’t handle anyone being close to you to the point of touching you. But you’re not going to snap at him about it; he doesn’t know.

“If you’re so curious, it’s just my grocery list.” You shut your notebook and rise from your seat, now finding the area stifling. The world shifts slightly, but you know it’s not enough to send you to a hospital. You just keep still for a second before moving. “Don’t you have Melody to bother?”

He follows you, and you hold your notebook tightly, which now has your pen resting on the spiraled edge keeping said notebook together.

Why is he following me?

“Oh, right. She wanted me to ask you if you wanted to join us for some hotpot.”

WHY?

You pause your steps and turn around, thankful Xavier stopped when you did, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you.

“Hotpot?” Before he can open his mouth, you hold up your free hand to stop him. “I know what it is, Twinkle Boy.” His brows rise, but he doesn’t say anything about the nickname. (This isn’t the first time you called him this anyway.) “Anyway,” your response is quick, “no thanks. I’m just gonna warm something up at home.”

You don’t even give him a chance to argue. You just walk away, planning to get back to your desk in a second to grab everything and leave.

When you stare down the aisle of some snacks on your way home, your mind wanders on what would’ve happened if you did go. Or even what type of snacks Xavier likes to eat, because you’ve seen him with a few at the Association.

You quickly shut those thoughts away, keeping them locked along with so many other thoughts and feelings.

You are ordinary.

So why do you feel wrong?

If you don’t feel like some freak, you just continue to feel wrong. You feel wrong missing Melody and Xavier. You feel wrong wanting to shop with Xavier and dare ponder his favorite snacks.

You feel wrong wishing for company.

This life has always been alone.

Anytime you even tried to make a friend (just that word is so foreign to you), kids usually ran away from you. They giggled and laughed with their other friends, all of them clearly talking about you, especially once they pointed fingers.

The times they even did bother with you, it’d be with tight smiles and irritation in their eyes. The relationship was purely transactional, and you were usually left bankrupt. You had something they needed, and they took and took and took.

Back then, you really had no backbone to say no. You wanted to please everyone as much as possible. Back then, you would have danced on hot rocks if you could’ve, if those people became your friends after.

Then you became an empty husk, and what you filled it with was thorns and disgust. Disgust mainly at people.

Ugh, people.

They have done nothing but hurt you.

So what makes these people different?

Is it Xavier never laughing right at your face? Insulting you in any way? Just being nice? You can’t have fallen so far from your original path of keeping your walls up and keeping everyone out to be reduced to letting someone in (just a smidge, a smidge) for being nice. Who the fuck are you?

Is it Melody being completely fine with you barely talking and having her make up most of the conversation? Is her actually laughing at some of your dark humor or things you mutter under your breath actually what got you? Or is it that somehow everytime you’re around her, you don’t sense the slightest bit of irritation? Every smile she gives you is genuine and never tight or forced? Almost making you want to smile?

“What do you know about the N109 Zone?”

You stiffen in your seat, stopping yourself from drinking your matcha latte. (One of the few drinks that won’t make your stomach scream.) “Why are you asking me?”

Melody gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’m just curious. No one really talks about it much or seems to know much about it.”

You’d wonder if she can read minds, if you didn’t know about her Evol before. Now, you had to dare wonder if this was a coincidence or if she knew.

“Yeah, but why are you asking me?”

Melody is about to speak, but you cut her off with your flat, dry tone further.

“I have brain damage, Melody.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes at you. “You always say that, and it won’t work everytime! Just because you have brain damage doesn’t mean you don’t know things.”

“Yeah, but who says I know anything about the N109 Zone specifically?” You narrow your eyes at her. “This is more than just curiosity here.” It’s not a question, you just know.

“I—! No, I just wanna know what it’s like there.”

“Dark and lawless and sad. There.” You lean forward, eyes still narrowed. “You’re such a bad liar.” Considering she heats up and fumbles her words a lot when you’ve noticed her to be rather charismatic and charming around others?

Yup, she’s lying.

“Dark?” She totally ignores your accusation, and you huff. “Lawless? And…sad?”

It makes me sad sometimes whenever I gotta pop up there.

Not that you voice this outloud, of course.

You lean back, relaxed now and not suspicious (as much). “You don’t want to go there, Melody.” You don’t know what compels you to continue speaking, but you do. “I’m sure it’s very important, but it’s not worth it. And it’s also a bitch to even get in.”

She tilts her head at you, almost mirroring your suspicious glare from before. “You talk like you’ve had experience.” Your name is said after that, smoothly and calmly.

You don’t like how that makes you feel.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” You shrug, glancing away. “I know what I know, that’s that.”

A moment of silence passes between you two, and you sigh heavily from how easily you can just smell Melody’s disappointment. It’s so familiar of a stench from years of experiencing it towards you.

And, jeez, is she pouting?

You roll your eyes so hard they’re in the back of your head, until you sigh heavily.

“Knowing you, you’re going to try to get in there anyway for whatever shit you’re doing.” You sip some more of your matcha before continuing. “Fine. I’ll help you get in.” W H Y?

Shh, you silence your own brain.

Oh my god are you doing this willingly?

Shut up.

I am literally your brain.

You try not to roll your eyes as Melody stares at you in disbelief, after almost choking on her own drink.

“What? Really?” Augh, gods, she sounds so hopeful.

There’s no going back now.

Actually, yes, there is.

Nope, can’t.

Why? Because it’d break your heart if she was sad?

Nope, nope, you’re not falling for that shit. Shut up, brain.

“Might as well,” you say, trying your best to sound like you’ve been forced to do this because you don’t want to help her, at all, you just can’t stand stupid people except maybe yourself (barely).

“Thank you so much,” she says your name happily, genuinely. You hate that it’s making your heart crumple up like tinfoil and it doesn’t hurt. “How about we head back to my place and I can show you what I’ve found and know?”

Her place?

You haven’t been hanging out with Melody for that long, so you’ve never really been to her place. Just because you both live in the same apartment complex doesn’t mean you go take any trips down there. Certainly no sleepovers. (Imagine having sleepovers…not you.)

“Okay,” you say regardless, because if you think too much you might just terminate your entire mind. “Lead the way then.”

Melody gives you a smile that dares to shine light somewhere in that cold, dark flesh vessel of yours. Feeling like somewhere—among your many, many thorns—that maybe a flower will bloom, despite the struggle.

Then she gets up and gestures for you to follow and walk beside her, keeping a respectable distance as always for…reasons.

You are ordinary.

Fuck. Are you?

