Chapter Text
Coming back to the city is… odd. He walks down familiar streets, Ainsley at his side, and takes in the changes. This territory used to be their grandfather’s. It was in Milton hands for generations, not by virtue of blood but by their tenacity. Every Milton successor gained the title of Ash fair and square, from one of the first to settle in the States right up to their grandfather. Maybe that was a sign. He was the last Milton after all, the name dying when his only child chose to take her husband’s.
Malcolm doubts a Milton descendant will ever become Ash again. Not after the last was overthrown unanimously. They went from being revered in the light community to forced out on the fringes, distrusted and disliked, all in the course of an evening.
“I’m glad you’re back, bro,” Ainsley says casually, bumping his shoulder with hers. There’s something more there, and he knows that things in the community are still rough for her here. She’s grateful for strength in numbers, even though it means he’ll be subjected to it all again.
Martin Whitly is to blame for that. A dark natured fae successfully hiding themselves as a light fae was unheard of before him. His arrest and the national incident it became shook both sides of the fae community.
It’s part of the reason Malcolm left in the first place. He declared light as soon as he could, knowing deep in his bones that there was no way he could be dark, even if he wondered sometimes. The light fae looked at him and thought it enough to shake his confidence. They assumed he would be like his father, that he was hiding his true nature from them all. He was the eldest, the child who had the most exposure to him, and an incubus like the man, too. He stuck to him like glue before the arrest, soaked up everything his father was willing to tell him, and they all knew it. Of course he would take after him.
The dark fae looked at him, too. They wanted to see the darkness there as much as their light counterparts did. They wanted him to declare dark. They never really had The Surgeon, but they could have The Surgeon’s son. When he did declare light, publicly aligning himself with his mother and the new Ash, they scoffed, keeping their eyes on him just in case.
“Me, too,” he tells her, surprising himself with the honesty there. He is happy to be back. There’s a part of him that feels like he’s proved himself. He made it through the academy, he became an agent. He put away several killers, stopping them before they could add more bodies to their resume, and he used the skills his mother imparted on him as a Milton.
A lot of the Milton line were of sirens, praised for their voices and integrity. Some of it could be taught, though only a siren would really be able to implement most of it. They used their abilities to stop disputes and settle matters with authority. Both his mother and Ainsley inherited the siren gene. It didn’t stop the community from looking down on them now, but he always had the feeling there was doubt there, too, as if by virtue of being Milton sirens, they were too hard to completely distrust.
Malcolm wasn’t so lucky.
So he left. He got permission from the Ash to apply to the FBI, and once he was there, the man put him in touch with his counterpart closest to Quantico. Malcolm worked hard to prove that he was trustworthy, that he wanted nothing more than to find criminals and deal with them, fae or not. His hope was that the distance would give his mother’s reputation room to breathe.
“Mom will be happy, too,” Ainsley says slyly, looking at him across her coffee cup, knowing full well that he hasn’t said a word to the older siren yet. “You’ve been missed at the weekly family dinners.”
Which means he wasn’t very successful. Their mother should be holding dinner parties, attending fundraisers, playing the game like she was taught to as the Milton heir. If she’s only exercising those skills on Ainsley… he ducks his head.
Martin Whitly, a no name from an unknown family, fit in initially with his charm. He was skilled at taking the energy he needed in small doses through the act of being himself, and whatever he couldn’t get that way, he was more than able to get from a siren without hurting them. On the outside, it seemed like he and Jessica Milton were the perfect pair. Their children, whether they would be sirens, incubi, or succubi, would be powerhouses in the community. When they had one of both kinds, well, everyone thought they were set. One of the Whitly children would take over for their grandfather, undoubtedly. The other would be their right hand.
The problem was that Martin wasn’t just using that charm on his patients, calming them and reassuring them they were in good hands. He was using it to lure in his victims, a decidedly not light fae thing to do. In another life, maybe Malcolm would have used his own charm as freely as his father does, would let it radiate off him when he needed a quick feeding, would work his way up through the light community until he’d be a clear candidate for Ash. But now he uses it sparingly, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. No one trusted him in DC, not really. His father’s reputation followed him everywhere.
