#l&ds

[bibbysstuff]

one kiss each!

[zaynezone]

You've never bought condoms before.

Zayne usually always had some on him, the perks of working in a hospital with an endless supply of free condoms. But you figured the responsible girlfriend thing to do was to keep a box at your place, just in case. But maybe you hadn't thought that plan out entirely.

You almost feel a sense of kinship with men who've been sent to buy menstrual products, staring at an aisle of items you really don't know much about. So, you call the person you always call when you have a question.

"Hello?" Zayne's voice comes through after the first ring, because of course.

"What size is your dick?" You ask, thankful there's no one around to hear you.

"I'm sorry?" He sounds incredulous, though you know he heard you.

"Well, when you're hard. For the condoms. I'm kind of flying blind here. There's not exactly a size chart on these things." You inspect the back of a box just to be certain before putting it back. Cherry flavoured? Yuck.

"Oh. Well you'll have to grab a large. But it's not entirely necessary, I can pick up more at the hospital."

"If Yvonne sees you grabbing anymore condoms, she's gonna think we're sex addicts or something" It takes a minutes for the words to process, as you're busy scanning the boxes, trying to avoid things like "ribbed" and "glow in the dark."

"Wait...you're a large?" You hear him scoff almost incredulously.

"I'll try not to be offended by your surprise." He says, his tone flat as you laugh.

"Well, I'm just saying. Lucky me huh?" He sighs loudly, and you're sure he's pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, you find a pack that looks good enough.

"Okay, these look good enough! Hopefully they fit you. If not, we'll probably have to do it raw." You say, relishing the choked noise you hear from the other side of the phone.

"You know what, I believe I'm mistaken. Get the small size."

[serikai]

discovering a kink you never knew caleb had

you never knew caleb had a thing for squirting.

hell, you didn’t even know you could do it yourself.

it all hit you like a freight train that night, tangled up in his bed, sweat-slicked sheets twisted around your legs.

you’d been fucking for what felt like hours — his thick cock slamming into you missionary style, your thighs spread wide, knees hooked over his hips as he pounded relentlessly.

every thrust stretched your soaked pussy to its limits, the obscene squelch of your juices filling the air.

you were a mess already, clit throbbing from the way he’d been rubbing it earlier with his thumb, your walls clenching greedily around him like they were trying to milk him dry.

but then it built — this weird, unfamiliar pressure deep in your core, like you had to piss but way more intense, bubbling up from your bladder and radiating through your swollen folds.

it scared you a little, made your body tense. “caleb — fuck, slow down-” you gasped, your voice breaking as you clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into his sweat-drenched skin.

“i feel… something weird building up, like, really weird.. slow down, baby—”

his eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to paradise.

that hungry, feral grin spread across his face, all teeth and sin, and instead of slowing, the bastard motivated himself.

“oh yeah? that’s it, baby girl.” he growled low and nasty, voice rough as gravel. “don’t you hold back on me.” before you could protest, his strong arms wrapped around you like iron bands, yanking your body flush against his.

he locked you in tight — chest to chest, your tits squished against his pecs, his hips pinning yours down so you couldn’t squirm away.

one hand gripped your ass cheek hard, fingers bruising the flesh as he spread you wider, the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat for his teeth.

he went feral after that, jackhammering into you faster, harder — his cock pistoning like a machine.

“come on baby..” he snarled against your neck, biting down just hard enough to draw a whimper.

“i can feel it — you’re gonna fucking explode all over my dick.” the pressure skyrocketed, your bladder screaming, you thrashed in his grip, but he held you immobile, fucking you through it.

“fuck—caleb, i can’t—” you wailed, your voice a broken sob.

and then it hit—that feeling bursting inside you, your pussy convulsed violently around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing as a gush of hot fluid erupted from you.

you felt it everywhere — your juices running down you, pooling under your ass, making everything slippery and filthy.

“fuuuuck..” caleb groaned, eyes wild with lust as he watched it happen, feeling the warm flood coat his shaft mid-thrust.

he didn’t stop—kept railing you through the orgasm, his cock churning your squirting pussy into a frothy mess, white cream from your arousal foaming at the base.

[sylusblr]

oh my god

[mayweholdhands]

Sleep so good you wake up disoriented

[lvmie3ree]

well theres two now

[healmydesires]

I wanna be your provider

❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader

❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)

❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April

❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.

⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕 ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵‍💫

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist • extra part of the story here

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

[kill4ill]

caleb just can’t seem to let you out of his sight on his birthday

"wouldn’t you like to know?" he hisses, kissing you all over your face, pounding into you so fast yet so passionately that you almost reached a state of utopia where you came alot of times.

"c-caleb i can’t take it anymore s-slow dow— aah-" yours moans were barely controllable due to him not being able to keep up with his own pace because dear oh dear he was determined to make you feel so good that when you do cum, your whole body shakes uncontrollably.

“that’s it, baby,” caleb growls against your ear, voice thick and wrecked, “let go for me again. wanna feel you squeezing my cock just like that- fuck, pipsqueak, we can get closer.”

his hips snap harder, making you shiver, cake and sweat make everything slippery and messy between you two, your breasts bouncing with the force of it as he drives into you. he latches onto one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers dig into your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

you cum again with a broken cry, your slippery walls fluttering and clenching around his thick cock so intensely it almost pushes him out. but caleb doesn’t stop. he fucks you straight through it, groaning low and filthy as your orgasm milks him.

“good girl… my perfect little pipsqueak,” he praises between heavy breaths, kissing your tear streaked cheeks and swollen lips. “one more. give me one more, baby. i know you can.”

his pace turns punishing, cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you over and over. one of his hands slips between your bodies, thumb circling your sensitive clit in tight, messy strokes. the overstimulation has you sobbing his name.

only then does caleb let himself go. he buries his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you with a guttural moan of your name, filling you up until you feel warm and full.

you both stay like that for a while, panting, bodies sticky with cake and cum and sweat. caleb finally lifts his head, eyes soft despite how wrecked he looks, and presses gentle kisses all over your face again.

"you okay, baby?" he whispers, voice hoarse but full of love. "this right here pips- has to be the best birthday gift ever… but i’ll run that bath now, yeah? then we can get all messy again after."

“well um- yeah… no…”

an: a reminder that juneleb is not OVERRR 🎂