#love and deepspace #lads xavier #he's in there for a lil bit #lnds #lads #love and deepspace fanfic #lads fanfic #lads mc x reader #cass writes

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mephisto-with-a-knife · 2 months ago

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Man not even any aftercare??? MC what the hell 🧍

— 「 STRICTLY BUSINESS 」 PT 1

Sylus x Reader x MC — 10k

summary: mixed signals are her first language. she strokes her hand down your forearm, laces her fingers with yours and hits you with a one-two punch: "i'm so happy you made it! this is my boyfriend."

content: threesome, piv, pussy inspection, body worship, fem reader, reader is not mc, established relationship (mc & sylus), creampie, unsafe sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism (fantasized), dry humping, miscommunication trope that kind of works out in reader's favor, alcohol consumption, mc is nameless, non-descript, and referred to with she/her. mdni. dividers by @/adornedwithlight

You were on your way out the first time she walked into your bar.

She had come in with a gaggle of other hunters - work friends, you’d learned quickly. Hunters came in all the time. It was just far enough from headquarters that their superiors wouldn’t stop by for a cocktail, just ritzy enough to justify the elevated prices, but not enough to break their budgets. The bartender was a complete madman, but he could make a hell of a signature cocktail. Something pretty enough for a Moments post, but tasty enough to order again and again, and rotated just often enough that there was something new to post when you needed it.

You’d worked there for years - longer than you had ever planned on staying. Cocktail waitressing was supposed to help you get through school. When you had graduated, you’d found yourself struggling. You'd landed a cushy gig in the archives. Zero contact with the general public, great benefits. It was perfect, almost, except for your salary. It would have been enough to live on if you hadn’t been saddled with student loans, suddenly accruing interest again after years. As much as you hadn’t wanted to pick up more work (read: cried into your drink with some friends, lamenting that you weren’t born rich), you wanted to be debt-free more.

It had been easy enough to start picking up a few shifts a week. No need to look around for some place new when your old manager had practically dropped to her knees and wept when you asked if there was any room for you in the schedule again. It was less that you were a world-class server, more that you were consistent. On time, minimal call outs, already knew the ins and outs of the club. The interview was a formality. You filled out your paperwork while she caught you up on the workplace drama. Who broke up, who got together, who finally got fired – important stuff.

The first time you had served her, she had seemed so polite.

Any other time, you would have been happy to have a regular like her. Hunters were usually a mixed bag. Tips were usually good, but they could get rowdy. She kept her more boisterous coworkers in line with an ease you hadn’t expected from her. She was sweet, almost gentle at times - but she curbed bad behavior swiftly. Sometimes through misdirection - her hand on someone’s elbow, nodding along with their joke, effortlessly steering the topic of conversation away from the hot button issue. Sometimes, though, she’d put a stop to things with force.

You still remember the time she’d hefted her friend off of a table, scruffing him by the back of his shirt like a naughty kitten before you’d had the chance to intervene. She’d managed to haul him off of the table top with one arm, muscles flexing underneath her sleeves, steadying the table with her foot.

“No one came here to see you crack your head open,” she started in, shoving him back into his seat. You left long enough to return the mop to the supply closet. When you got back, she was still tearing into him.

It had been such a thorough dressing down that you’d said the only thing you could think of at the time – “yeah, get his ass.”

That had been the first time you had heard her laugh.

Not the sweet, restrained thing you’d heard before, the kind that you had leaned closer to hear more of, but loud and raucous, a snort taking her by surprise. She took the drink you passed her, her shaking shoulders sloshing it from rim to rim, and pressed her laugh to the edge of the glass.

That was when she became your favorite.

It’s mutual, you think. You dove for her table every time she came in. When you didn’t manage to get her right when she walked through the door, she requested you by name. Niceties gave way quickly to small talk, to hushed confessions and secrets exchanged underneath the driving bass of the club’s tracklist.

'Please' and 'thank you', eye contact every time she spoke to you. She laughed at your jokes - a little too long, a little too loud. Was her sense of humor that broken, or was she just dedicated to being kind to service workers?

You live for the moments she walks in the door, for the times that she picks the lint off your black button ups. No judgement, no comment, cleaning up your frayed edges like it was the most natural thing in the world. You start pushing your sleeves up in a bunch, only because after her first drink she will demand you sit next to her. She pushes your sleeves down and rolls them up nicely, takes her time making every fold crisp and presentable. She pats your arm when she's done, smiles sweetly, and turns back to her drink.

You'll catch an earful about playing favorites later. What are they gonna do, fire you? You're on your way out, anyway.

That day is closer than you thought. One sunny weekend, you’d sat at your kitchen table, blearily squinting at your computer. The realization warmed over at the same speed as your breakfast burrito, the microwave blaring as you realize that you’re at the finish line. You click through the pages, searching for anything you missed, any hidden fees or missed payments that would put you back into the hellhole of student loan debt - but there’s nothing. This next payment, and it was really over.

Thank you, scholarships. Thank you, dollar menus. Thank you, pretty hunters who leave fat tips.

You didn’t think twice about putting your notice during your next shift. The late nights after your 9-5 had been getting to you for a while. There was no benefit they could offer, no raise substantial enough to get you to stay. All that was left was to tell the regulars and struggle through your last few shifts.

The temptation to walk out during your last week was almost irresistible. You’d said most of your important goodbyes. There was only her left, your favorite hunter - and lo and behold, she came traipsing in with her usual crew that Wednesday.

You’d intended to tell her straight away, but her friends were rowdy that night. You're sure they'd all want to know thatyour're getting out of here, but the selfish part of you wants her focus. Some drama about protocores and wanderers keeps them chattering. Not your concern. If there’s no immediate threat, most of it goes in one ear and out the other. With no Evol yourself, you left that to the people a little more gifted than you. It was their job to deal with that, and your job to get them drunk so they still showed up to work.

Opportunity presents itself when you're busy collecting their fourth round of drinks. Her friends dart away to the bathroom, stumbling down the stairs, leaning against each other. You stack their orders quickly onto your tray and try not to seem excited when you bounce up the steps to her booth.

She looks up from her phone at the sound of your footsteps. There's a delay in her reaction, smile lagging before she's able to muster it. She sways gently. Definitely drunk, you note.

“It's my last week.” You lower your tray. Her hand stills on the glass before delicately curling around the stem.

Her fingers are slim. Well kept. Short, clean, probably a clear coat of polish if anything. She cradles the martini glass as if you'd offered her a flower.

A rose. No – too much, too forward. Daffodils, maybe. Vibrant, bright - something that could bring her good luck.

“What? That's so exciting!”

