2A/N: Said I wasn't going to be uploading anything on here, but then I wrong this and didn't know what to do with it. So I figured I'd leave it here. This takes place in the same world as Defenses, Shelby and her manager Luce from the coffee shop, something that popped into my head and had to be written.
Some Nights
It happens sometime at night, after long rushes and too many burns and too few tips to make the night worth it. It happens after Shelby has cut the power to the blink of the open sign, after the neon has stopped its insistent buzzing and the front of the room is suddenly pale without the blue and red glow.
She hangs back sometimes. Giving a few more minutes of company, of companionship before heading home to her required readings and textbook pages that she'll inevitably fall asleep over, curled uncomfortably at her table, the weight of her GPA and scholarship holding her to the chair long after she should head to bed.
She sits on the office desk while Luce counts the drawer, perched on the edge, legs swinging with the last of the energy reaped from her last espresso shot of the night, compressed and coveted tremors of stimulate making her brain hum. Luce counts out loud, her voice singsong on the numbers and with every new pile of ones her fingers sweep the side of Shelby's leg.
The shop is silent and the office echoes a little with the scrape of bills. Shelby's sneakers nudge the chair Luce hunches in, the wheels shift on the tile, but Luce doesn't break stride, her eyes still on the cash as she works out the deposit. They don't talk, but it's comfortable, a few minutes of quiet and rest.
The drawer and the deposit goes into the safe tucked beneath the desk and Shelby turns her head obediently as Luce fiddles the dial. The far wall is blank and a dull and yellowing white, but she wasn't even supposed to be in the office with the counting of the drawer and it's a tendency she sticks to.
It's these nights, perched on the edge of the desk, her head turned, the silence of the shop so heavy on her shoulders she hunches. Nights when Luce slams the safe shut and moves between Shelby's legs, hands pressing flat against her thighs and Shelby will turn her head just in time to catch Luce's mouth.
The initial kiss is always slow, the shift of Luce's lips on Shelby's, the roll of her hands higher on her legs and a soft sweep of tongue like a request for access. Shelby follows her lead, inescapably what she does best, her hands treading through her hair before lacing behind Luce's neck.
From there, there's a drive and things heat. Luce pushes herself forward, her hands leaving Shelby's thighs to the front of her shirt. Buttons are worked in quick succession and Luce shoves Shelby's shirt off her shoulders. It catches Shelby's arms with a moment of struggle to get it off while Luce's focus has moved to the front of her jeans, never breaking the kiss.
These nights are always rushed and needy, clothes only half shed, zippers only tugged partway down, or waistbands slung just under hipbones. It's matched with unhurried affection, Luce loves the jut of her collarbone, the hollow groove at the base of her neck, the skin beneath her bellybutton while Shelby's thumbs run against the underside of Luce's breasts, her nails scraping the channel of her ribs, lips and teeth on the curve of her jaw.
The hours spent in the coffee shop flush their skin. Luce's hands move across her arms and Shelby can feel the grit of ground espresso coarsening Luce's grasp while the aroma of coffee warms and darkens the scent of sex. Luce tastes of chocolate, sugar lingering on the pout of her lip from day old pastries.
She rides out her need on Luce's fingers, Luce's wrist trapped against the band of her underwear, bumping off beat against her belly and they pause, breathing before Shelby slides off the desk, slips to her knees. Her fingers catch Luce's pockets, dragging her jeans down, lower and lower and she presses forward. Luce leans back, hands on the edge of the desk, hips moving without elegance, without grace.
It's the evenings like these where they laugh as they help each other dress. Luce mismatches her buttons, Shelby half tucks Luce's shirt and pops her collar. They trip each other as they leave and at the door, Shelby kisses her neck, sucking at the pulse point while Luce fumbles with her keys, twisting them in the lock and delaying parting with her hand pressed against the glass, breathing in time to Shelby's lips.
Its evenings like this when they depart with a wave and color in their faces. They leave with a slight quiver in their legs, heaviness in their arms, while Shelby's knees ache and Luce rolls her wrist. Evenings where they kiss a final time beneath the streetlamp, bathed in a washed out orange. These nights aren't planned, her need for companionship usually bears less weight than her need to go home, but some nights there's something unspoken and she'll hang back after the final long rush, the final last call and the fatality of the open sign's glow.