Even the Ash here kept tabs on him while he was gone. The man already knew he was fired when he called the week before and was similarly unsurprised with his decision to move back. It isn’t that the Ash doesn’t like him. In fact, if Malcolm has to guess, he’d say the man respects him to some degree. He accepted Malcolm’s decision with ease and told him to expect to be approached once he was physically in the city again. He didn’t set up a time or a place, just assured him someone would find him.
Which is why Malcolm isn’t surprised to see Gil Arroyo waiting for him and Ainsley. The werewolf is both the Ash’s hold on the NYPD and his best tracker.
Gil smiles, sharp teeth flashing white, genuine happiness spreading across his face. “Hey, city boy.” He’s just as broad and imposing as he was the last time they saw each other in person, but Malcolm has never been uncomfortable around him and suspects he never will. He’s built for authority, to protect his pack.
And Malcolm became pack ages ago.
“Of course he sent you,” the incubus says, lips curling up. He lets his gaze linger. It’s been years since he was in the same city as Gil, and the pictures he’s seen didn’t do him justice. His goatee is threaded with gray, the creases of his face deeper, but, as a werewolf, Malcolm knows he’s just as strong, just as dangerous.
Gil stands still under his scrutiny. He’s used to it. His ease fosters a bit of guilt in Malcolm’s gut as always, though he knows Gil probably isn’t faking it. Having known each other for a long time before his puberty hit, before he really started to come into his heritage, the werewolf understands and accepts his nature. It isn’t unusual for Malcolm’s eyes to go sultry, for his mouth to shift into a smirk, for his entire being to ooze lust. Gil pulls him into a hug despite it all.
Behind them, Ainsley snorts. If the sound is loud enough for Malcolm to hear, it’s more than loud enough for Gil to, and she knows it. Of course, she also knows that his reactions are less due to his genetics and more due to his life long crush on Gil.
When they part, Malcolm rolls his eyes at her. “I have a meeting to attend, Ains. I’ll see you later.” They both know that the Ash takes priority.
She nods. “You have exactly one day to tell Mom you’re back before I do it for you, bro.”
Gil huffs a laugh.
“Deal,” Malcolm says. Twenty-four hours will give him enough time to get settled at least.
~
It may have been years since he was at the Ash’s compound last, but Malcolm’s sharp enough to realize they aren’t heading there. “I thought the compound was in the same old place,” he says, amused.
Gil gives him another sharp toothed grin. “I think the Ash can wait. I have a murder I’d like another set of eyes on.”
The words fill him with warmth. Being a werewolf means that Gil has all of the advantages he needs as a detective. He most certainly doesn’t need Malcolm’s help, FBI trained or not, but he’s still asking, bringing him in just like old times, just like when Malcolm first indicated he was serious about the field he wanted to pursue. Gil trusts his instincts, his skills.
If Malcolm uses it as an opportunity to breeze through the scene with just more than a hint of the cockiness and confidence of an incubus, neither of them say anything. He doubts Gil is looking, but he doesn’t let it get him down.
Another fae, as sturdy as the werewolf and no doubt just as light aligned, gives him a skeptical look. He’s calm, though miffed about Malcolm’s presence. He has to be skilled. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be on Gil’s team. Whatever his abilities are, however, he’s not using them now.
Malcolm takes all of him in — the muscled form, the no nonsense edge on his face, the way he defers to Gil with ease. He tilts his head and bites his lip, aware that he probably looks like he’s about to devour him. “A tracker, right? But not just any kind of tracker fae.”
The detective glances at his boss. “What is he doing here?”
“On the offensive, too,” Malcolm muses. “So you’re used to having to justify your place on the team. Are you a typically dark aligned fae?” A tracker, he thinks. A dark aligned tracker… ah. “Boraro, maybe?” Gil wouldn’t care about how the rest of his family chose to live their lives. He’d only care about the man in front of him.
Not to mention that having a fae capable of making force fields would be quite useful on the force. That alone would have the Ash approving the addition to his team.