She tries to clap, forgetting the glass in her hand. Her manhattan spills against her chest, stains her white shirt. You divert your eyes immediately, pull a clean cloth from your pocket and offer it to her. It takes every effort to stop yourself from dropping next to her and dabbing her chest clean yourself. Not appropriate behavior with a customer, you chide yourself.

"You're kind of a goblin, huh?"

Shit. Neither was that. The words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them. You kept the grin pinned to your face even as your heart shriveled up in your chest. Oh my god, how could you have said that? She was still a customer. You didn't know her like that.

She blinks at you, lips parted - shock. She's too polite to say anything, but she’ll lodge a complaint with your manager. It shouldn’t matter. This is your last week. You’ve been saying out of pocket shit all week just because you can. But to her, of all people?

"Kind of?" She laughs. She drains her drink and sets it back to the table. You intercept her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She trades you for the cloth and paws at the mess like a little kitten. "It took you this long to figure it out?"

Your shoulders round, grin smoothing into a smile. The tension in your stomach unspools into warm relief.

"You put up a good front. Want another?"

She shakes her head. Her whole body sways with the movement. Hopefully she's got a ride home. Otherwise, you'd be calling her a cab. A pretty girl like her, making her way home on public transit, stumbling every other step, was a recipe for disaster even if she was some kind of ace hunter.

"Nah, I probably shouldn't," she sighs. She lays back into the plush chair, arms splayed over the back, legs kicked out wide. Her head turns to the ceiling, eyes shut. A sigh rolls through her body.

Your eyes scan down her form. Stop, you tell yourself, eyeing the space of her legs, how the width between her knees is the perfect amount of space for you to step into, to kneel down, hands braced against the tops of her thighs.

It's not that sort of club, you chide yourself, eyes sliding back up. A jolt cracks down your spine, aftershocks tingling through your fingertips. Her cheek is cushioned against the back of the seat, eyes low and half-lidded, staring at you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, pretend to be busy wiping the rim of her glass. Your fingers brush against her lipstick print. Don't think about it. Don't think it. Don't–

"When's your last day?" She asks, leaning forward, elbows dropping to her knees. You force yourself to hold her gaze, to keep your eyes averted from the clear view down the front of her stained shirt.

"Friday."

"Two more days! Are you excited?"

I was, you think. You shrug, playing at non-committal detachment.

"It's bittersweet," you finally settle on. It's not a lie. You're excited to move on, excited to leave the late nights, the rowdy patrons, the constant turnover.

But then there were your coworkers. The years of memories. The routine and policy that was ingrained in you, as easy as breathing.

There was her. Her smile, her laugh hidden behind her hand, the brush of her fingers when you passed her a drink.There were the fleeting touches that you convince yourself you imagined when you were alone in your bed, sheets tangled in your legs. You’d stare at the ceiling, pet the empty space next to you, imagine her tucked under your arm and snoozing peacefully against your chest. How long will she stay in your memory? How long til her edges bleed into something formless? Til you no longer imagine her, or someone in her shape, or anyone at all, til you’re staring up at the ceiling alone again.

She falls quiet. You imagine it, you're sure, the way that her eyes rove up and down your body, the way they flit back to your eyes. Locked on, target sighted -- one shot from those fancy hunter pistols and you're done for.

"You're my favorite," she says, voice approaching a whine. Her head tips back, delicate column of her throat bared to you.

You laugh, a little too late to be natural. You swipe your thumb – the same one that had smudged the lipstick from her glass – against your bottom lip.

“Want the scoop on the other servers so you can pick your new favorite?”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowing.

“No. I want you.”

Heaviness settles between you. Your fingers twitch towards her. You flatten your palm against your hip. The music fades as the track blends to something slower, softer, and you realize at once that the thrumming in your chest isn’t the beat, it’s your heart, hard and fast and pounding in your ears.

“Really?” You try to whip the heaviness to something lighter, offer her a dollop of levity. “You don’t want the gossip?”

Her silence stretches on. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. A burst of movement and she fishes out a scrap of paper, struggles to find a pen.

“I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, already waving away the company line before you can draw it between you. She scratches the dry pen against the paper again and again, crumpling it until the ink flows. “But if my number just happens to wind up in your pocket, then I guess I was just a patron who had a little too much. And when you don’t work here anymore…”

She tucks her number into your pants pocket, fingers pressing flat against your thighs. Your heart is in your throat. If you try to speak, you’re certain she’ll hear it, loud, beating for her.

“You keep trying to get me fired right up until the end.”

It takes you until Monday to text her.

You have no excuse. Your weekend was unhurried. You'd barely left the house, spent your time turning her words over and over in your head in between housework and intermittent naps. Text her. Don't text her. It's wrong, it's right - do you even want to? Do you like her, or do you like being seen? You don't know her. Not really.

But isn't this part of the knowing, though? This awful in-between, hanging in limbo, getting tossed around on the wash cycle.

You type out a hundred drafts and delete every single one. She was drunk when she gave this out. You should have just texted her after that shift to check if she got home okay. That would have been what a better woman would have done, a woman that could match her step for step.

It's too late now. You're not self-sabotaging, you're just being honest with yourself. There's a difference.

Monday rolls around and you find yourself drafting out your 101st message in between synchronizing old archived files with the city’s new database. Your eyes flit from the screen, the progress bar creeping up torturously slow, to the flicker of your cursor at the end of your latest drafted message.

Fuck it. Why not.

hey. it's your favorite waitress. is this weird? lol

Regret punches into your stomach the moment that you hit send. You stare at the faint 'Delivered' status and grimace. Definitely weird. All that time and that was what you ended up with? God, you didn't even put your name in the message. She probably thinks some rando is texting her, creeping –

She read it. She's typing.

You lock your phone immediately and click around pointlessly on your computer. Open email. Close email. Refresh. Log into the old archives. Click around through the years. Nod along sagely as your eyes glaze over some old police report. Yes, of course. Evol records. Traffic reports for 8th Avenue. Mhm.

The light flickers, message preview lighting up the screen. You drop your head into your hands, more than prepared to just delete the number and forget this ever happened. You snatch your phone up, dread weighing your movements down.

I was wondering when you would text! Saving your number right now.

What are you doing?

Huh. You hadn't seen that one coming. It only takes you a handful of drafts to respond this time. You're both at work - shocking, you had commented. You thought that hunters would be too busy to play on their phones. Turns out there's more desk work involved than you imagined.

The ease you felt in person weaved quickly between your texts, even when the demands of the day pulled you both away. By the end of the day, you'd made plans to meet up with her for drinks later in the week. Some great place she knows, a real hidden gem.

The conversation tapered off naturally, and you found yourself swiping up to reread your messages. You're smiling at your phone like a teenager. Embarrassment cold clocks you. You focus up, tucking your phone into your desk drawer to try to focus.

You’re on cloud nine for the rest of the work day, humming to yourself, tapping out a rhythm against your desk while the system takes forever to process basic search requests. By the end of the day, you’re still bubbly. You bounce into the break room to collect your lunch box.

Even the sight of Inspector Devon’s scowling mug doesn’t ruin your day. He’s just clocked back in, you’re sure. A whole half shift to go, finding minor infractions to meet his quota.

"What's got you all," he waves a hand up and down the length of you, nose crinkling, "giddy?"

"Can't I be happy?"

"No. It's creepy."

You roll your eyes and brush by him, out the door. Nothing could ruin this.

You stare down at the text on your phone, brow pinched.

We’re at the bar! Excited to see you. Punctuated with a little crow emoji waving at you through the screen.

You should have just asked. You should have made sure this was a date, not just expected it to be one. Now, standing outside the club, you feel like a kid playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

You'd gone all out. Wore your favorite outfit, fixed your face up, the whole nine yards. Now it feels like too much. The jewelry is too heavy, makeup caked on too thick. You're acutely aware of every place your outfit fails to hide your flaws. The pinch of your heels is suddenly unbearable.

You had showed up on time - not early, not late, 9 PM on the dot. Disappointment stings the fresh edges of rejection. You did this to yourself. You know that. It's no one's fault but your own.

You force yourself to move, one step at a time. It can still be fun, you tell yourself, deleting the draft you had typed out that claimed some mysterious stomach virus had struck you down. You can stockholm yourself into having a good time. Your life is different now. You're different. You send back a perfunct ‘omw in’ and force yourself through the doors.

The place is packed. It's far larger than your old workplace. Less private booths, more tall tables and standing room, crowded dance floor and driving bass that propels your every step forward. Couches dot back end of the room, fitted neatly into recessed conversation dens. That’s going to be filthy, you think. The clientele skews older. One glance at the bar has you realizing you’re far out of your price point.

You peer past glittery dresses and designer shirts, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet for a glimpse of her. You expected her to be with her hunter friends, but she's posted up at the bar, leaning close to some man. None of her usual crew is to he found.

He's tall - silver hair, angular features, outfit that screams ‘I have money’. More importantly, he has all her attention. Through the crush of bodies, you see her hand rest against his knee.

You divert your attention immediately, ignoring the spike of jealousy. She takes a long sip of her cocktail - a Manhattan again, you might have guessed - and that's when she spots you.

Her face lights up. Your smile is gentle, dim in the shadow of her own glow. She pushes her drink into the man's hand and weaves her way over to you.

"You made it!" She cheers, her hands sliding from your elbows to your wrists. Your heart flutters. You try to sear the touch into your memory. "I'm so happy you're here. C’mon - you have to meet my boyfriend."

Her boyfriend. There goes that. You take some solace in the idea that she wants to introduce you to her boyfriend. What you’d hoped for is out of reach, but you can still find friendship here.

"This place is great," you lie.

She says something under the cover of the music that you don’t catch. You lean close, cupping a hand over your ear, and you still don’t catch it on the repeat. Sure. Smile and nod, and that's enough to get her pulling you back to the bar. The people part for her, like they know better than to stand in her path

The man – her boyfriend, you correct – turns, hands her drink back. He looks you up and down, opens his mouth, and she cuts him off.

“This is Sylus,” she says, hopping up into the seat next to the tall man again. There's something unspoken in his gaze, the way his eyes cut to hers, the sly twist to her smile when she ignores him. She introduces you quickly. You smile, wave, go through the motions of small talk. Whatever that was, you're not getting into it.

She leans over the bar, flags down the bartender to get you a drink. It goes on his tab. Sylus keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. He probably knows you’re into his girl, can smell it on you. She's plucked herself in between the two of you, and every time you find yourself staring at her, Sylus’ cold gaze cautions you to cast your own out to the dance floor.

Their back and forth is easy. Your heart aches, but you laugh along with jokes that you lack context for, pretend you don't see the easy touches he presses to her waist. He's not being cold, you know that. You're hyper-aware, analyzing every tiny movement, looking for a reason to call it quits. Your little rabbit heart wasn't built for this.

When she flutters away to the bathroom, she trails her hand along your back so gently that you want to believe it was intentional. Your heart plummets into your stomach. It's a miracle it doesn't just fall out your ass.

Silence stretches between you as far as it can in a nightclub. You flash Sylus a smile. It goes unreciprocated. You drain your drink instead, set it back to the bar.

How do you make a swift exit? How do you get out of this and preserve your friendship with her? You map out escape routes in your mind. You’re mentally half-way out the fire exit when the bartender drops another drink off in front of you.

"You didn't have to do that," you say, cradling your drink close, both hands clasped around the lowball glass.

"That's a funny way to say ‘thank you’.”

Real charmer, this guy. You swallow a mouthful with a swing of our head, let the whiskey burn down your throat. You were just going to assume that was his attempt at teasing. Good will goes a long way.

“Are you a hunter, too, or–”

“No.”

You nod. “Cool. Me either.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I work for the city.” You wave your hand nebulously in the air. Another long drink. “Back in the archives. I’m a ‘Data Steward’. Basically just means I handle information requests and deal with the record management.”

Sylus appraises you for a moment, carmine eyes tracing your expression, stalling on your lips. Whatever he finds, he seems to accept. He smirks - the first sign of warmth you’ve seen from him aside from the drinks you keep draining.

He leans forward, the gap where she had been diminishing. The timbre of his voice undercuts the music, reaches your ears in a way that makes you shudder. “You must have quite the security clearance.”

You laugh, push your empty glass back. Sylus raises a hand. It's removed swiftly.

“Background checks are a cakewalk. I’m super boring.”

A look flickers across Sylus’ face. Amusement, you think. You'd seen the same look when she had made a joke, thought it was disdain at first.

“And what does someone who's ‘super boring’ do for fun?” He casts his gaze around the club. Your eyes linger on the slope of his nose. “Not this, clearly.”

Wherever that line of questioning was going, you never find out. Warmth and weight presses against your back. Her perfume envelops you - sweet up front, just short of cloying, cut with a spice underneath those layers. Your hunter is back, her arms draping around your neck. You twist to see her. It takes everything in you to keep your hands on the bar in front of you.

"Dance with me," she demands, her hand finding its way to yours. She tugs you up and off your stool before you can compose a denial.

Your eyes flit to Sylus, wide and worried. He only sips at his drink, gaze focused on you. You don't know if he nodded to the dance floor or if you invented the movement in your memory to assuage the guilt.