The detective bristles. “You got a problem with that?”
“I knew you wouldn’t like each other,” Gil mutters. “JT, this is former Special Agent Malcolm Bright. Bright, this is Detective JT Tarmel.”
“No problem,” Malcolm assures him, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. If anything, he’s intrigued. “We could have used a Boraro back when I was in fugitive recovery.”
JT gives him a dismissive look.
Used to it, Malcolm brushes past him to examine the body. Another detective, this time a slight woman with a thick head of curly hair, gives him an appraising look. He lets her distract him for the moment. She’s likely not another tracker. Gil would really only need one, especially if JT really is what Malcolm guessed, but her relative youth makes him think she must be something special, something that really gives Major Crimes an edge. Something fierce, probably. “A Valkyrie?” he guesses. It’s not that difficult to imagine this woman with wings spread out wide on either side.
She snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but no, I’m human.”
“I claimed her,” Gil cuts in. “Bright, this is Detective Dani Powell.”
Malcolm nods slowly. He never expected Gil would claim a human, considering how archaic they agreed the tradition was. That doesn’t stop the Ash from requiring it, however. Gil accepted responsibility for her and any actions she might make against the light fae, and in return, she can keep her memories and life. It’s clear looking at the two of them that the werewolf considers her part of his pack — a platonic member, too.
He’s itching to ask more, but the body quickly catches his attention. He knows this crime scene. The wounds, the placement is almost one for one, although the technique isn’t quite as perfect as it was in the original set of murders. Slipping a glove on, Malcolm gently tilts the victim’s head to take a look at her eyes. This, too, is a sloppy copy.
An incubus or succubus was here.
“I recognize this,” he says wearily. Looking at Gil, it’s obvious he does, too. His father didn’t do this, clearly, but whoever did knows much more about The Surgeon’s murders than the general public was allowed to know. They recreated this one to the best of their ability, though they needed to use a heavy dose of their fae charm, which served to cloud the victim’s eyes with an unnatural pleasure. Martin Whitly never needed to do that. Malcolm suspects the tox report will come back with the same cocktail of drugs regardless. Their copycat isn’t as skilled or patient. “We’re looking for a copycat.”
~
The Ash wants to see him alone.
Malcolm bows his head, because he’s not stupid. As the grandson of a disgraced Ash, he needs to show more deference than anyone else, even if the man in front of him brushes it off.
He waves a hand, dismissing all of his guards. “Do you plan on staying in my territory this time, Malcolm?”
As if he doesn’t know that New York is really the only place Malcolm has left. “For the foreseeable future, yes.”
“Good. I’m sure your skills from the Bureau can be applied here.” The Ash considers him, his gaze touched by the briefest amount of concern. “You’re dismissed. Go feed. You’re looking peaky.”
Of course, Malcolm doesn’t want to feed, but it wasn’t exactly a suggestion. He grits his teeth and bows again before leaving.
Ever since he came into his abilities, he’s gotten by on the minimum. As a teenager, that meant sloppy kisses with Vijay at the fae boarding school his mother sent him to. In college, he limited himself to encounters at a club once a week. He’d pick up a fae, have a quick fuck to shore up his reserves, and then starve himself until the next encounter, knowing full well that any fae who knew who he was wouldn’t want to indulge him and that picking up a human as a relatively untrained incubus was asking for trouble. Once he was in the FBI, he made a deal with some of the other light fae in the local community. They’d let him feed off of them every now and then in return for the full incubus experience.
He doesn’t have any arrangements within the community here. It’s been a few weeks since his last serious feeding, too, so he knows the Ash’s demand isn’t unfounded. Stalking through the compound, he singles out the first fae whose eyes linger, tinged with lust rather than speculation. His eyes become sultry. His gait softens, sways. He lets his aura seep out just enough to suggest not coerce.
The man, some kind of shapeshifter he guesses, is more than willing to go with him.
Trailing a hand across the man’s collarbone, Malcolm traces the length of his arm before grasping his hand and tugging him into the nearest closet.