The guilt doesn't last long. She has an incredible ability to wipe your mind the moment it’s the two of you. She twirls out of your reach, leaves you stumbling after her, and laughter comes easy afterward. You've never heard any of these songs in your life, but she dances as if every one of them is her favorite. Her joy is just as infectious as her laugh, her smile. If you make a fool of yourself, she doesn't let you feel it.

Affection worms its way between your ribs, wraps around your heart and squeezes. She grabs your hand on the up tempo, raises it high - you get the memo and keep it held there, let her do a pretty little spin that sends her reeling into your chest. You giggle, stumble back onto your heel. You brace her with hands poised on her hips, and she meets your eyes, so close, so warm.

The club dances on around you, bass a driving heartbeat that the patrons pulse to, but you're suspended with her. It happens in an instant. She moves to kiss you and you surge forward to meet her.

The first pass is clumsy. Your enthusiasm crashes your noses together awkwardly. Her lips are soft against yours. She laughs into your kiss, effortlessly shifting to align with you. She raises your hand again, demanding another spin. You give it to her - of course you do - but you're chasing after her kiss, leaning after her.

She’s at the end of your reach, clinging to your fingertips, when reality slams back into motion. Your muscles seize. The graceful, flowing way you had reeled her in turns stiff, elbow locked tugging her back. Your breath barely squeaks past the lump that’s wedged into your throat.

She's still laughing, radiant and shining under the pulsing club lights. Your hands brace on her shoulder. Confusion pushes the happiness in her eyes to the side. She tries to curl against your chest again, and you take a step back, this time without her.

"I'm sorry," you say in a rush. “I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have.”

Her boyfriend is going to kill you. You don’t know how he’s going to do it, but you know that it’s going to hurt. They’re going to bring your family in to ID your body and they’re going to shrug and say ‘this could be anyone. I’m not convinced you’re not just showing me a pile of ground beef.’

“No, I liked it,” she insists. “You can do it again.”

“I can’t.”

“Please?”

Your mouth works around syllables that stay inside your mind. What the fuck kind of world did you wake up in? Is this a protofield? Are you in a coma? You thumb towards Sylus over your shoulder, only managing to produce a singular, confused noise.

Her foot wedges between your legs, body pressing against yours. “It’s okay.”

That does not help. Your hands hover over her hips, fingers flexing in the air, so close to touching her, restraint held by a thread. If your hands land on her again, you don’t know if you’ll push her away or pull her close. What the fuck is going on?

A big palm settles at your hip. You jolt, reeling back into a broad chest. Sylus peers down his nose at you, hand tightening to keep you upright. This is the end, you think, while he sets you steady.

“You're staring,” he drawls. You haven't figured that expression out yet. Right now, they all mean death. “What? Do you want to spin, too?”

His hand slides slowly, purposefully, along the small of your back. He steadies you there, thumb arching across the cheap material of your dress. You’re wedged firmly between them, snared between a snake that winds and writhes against you and one that keeps you still, binds your movements with a single touch.

The pieces click into place, an audible snap accented by your head whipping between both of them.

“This is, like, a thing?” You blurt out, index finger drawing a line between the three of you, wagging back and forth until she snares your finger in her hand.

She nods, confusion in her expression smoothing. Sylus smirks, his brows raised. He guides you from the dance floor with the mere suggestion of a touch, a barely there pressure at your side.

“You didn’t tell her?” He drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable.

“I thought she knew!”

You can imagine the way she might have stomped her foot if not for her heels. The world is spinning. Did you just get unicorn hunted? How the fuck did you get yourself into this situation.

“Why would I know that?”

She flounders for an answer. “I talked about my boyfriend all the time.”

“You said ‘partner’.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when you’re a hunter.”

“Are you upset?”

Yes. Of course you are. You’re completely blindsided. She could have at least given you a heads up, dropped some hints. You probably still would have said yes.

Your jaw works, grinding your sharp, pointed words down to dull, harmless things.

“No. I’m just confused."

Her hands circle your wrists. Sylus’ heat disappears from your back. He slips away, barely tracked in your peripheral. The squeeze of her hands brings you back, calluses dragging against your soft skin.

“I should have said something.”

Yes, you think, you should have. But she’s giving you those puppy eyes, big and round, the same kind that she would flash whenever she spilled a drink, when she knew you would have to clean the mess. You bite your tongue. You can’t fall for this forever.

“Yeah, you should have.” There you go. Your spine grew three sizes today. “I still had fun.”

Forget it. Your spine is collapsible. You can hear your own vertebrae collapsing into themselves, hollow thunk-thunk-thunk every time she bats her eyes.

Sylus manifests from the depths of the club, your coat slung over his shoulder. He stretches his arm out to her, welcomes her back with that simple unspoken invitation. She fits against him snugly, like she was molded for him. He reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face gingerly - the sort of care that you hadn't expected from him, that had been absent in his evaluating gaze earlier.

"Ready to go, kitten?"

There’s the escape route. She hesitates, her eyes drifting back to you. It's her pout that does you in, perfect glossy lips pursed, her lipstick only faintly smudged. (Is it pressed to the corner of your mouth, you hope.)

"Do you want to come back to my place?" She asks, voice somewhere between hopeful and hesitant. Sylus' hand squeezes her hip. She clarifies, rolling her eyes. "With both of us."

You can think of a hundred reasons to say no. This isn't good for your heart. You know it isn't. It will hurt, and you will be just as alone as you started.

"Yeah," you say. Sylus swings your coat off of his shoulder, offering it out to you. You shrug it on, noting that he has both of your purses tucked under his arm. You fumble with your coat, hand getting caught in the sleeve. You flap it aggressively until your hand pops free. Sylus snorts, but she laughs. "Sounds fun."

Her place is everything that you expected. Clean, comfortable, modern. She wobbles out of her heels the moment the door shuts. Sylus is faster than you, catches her elbow to steady her before your hand can slide to her back. You avoid his eyes, feign interest in the decor instead.

She tugs you down onto her couch the moment your coat is off. Her eyes are bright, smile wide, laugh loud. You crash down onto the seat next to her. An old classic – flop carelessly, end up closer than normal. Your shoulder brushes against hers. She doesn't even bother to play coy. She leans against your side, kicks her legs over the arm of her couch.

Sylus strides through her apartment, clearly comfortable. Glasses clink faintly in the kitchen, background noise to the idle conversation that falls so naturally from her. He passes her a water first, then inclines his head to you, wiggling the glass in his other hand back and forth faintly. You take it from him. It’s nearly impossible to avoid brushing his hand when it nearly wraps all the way around.

He makes his way around her apartment like he lives here. Does he? You look around as subtly as you can.

Not that it matters. She's chatting happily to you about the evening - the music was great, wasn't it? Yeah, it was great. Could that shoe rack fit Sylus' shoes? No way. If it would, if he was accustomed to that kind of domesticity, he would have put them there instead of lining them up neatly by the door. You had kicked yours off haphazardly, stumbled into the room after her. Decorum was a second thought when you were with her. Was the sharp scent of leather polish swept in by Sylus, or had it been soaked into her apartment, tucked away neatly in a drawer next to her things?

“Yes, oh my god, that guy was so wasted.” You parrot his drunken babble back to her in your best impression of the man from the club, and she cackles. Her hand slaps over her mouth. You're grinning toothily, eyes pressed to crescents. How do you get her to laugh like that again? You could spend the rest of your life trying to pull that sound from her lips.

Sylus drops next to you, thigh brushing against yours. The same move you'd just used on his girlfriend. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, curls behind both of you. He nurses a whiskey in his other hand - the first drink you’ve seen him have all night, you realize.

You don’t remember when conversation was exchanged for kisses. You don’t even remember who touched you first. She pulled you into her by the front of your dress, sucked your bottom lip into her mouth, and who were you to relent? You kissed your way down her body, hands bunching her dress up to her hips. Sylus had positioned your legs in his lap, hand stroking your ankle while he finished his drink.

You’re mouthing at her through her panties when his grip shifts. The only warning he gave was the clink of his glass settling against the side table. His hands slide to your hips, rucking your dress up along the way, and he flips you in one smooth motion. Static fizzes through your spine - excitement, arousal, shock. Probably all three. Your back is pressed to her stomach, head pillowed between her breasts.

Sylus leans forward. You lift your chin, angle to receive his kiss, and it never comes. She leans forward to receive him instead. The press of them, so close, so intimate, and still so far away, is maddening. Your breath quickens. You’d never expected Sylus to moan like that, but he’s unabashed in his pleasure.

He rolls your dress up further, and you lift your arms obediently once their kiss breaks. Don’t even have to be told - aren’t you good?

She thinks so. She tells you so when she presses a kiss behind your ear, when her hands push at your shoulders and guide you to lay back against her.

Your cheek presses against the plush of her thighs. You nuzzle against her skin, stretch like a pampered cat and press your nose to the point of her hip, breathing deep. Your face could be buried in her syrupy cunt if the hands bracing your cheeks and pinning your hips didn't keep you from turning over. Mean, you think. It's the last thought you plan to have for a while.

There's some murmur happening above you - a conversation about logistics, about the height of your hips, whether your breasts should be bare or restrained by your bra.

“It doesn’t matter to me, kitten.” Words like honey, drizzling lazily down to your ears. “This is your show.”

You preen. You're the pretty little bauble, all dressed down for her amusement. She strokes the back of her fingers against your tummy and huffs. It's not fair; even her grumbling is pretty. Her bottom lip juts out and you can imagine running your tongue along it, suckling gently. How soft her skin, how sweet her taste. Her hands travel down your skin, skating over the planes of your ribs, curling upwards to press your breasts together. She hums. Her brow furrows. You arch your back, mold yourself into the shape of desire.

A hand slides up the valley of your breasts, backs of her fingers dragging. She catches your chin with her knuckle, urges you to tilt your head up to her.

You can't imagine what you must look like, so you picture the roles reversed instead. She'd look just as good lying in your lap as she does looking down her nose at you. Your nipples peak, press against the cups of your bra and fuck, you must be hot if you can feel that, if every breath has you tingling for more.

"Off," she says with a determined nod. She smiles down at you, turns her hand to cup your chin. You lower your head to her touch instantly, all but purring.

If Sylus cares one way or the other, he gives no indication. He presses the small of your back, urges you to keep arching. His warmth surprises you. You’d expected him to run cold, expected his long fingers to dot your skin with goosebumps. There’s no caress to his touch (not like when he touches her, fingers drifting down her skin, stroking, circling, ever present. You could watch him pet her for hours. In your mind, she bends into his hands. You bend the same way, wonder if it will turn his touch gentle, but it’s–) just efficiency.

His eyes trail a cold path down the curve of your body, knuckles trailing along your spine until they catch the clasp of your bra. He strokes along the band, assessing the way it sits, counts the hook and eye closures with a swipe of his thumb, and then it’s undone.

Her hands slide down your shoulders, tidal in their movements. Down, up, down, so steadily you barely realize that she's slipping the straps from your shoulders. She presses open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paws at your chest, revealing your breasts as if they were works of art, a statue unveiled for the very first time.

Her kisses stop. She hooks her chin over your shoulder, cheek resting against your own. She sighs, her chest pressing against your back, and you find yourself mimicking the movement. Breath flows out of her and into you. She gazes down at your body from the same angle that you do every day.

You squirm as the thought truly cements. You know what she sees. Every angle, every curve and roll, all of the parts that you have fixated on and pinched at, pleaded for to smooth away, to become a firm plane of muscle not unlike the ones that lay behind her clothes.

But she runs her hands down the soft angle of your ribs, the curve of your waist, finally settling at your hips. She noses into the crook of your neck and squeezes.

"You're so soft," she says, words pressed into your skin -- flowers for the artist. You shift in her grip, trying to squirm from her grasp. It's too much attention, too vulnerable, but she grumbles. "So pretty. Look–"

She runs the backs of her fingers from your hips up to your waist. She kneads another palmful of your flesh reverently. Her breath is warm against your neck when she moans, but it sends a chill across your skin, a frigid anticipation. Your head knocks back against her shoulder.

Your eyes close. The comfort of her presence and praise lulls you to a space you’d never felt before, your body melting against her frame. Sylus’ weight is a welcome surprise. He grips your ankle tenderly, position your legs wider, and lays himself in that space, and–

What the fuck. You nearly choke.

You wish his dick wasn't big. Not because it doesn't make your mouth water, not because you can feel yourself clenching at the feel of it against your clothed cunt, but because you don't want his ego to be justified. He chuckles at your little noise, at the restrained pulse of your hips against his. He presses against you fully when he leans up to kiss her and you feel it against your core, hard in his pants. You can imagine the tip, glistening, dripping, wetting the front of his boxers, can imagine it slapping against his stomach when you dip your fingers into the waist of his pants and tug them down.

Your throat tightens, heart hammering against your ribs. His hips shift against yours and you whine like a bitch in heat. You’re torn between the need to press your hips up to meet his and the paralyzing instinct to remain still, to savor every movement. This is meant for her, you know it is, but if you lay still then you can pretend. Your body can be her proxy. He can rut against you until he spills himself on your stomach. She can admire his cum against you skin, swipe it onto a finger, lick it clean and then press her finger into your mouth, let you swirl your tongue amidst the remnants of her spit and his spend, swallow down only the traces of them.