The shapeshifter opens his mouth, probably to either ask for his name or share his own, but this isn’t that kind of encounter. Whatever it was is swallowed by Malcolm’s hungry mouth.
His eyes glow a luminous blue as his eyelids shutter and he unleashes more of his nature. Not too much, he reminds himself, not wanting to incapacitate someone who works in the Ash’s compound without permission. Picking someone here was a little risky to begin with. Malcolm has no intention of making an arrangement with this man, at least not now. He’ll have to examine the power structures here, see how much has changed since his last visit. Then, and only then, will he pick people to approach. It wouldn’t be a good idea to attach himself to someone who works closely with the Ash or Gil, the former so as not to risk his position and the latter because Gil will smell it.
The man’s hands wander, yanking his dress shirt out of his slacks and caressing the skin underneath it.
Malcolm pushes him back against the shelves that line the closet. He breaks the kiss, eyes still vibrant as he pants. With a filthy look, he drops right to his knees and works to pull the man’s leaking cock out of his pants. All he needs is just a little more energy to get him through a few more days. A blowjob should do it.
“Fuck,” the shifter breathes out, redfaced. Clearly, he’s never had an incubus before. He starts to reach out for Malcolm’s head.
“Brace yourself on the shelves,” Malcolm says sharply. His words are tinged with his power. He’s not about to let this shifter get possessive with him, decide this is something it’s not. No, this man will have to take what Malcolm gives him. He barely allows him the time to get a handle on the shelves before licking a stripe up his cock, glowing eyes trained on his face, tongue curling around the head to catch the precome that beads up.
The shifter growls. The wood creaks under his hands.
Malcolm smirks and engulfs nearly all of him in one smooth motion until his lips touch his fingers down at the base. There’s no reason to drag this out. He’s starving. He swallows thickly. He pulls off, sinks back down. He fucks his face on the throbbing cock, quite literally sucking the life out of the shapeshifter.
When the man comes, Malcolm swallows it dutifully, licking his lips as his eyes finally lose their unearthly quality. He stands up and tucks his shirt back in quickly and efficiently. “Thank you,” he says with a smile, fixing the shifter’s pants, too, because the man is still struck dumb. “I’ll see you around.”
~
He does intend on doing some of that research on the community. Honest. The case gets in the way, however, and the next thing he knows, he’s using his charm on a terrified human dom strapped to a bomb. Nothing actually sexual, of course. They don’t have time for that even if it was the right place for it. It annoys him a little to see JT’s skepticism, but to be fair, he doubts he’s ever worked with a sexual fae in the field before. Malcolm’s kind doesn’t typically go for law enforcement.
And yet Malcolm excels at it. He softens his face, adds a soothing element to his voice even as he grabs the axe. For the final touch, he caresses the arm he’s about to aim for and sinks his own energy into the trembling limb. It leaves a soft glow that dissipates soon after.
Nico calms. Mostly. He still screams when the axe falls, but that’s to be expected.
“Well that was some nifty shit,” JT mutters, hauling the bleeding dom to his feet and out the door. It almost sounds like there’s respect in his voice.
Grabbing the cooler, Malcolm trails after him. He feels spent already, a good deal of the energy he siphoned off of the shifter having gone into manipulating Nico. He should feed. He still hasn’t done his research. In his euphoria post explosion, asking JT seems like a good idea. Thankfully, his common sense kicks in and reminds him that the Boraro is too close to Gil, that there’s a wedding ring on his finger.
He holds back the question.
Which means he still hasn’t fed by the time he goes to see his father for the first time in years.
Martin’s face immediately falls into faux concern. “My boy,” he says softly, “you need to feed more often.”
“I feed often enough, Dr. Whitly.” A lie, sure, but he’s not in the mood. Malcolm promises himself that he will get on that research as soon as this case is over. He’s a little paler than usual, a little less strong, and his grip on his charm a little looser. It’s not the worst it’s ever been — that still goes to some of the longer manhunts he’s been on — though it’s certainly the worst it’s been while still surrounded by fae he could feed on.