A big hand curls around your rib cage, fingers flexing into the gaps, thumb tucked under the swell of your breast. He could squeeze, cave your chest in, and it might feel like relief. Any touch is relief, even if you want his hand to slide around to your front, his big palms rolling and squeezing your breasts together. You want his tongue running over them, teeth nipping, lips sucking, marking.

Instead, he pulls you up, makes you roll into the movement you’ve tried so desperately to restrain. Your resolve is broken easily. You rock into him again and again, whimpering, desperate for anything they will give you. Her hands slide between your bodies, squeezing your tits hard. Your clit throbs. Desperate and whining, you grind yourself into him, savor every controlled roll of his hips.

He pulls back from her and his hands slide down your body. Long fingers hook into your panties, dropping them down to your knees.

Sylus doesn't move until her hands press at his shoulders. You exchange a look with him, and the unspoken is agreed upon. It's not your pleasure - it's hers.

You thought you were ready. You thought he'd reach down, undo his belt (one hand, you imagine, practiced) and get to work.

Instead, he slips down your body, hands braced on your hips. His thumbs press the point of your hips, and a spark of pleasure ignites the kindling piled in your stomach, sends you squirming. He braces himself on his elbows, lowers his face to your cunt. His breath fans against you, thumbs massaging your skin.

"Wait–" you blurt out. You could kick yourself. You free your hand from her grasp and push weakly at Sylus’ shoulder.

His eyes cut up to you immediately. The sight is enough to make your insides squirm, breath evaporating from your lungs. What kind of idiot were you to stop this? His hands loosen. For the first time the entire night, he's truly looking at you as if she isn't there. Sylus waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he draws himself up to his elbows.

"No?" He arches a brow. His hands slip from your skin, palms laying flat by your side instead.

Your mouth runs dry. Embarrassment heats your face. You hold his gaze.

"It's too..."

Too intimate. Too much. I don't know you like that.

Sylus seems to get the message. He shuffles back, sits on his heels. His hands come back to your skin, splayed against your thighs this time. There’s no pressure in his touch. When you knock your knees together, suddenly struck by the awareness of how bare you are, spread out in front of him, he lets you.

“We can still – other stuff,” you stammer out.

“Be more clear,” Sylus instructs.

Your breath comes out in a whistle, and the words that follow are a ten car pileup.

"You can fuck me. Like, with your dick. Or something."

The irony isn't lost on you. You won't let him put his mouth on you, but his cock will do. You're fairly certain that the quick exhale from behind you was her attempt to stifle a laugh. You turn your head away from his gaze. Too intense. Too much.

"Is that what you want?"

Your tongue is heavy and thick in your mouth, words failing you.

"I don't not want that."

He clicks his tongue. Admonishment, a quick flash of shame shooting up the column of your spine.

"Not good enough."

His hands withdraw from your skin, touch dragged away. You force your eyes back to him.

"Wait, no - I want it," you say quickly, stumbling over yourself to claw him back to you. "Please. I really want it."

The corner of his lip quirks. His eyes raise back to her, and suddenly you can breathe again. You knock your head back against her chest, rolling to settle against her tits. In your relief, you miss their silent exchange.

It doesn't take you long to piece together what's going on. She leans away, slides a drawer open, and passes Sylus a bottle of lube over your body.

“Is that necessary?”

Sylus snorts. "If you're not going to let me prepare you my way, then yes. It is."

Truly, you wish you could call his bluff, but you'd felt him against you mere minutes earlier.

He shakes the bottle in one hand, the other sliding to press against the inside of your knee. It's a suggestion for the moment, but you feel the strength behind his touch. You part your legs again after a moment's hesitation. Nerves flutter back into your chest.

He huffs. You think that might be the closest he gets to laughing.

"You'll need to be wider than that," he points out.

Her hands shift from their hold on your waist, sliding down your body and smoothing over the softness of your inner thighs. She presses you wider for him gradually. Her mouth catches your earlobe, teeth scraping gently.

"You're going to feel so good," she promises. She could tell you anything in that voice and you would believe her, but this time it takes effort. "Can he use his fingers?"

You nod. Her teeth snag against your skin, and you inhale ragged.

"Can you tell him?" She says. If she asks it of you, then why not?

"You can- you can touch," you manage. She kisses beneath your ear, whispers for you to be more clear, to tell him how. "You can finger me."

The heat in your face is nothing compared to the pulse of your cunt. You twist to bury your face in her shoulder, embarrassed and certain that he can feel the heat fanning from you in waves.

His touch is slow, searing. His fingers stroke down your thigh. His touch hovers, and then he's palming your pussy. The heel of his hand grinds against your clit. You press back into her arms, head rolling. You mouth needily at her neck, desperate to keep your noises at bay.

Sylus drags his fingers through the mess of your cunt, slow, testing strokes. One long finger teases your entrance, lazy circles drawn against your sensitive skin.

His press is gentle. First knuckle, second knuckle – fuck, his fingers are thick. You'd admired his hands all night, spent time chasing away thoughts of sucking them, but now they're pressed inside you,

"Don't hold your breath," she instructs. Your exhale comes out in a needy, pitiful whine. She's grinning, you're sure of it, but Sylus withdraws his finger to add a second and that thought is quickly discarded for the thrill of this new stretch.

Slow and easy breaks to hard and driving the moment he pulls a shattered moan from you. You writhe as he hits the same spot again and again, callused fingers brushing and hooking against the perfect spot. Heat pools in your limbs, toes curling with every press of his fingers.

And then it’s gone. The heat dissipates, embers still burning in your veins. You clench around nothing, body struggling with the absence. Your chest heaves. You force your eyes open and you’re transfixed by the sight of Sylus stroking himself. It’s lube, you tell yourself, but god you wish that slick on his cock was you instead.

He drags his glistening tip through your folds, nudging your clit. You shift to meet him, struggling to find your timing in the haze of lost pleasure. Your knee presses against the back of the couch, desperate to welcome him back to you.

Sylus presses himself to your soaked entrance. He plants a hand by your hip, reaches past you with the other. Her hand tangles with his, their fingers intertwining against your stomach.

His fingers were nothing compared to his cock. The first thrust leaves you gasping against her shoulder, hand clawing at his back. The stretch fades to pleasure when his hips draw back and press deeper, his pace driving you back into her body.