“I was hoping you’d learned to embrace your heritage by now,” Martin continues with a sigh. “There’s nothing wrong with being an incubus, and there are plenty of ways to keep yourself healthy without draining anyone dry.”
They’ve already had this talk plenty of times. His father was the first one Malcolm went to when his abilities started to come in. His mother never understood what it was like to be a sexual fae let alone how to harness the powers that came with it. “I’m here about a case. You have a copycat. A sloppy one.”
There it is. The slightest hint of frustration, of anger passes through his father’s eyes. He may have orchestrated this, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy to see his work mutilated. “Oh?”
Malcolm plays him. He feels sick doing it. He knows that as soon as he leaves, his father will be proud, because, in a twisted way, it will confirm that they’re the same. Like incubus father, like incubus son. Charming, cunning, manipulative.
All the while being light aligned, even if it’s a technicality on Martin’s part.
He remembers the terrible sinking feeling he had the first time he visited after declaring light. He was terrified his father would finally crack in front of him, that he would discard the loving exterior and rage at Malcolm’s insistence on being different.
But Martin was happy. He only saw it as another thing they shared. Undoubtedly, he was confident he could make Malcolm betray his community the same way he had.
That he could make Malcolm betray his own family. That’s what it was, that’s what Martin did, although Malcolm knew he would never call it that himself. When his father declared light, when he courted the daughter of the Ash and inserted himself into the most well known light family in the entire city, when he happily killed humans to satisfy his dark core, he dragged the entire family down with him.
The worst part about it all was that Malcolm knew. He knew there was something off about his father. He knew he wasn’t quite as light as he claimed. At first, it was easy to ignore. Martin was — is — his father. The Girl was the final tipping point. Malcolm remembers shaking as he picked up the phone and called the cops. Even as a child, he knew they would send a fae to any fae addresses, which was good, because he also knew his grandfather wouldn’t take him seriously. The charming husband of his only daughter? He could do no wrong.
Gil answered the call. He was more intimidating then, somewhat bulkier, but he smiled at Malcolm, the kindness shining through.
So Malcolm warned him about the tea, about his father’s entire deception. “He’s dark,” he whispered that night. “He’s lying.”
Everything fell apart around him. The only constant was the kind werewolf who answered his call and believed him. Instead of walking away from the case as soon as Martin was in cuffs, Gil stuck by the remaining Whitlys. He fought for them when the Ash was voted out in disgrace. He insisted Jessica was unaware, that her children were innocent.
Is it really that surprising that Malcolm fell for him? That as soon as his abilities started trickling in, the want and need following in short order, he latched onto the handsome man who never washed his hands of them despite never having met them before that night?
Malcolm walks out of his father’s cell with a name.
~
Feeding continues to take a backseat to the case. Now that he has a name, there’s no time for a fuck, no time to stop and find someone when Berkhead is likely getting ready to kill again.
He figures he can feed after the case. It should be quick to wrap up. He and Dani go to the party to find Berkhead’s wife, and theoretically, it should be easy enough despite his weaker state and Dani’s humanity. She can hold her own, that’s what Gil assured him. And Malcolm? He’s still physically stronger than her even without feeding enough.
Except that he forgets to factor in Berkhead also being fae. He’s an incubus, too, and Malcolm’s known that since Gil first brought him in on the case, but it slips his mind, tired as he is. Instead of bringing the man’s wife to safety or taking him in for the murders, Dani’s tossed across the room like she weighs nothing, like she’s a minor nuisance. Berkhead doesn’t bother using his charm on her. She’s human, nothing to him. He’ll probably deal with her last.
Malcolm tries to calm him. He tries to talk him down. A sexual fae’s charm doesn’t work on others of their kind, and unlike Malcolm, Berkhead has been feeding. Wrestling with him, putting all of his willpower into stopping him — it’s all useless. Part of him is convinced he’s going to die here. He’ll be killed by his father, in an indirect way, and maybe that was how it was always going to be.
Then Berkhead, in his sloppiness, loses his grip on the syringe.
Hands shaking around it, Malcolm prepares to stick himself. It’s a last resort, something to knock the other incubus off his game. His wife is a fae, of course, because it’s still illegal in their communities to marry a human, which means that she’s more resistant to his powers than Dani will be. Killing her without the drugs won’t be nearly as easy. “I’m the one who turned him in,” he blurts out, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I’m his son, but I condemned him to that jail cell.”
It does work. Berkhead just barely stops himself from lunging forward. His eyes are trained on the syringe, his face twisting in rage. “That’s for Blair,” he roars.
“You don’t have enough for the two of us.” Malcolm lets the satisfaction show. He can feel the smirk forming, even as the tears still burn down his cheeks. Maybe this will buy Dani the time she and Berkhead’s wife need to get out of here alive. With the knowledge that the man is a dom, that his murders were his way of taking control back from his wife, Malcolm loosens his hold on his charm, because while it may not directly affect another incubus, it could make him a better target for a dom. His body relaxes, looking pliant and ready despite the circumstances. He tilts his head, too, and looks up at Berkhead through dark eyelashes. He bites his lip. He infuses his entire being with want and submission.
The very moment Berkhead’s form shifts towards him, ignoring his wife on the floor, Gil and JT burst through the door.
~
All Malcolm wants to do is cuff himself in and sleep the night off. In the morning, he can take better stock of himself and figure out just how much he needs to feed to get back on an even keel. Probably more than a blowjob, he thinks tiredly. He can already feel the gnawing sensation in his gut, the one that feels too sharp to be normal hunger.
“Bright,” Gil snaps, jaw set, “you’re with me.” He heads to the Le Mans without looking back.
Of course, Malcolm follows. Despite knowing there’s a lecture in his future, he finds himself craving the werewolf’s company. Gil is safe, and Malcolm feels weak, battered. He climbs into the passenger seat quietly.
The drive itself is silent. The tension is palpable, but neither of them broach the subject. When the Le Mans is tucked inbetween two other cars along the sidewalk outside the loft, Gil turns the car off and accompanies Malcolm in without a word. He shuts the door behind them and slams his keys down on the island. “You’re starving yourself.”
“I haven’t had time to get settled,” Malcolm says, standing his ground. “Now that the case is over, I —”
Gil shakes his head sharply. “You risked the case. You risked the team. You risked your own life, and for what?” His teeth are sharper, longer than usual, the wolf in him coming out. “Tell me, kid, how hard would it have been to go to a fae club and find someone to feed off of?”
“I was working the case!” It wasn’t his intention to get so distracted. He meant to make arrangements. He meant to feed.
“Well, you won’t be working another until you’re fed,” Gil says with such finality that Malcolm’s mouth snaps shut, his teeth gnashing together.
“Fine,” he hisses. He yanks his shirt off as he takes off for the bedroom area. He can feel the werewolf’s eyes on him, no doubt scanning the beginnings of bruises from his tussle with Berkhead. Pulling out a tight crop top, Malcolm tugs it over his head. “You can stay if you want,” he says and undoes the buttons of his slacks. “I won’t be here for much longer.”
The door slams shut.
~
Although he can say he’s been here before, it’s been too many years for anything or anyone to be truly familiar. Malcolm is okay with that. If he can’t do this the way he intended, with research and planning and carefully drawn up terms, then it needs to be anonymous. He doesn’t want to recognize the face that fucks him full.
There are eyes on him as soon as he walks in. They take in the crop top taut against his pecs, the shorts that cup his ass, the hair still mussed from the case he’s fresh off of. His goals are loud and clear.
He sits at the bar and lets them come to him. “A beer,” he tells the bartender with a wink. A lighter drink would be best right now, when his body is still aching and in need of healing. The tapered neck of the bottle is only a plus. He takes a sip, his lips wrapped around the dark glass, eyes slipping shut, tongue darting out to catch the drop of beer that threatens to slip down the side. He keeps his aura loose, his charm light around him.
It doesn’t take long for someone to bite.
“Two whiskeys,” a rough voice says right next to him, “and another beer for him.”