Every time you think he’s bottomed out, he stretches you deeper. Those careful, slow thrusts with his fingers weren’t courtesy, they were reconnaissance. You choke on your moans. Her hand grips your jaw, directs you to kiss her, to pour your sounds into her while he pounds into your cunt. Her perfume mixes with his cologne, some heady concoction that will have you wet at the very trace of it in the future.

There’s no time to figure out how much of him you’ve taken, how much is left, how much could possibly fit. Their hands press against your stomach. You clench around him. Pleasure floods through you, pries free a cry that sharpens to a sob when she wedges her hand between you, two fingers rubbing your clit. He kisses you hard, teeth clacking against yours, his hips snapping. You can’t close your mouth and that’s perfect for him, his tongue delving past your lips, brushing pants yours. All you can do is moan into him.

Her fingers keep circling, circling, harder and harder, your clit throbbing, pleasure needling through your limbs. Your hands flex, toes curling - and then your knees snap closed, press hard against him, the dam breaking, your orgasm washing over you in waves. Your vision tears. Pleasure and sheer sensation sweep you away, leave you babbling and writhing.You’re pulsing around him, hands roving between her and him, unsure of who to cling to, who to claw at, who can catch you while you tumble. Sylus’ arm wraps firmly around your waist, drags up flush to his hips and keeps you pinned there. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, throaty groan rumbling from his chest. His thrusts are quick and deep, prolonging your pleasure until it verges on painful sensitivity.

His cock jerks. He presses himself deeply into you, fully seated when he cums. She surges forward to kiss him, to swallow all those pretty moans he had been panting into your skin, folding you to a new angle that makes you gasp and shudder.

Your body is a heartbeat. You’re boneless in their grip, at their mercy. Your eyes flutter shut when Sylus finally stills inside you, when his hips stop fucking his cum deeper. Her hand draws away from your over-sensitive clit, petting your sides gently. They talk, a quiet murmur over your body that you can’t be bothered to parse.

It’s not for you. Even with your brains liquefied, you have enough sense to know that.

Sylus draws himself from you, and it feels like a loss. You curl into her chest instead, movements heavy and sluggish. She strokes your hair back from your face, neatly arranges the mess they’ve made of you as she lays you back against the cushions.

Sleep would have taken you immediately if it weren’t for her probing touch.

Her fingers drift across your sensitive folds, two fingers parting your labia. Heat sears your skin, embarrassment a flash fire sparked from the dull embers of your orgasm. You’re too sensitive for her curiosity. The pad of her thumb drags against the sore hood of your clit and you turn your head the side, wounded noise locked obediently behind your teeth.

Sylus snares her wrist in a loose hold. His thumb traces her pulse point.

“Give her a rest, sweetie,” he says with all the admonishment of a parent telling his daughter to put away her toys.

Her gaze is stuck on you, watching his cum drip out of you. How can you feel equal parts adored and objectified?

She sighs dreamily and rises to her knees. You give in, your eyes too heavy to keep open any longer. She leans over you, kisses your forehead and says, “did you have fun?”

You wake to the sound of a shower. You blink yourself to consciousness and find yourself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. The lights are warm. The blanket over you is soft, the scent pressed into the weave familiar but not your own. It takes a moment for the recognition to set in, and when it does so does the ache in your muscles.

One deep breath expands your ribs, highlights the muscles in your back you'd pulled, the fingerprints against your ribs, the soreness in your breasts. Your lips are swollen and raw, kissed to the point of pain, and your mouth has run dry. Your hand slips from your stomach, fumbles around aimlessly for your phone. It's habit, not logic. Of course it isn't there. This isn't your home, and you didn't leave it on the table. It's probably still tucked away in your purse, dead or dying.

Trying to sit up is a mistake. You feel it in you core, in your hips. Were you out of shape, or had it just been a while?

Who were you kidding. Probably both.

You squint around the room, waiting for the bleariness in your eyes to clear. Your knees wobble when you trust your weight to them. You hunch over the plush couch, take a moment to right yourself.

"I thought you'd sleep much longer than that," Sylus says, sipping at a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

You jump, grumble a quiet 'shit' under your breath. He'd been there the whole time, surely. His hair is damp, water dripping off the ends and onto a soft towel wrapped around his shoulders.

You stall in the entryway, twisting this way and that, arms stretched high over your head, then down to your toes. You regret every movement, muscles screaming at you to give it a rest.

"I don't sleep well in new places," you admit.

"Neither do I," he notes. You believe it. He seems the paranoid sort.

You'd seen his type before, the kind that scanned every corner for threats. Usually, it was a show - jumpy men scared of shadows, masking their fear with proactive aggression. You weren't so sure about him. Same song, different key.

He doesn't look up from his reading. You assume he's done with you for the moment. Not the first time someone's treated you coldly after having their dick in you, but this time it stings. You pin it on the aches and pains again, brush it off, and fish your phone out of your pocket.

4:47 AM. 6% battery.

“Shit,” you murmur. You turn it off and press a knuckle between your eyes, massaging the tension out. You would ask her if you could borrow her charger once she was out of the shower. You could call a cab, or at least map out the walk home. You'd been so blinded by her the entire drive that you weren't even sure what part of the city you were in.

"Did you need a ride home?"

It's like he's a mind-reader. That's the generous interpretation of that statement, at least. The reality is he probably just wants you out of his girlfriend's apartment.

You smile tightly and shuffle your purse onto your shoulder.

"You don't have to do that. I can walk, or I'll get a ride."

He looks up, eyes dark under the ridge of his brow.

"I'll give you a ride."

That didn't sound like there was room for argument. You stuff it down, fidgeting from side to side.

"Okay. Sure."

Her shower is still running. You hesitate only for a moment. Sylus is paused at the door, keys in hand. Not the kind of man you keep waiting. You would call her tomorrow. Maybe then you could figure out what all of this was - if it was anything at all.

The ride home is nearly silent. You’re not sure what you expected. You’re not sure why you expected anything at all. You don’t take it to heart. It’s not your first awkward car ride home after getting your brains fucked out.

Sylus has the decency to wait for you to wobble to your door, unlock it, and get inside before he drives away. That’s nice, at least. You leave a trail of your belongings back to your bedroom, too tired to do much of anything other than flop down face first on your bed. The stickiness between your thighs demands attention, however, and you treat yourself to a five minute shower.

The night replays in your mind as you wash it off. Their hands on you, their mouths - their eyes looking past you, towards each other.

You shut the water off. No more of that. You’ve tortured yourself enough tonight. You stumble through the halls of your apartment. The beginnings of the sunrise glow through the dark of night. You draw your curtains closed.

When you lay back in your bed, body aching, blood pulsing through the marks they had left on your skin, you realize that you are still alone.

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