Malcolm glances at the man through his eyelashes. Not a mammal shifter, he thinks, even though the gravelly quality of his voice could indicate otherwise. He could be an avian shifter. Not that it matters. He’s attractive. A bit scruffy, bulky enough to hold someone of Malcolm’s size up against a wall without much difficulty. It would be even easier if his abilities lean towards strength. He’s a bit younger than he might go for when he’s not desperate to feed, but Malcolm pushes that thought away with a self deprecating smile.
He’s not here to think about Gil.
The man returns his appraisal. “Alex,” he offers.
“Malcolm.” He finishes the rest of his beer in one long swallow and pushes it towards the bartender. “Two whiskeys?”
“One for me, one for my boyfriend,” Alex says smoothly. His eyes linger on the bare skin of Malcolm’s throat, the curve of his Adam's apple. There’s no hint of shame in his words.
Still, he needs to check. He wants to feed tonight, not get into another fight. “Does he know you’re over here?”
Alex sips his whiskey. “He picked you out.”
It’s a tempting offer, and Malcolm considers it as he takes another swallow. Two men would mean twice the energy to feed off of. He wouldn’t have to hold back as much as he might otherwise, even with a fae partner, and he suspects they aren’t expecting him to join them on a more regular basis, which fits his needs perfectly. Maybe one encounter with them will be enough to heal him up completely. “Why don’t you introduce me?”
His partner, a fae with a similar aura named Neal, smiles slyly as he knocks back his drink and pulls them to the rooms in the back.
Beyond names, none of them bother pretending this is anything other than a quick fuck. Malcolm takes a packet of lube from Neal, sheds his shorts, lays back on the couch against the wall, and prepares himself with perfunctory motions. The couple watches him with greedy eyes. He wipes his fingers off on his crop top, letting his legs fall open invitingly, his eyes dark.
“Think you could take both of us?” Alex says as he palms himself through his pants.
Malcolm shrugs, the corners of his lips curling up. “Why don’t we try and see?” It’s been a while since he took two cocks in his ass, and the thought of doing it tonight sends a sharp bolt of heat through his groin. Tonight, he needs to be used. He lets Alex pull him up off the couch and tug the top over his head, mussing his hair even more.
“He likes to start by watching,” Alex murmurs and nips at his ear. His hand glides across Malcolm’s chest and over his shoulder as he circles around to his back, yanking the incubus’ nude body up against his fully clothed one.
“Then we should give him a show.” Locking eyes with Neal, Malcolm leans back against the man’s partner and trails a hand down to cup his own balls. His cock is already hard against his stomach, not yet leaking but flushed with his arousal all the same. He knows his eyes must be glowing by the way Neal’s become slightly dazed. The fae must be very attracted to him to be affected by his charm this much.
Alex dips just enough to grab the backs of his thighs and haul him up off his feet with a grunt.
Breaking the eye contact, Malcolm turns his head, arching back against him. “You’re strong,” he says breathlessly and enjoys the man’s cocky grin. Oh, it’s going to be so easy to get what he wants from these two. “Are you going to fuck me like this?”
“We are,” Alex confirms. “Neal, give me a hand, will you?”
Malcolm shifts his attention back to the other fae in the room, who stalks forward and angles his chin up for a kiss. Already, he can feel the energy seeping into him. It’s not enough yet to heal his scrapes and bruises, to rejuvenate him, fill up his reserves, but that will come once the show gets a move on.
Neal reaches down between his spread legs, obviously pulling his partner’s cock free by the sound of the zipper in the otherwise quiet room. He removes another packet of lube from his pocket before returning his hand. The slick squelch of his fingers around Alex’s cock sends a shiver through them all. As soon as his partner is ready, Neal smears the rest of the lube around Malcolm’s hole. He leans past him to kiss Alex, hand drifting back down to line him up.
Malcolm can feel Alex’s groan against his back, the jerk of his hips in the sudden thrust of his cock inside. He reaches back to get a grip on him and sinks more of his charm into the skin of his neck just to feel his whole body twitch again.
Satisfied with what he’s done, Neal steps back to watch. The bulge in his pants is significantly larger than it was before.
No matter how much energy he can siphon off of these two, no matter if it all puts his body in peak condition, Malcolm is definitely going to be feeling this tomorrow. He huffs a laugh that stutters as Alex adjusts his grip and fucks up into him. There’s nothing he can do in this position but be used.
Neal doesn’t touch himself as he watches. In fact, he crosses his arms, his hands pointedly nowhere near his dick, although it’s clear that he’s enjoying the show. His gaze drifts between their faces and where they’re connected. “He likes it,” he says to Alex after a particularly hard thrust. “How much do you think he’ll enjoy being sandwiched between us?”
Malcolm gives him a filthy smile. “If you join in, we can find out.” He can feel the bruises easing just a little more every time Alex hilts. He wonders if Neal is seeing it happen, if he’s paying attention to the rest of Malcolm’s body at all. Surely they know he’s a sexual fae by this point. He’s had partners in the past who loved to watch his skin knit back together in his ecstasy, who loved to scratch him bloody as he fed. The small signs of his fight with Berkhead are nothing compared to those, but even a human would notice something was odd.
Neal gives in. He grabs one last lube packet, slicks up his fingers, and reaches down to where Alex, now still, is keeping him full. He teases at Malcolm’s rim, not slipping in. He leans in for another kiss from his partner and chases it with the incubus’ lips.
Malcolm’s eyes flare as he takes a drag off him.
In response, Neal lets a finger ease in next to Alex’s cock. He adds a second and then a third, taking time between each one to gently stretch him wide.
Alex holds Malcolm up, but it’s not easy. Every new addition makes his cock twitch, the effort of staying still showing in the way his hands dig into Malcolm’s thighs, the sharpness of his breathing. He may be patient, but his body isn’t.
“I can take it,” Malcolm says, biting his lip, eyes at half mast as he catches Neal’s gaze. “Fuck me.” He’s made for sex. The care with which they’re handling him is nice, sure. In the end, however, his body doesn’t need the same level of attention as a different kind of fae or a human would. He’s ready.
Neal removes his fingers and wraps them around his own cock instead. He uses them to guide it in, to coax Malcolm’s hole into spreading wide enough to accept the initial nudge, before he thrusts shallowly.
It feels so fucking good. Malcolm loosens his hold on his charm. He won’t let it go completely or he could still drain them with how desperately hungry he is, but the glow in his eyes goes up a notch as he begins to take energy from both of them, from their touch, from their cocks, from the desire in their hearts and minds. “Don’t hold back,” he hisses. His voice is tinged with some unearthly.
They listen. Alex does most of the lifting, Neal most of the thrusting. The latter has the most leverage of the three of them, and he makes use of it. His dick rubs about his partner’s, splits Malcolm open with every slight movement.
By the time their hips are stuttering, fucking fast and rough, he feels stronger than he has in weeks. His own cock strains against his stomach and smears precome across his skin with every twitch. One last burst of energy, and he’ll be on top of the world. He clenches down to encourage them. “Fill me up,” he demands.
Alex, unsurprisingly since he started before his partner, comes first. He barely manages to hold the two of them up as he grunts and fucks in as deep as he can, cock twitching with every rope of come he unloads.
Neal works his hips faster until he falls over the edge, too, dragging Malcolm with him with a quick jerk of his dick.
Malcolm, for his part, wails as it hits him, both his orgasm and the final wave of energy they both unknowingly put out as they fill him. It surges through him. He claws at Neal. He’s fuller than he’s been in so long, even before he was fired, and he already knows he’ll be coasting on this for a while. His body feels so light. If only he’d had this in him when Berkhead came after him.
The high lasts for some time. He pulls his clothes on in a slight daze, though if anyone were to attack him now, he’d be more than powerful enough to protect himself. Brushing off the couple’s suggestion that he wait it out with them, Malcolm thanks them and walks out of the club.
He’ll call Gil in the morning. He can work the next case that comes in.