#afterhours

“please, please, ume kiss me I need it!” you cry, voice crackly and whiney thanks to the screams you’ve let out all night. contrary to the belief of many of the concubines, he does not take you every night. sukuna spent centuries without sex, finding the pleasure of orgasms second to that of eating food. that is, of course, until he met you. being intimate with you gave him a high not even slaughtering entire towns for feasts did. even so, his libido does not match yours. after spending so long without regular inter course, his refractory period was much longer than a humans’. once he came, it could take days until he was ready again.

that meant that every time he was ready, you were at his mercy, subject to every whim and behaving to his exact liking. his occasional nick name for you, doll, was not the endearing term many others use it as. you truly are his little doll, existing to please only him in these moments.

and yet, when he found out about uraumes little crush, he found the idea of bringing them in to watch him play with his doll enthralling. and, as kings do, he got what he wanted.

now here you are drooling, begging to be touched more, to be kissed more, needing more, more, more. since adding uraume to your dynamic, your pleasure has been much more of the focus of these sessions, which, while possibly sounding enticing, has led to your utter ruin. the overstimulation takes over all your senses— muddling thoughts and releasing you of your power over your body. all you can do is be tossed around by your lovers, paying no mind to the numerous marks now littering your body. they serve as small mementos of these sessions during your recovery days following.

and even though all coherent thoughts seem to have escaped you, something in you knows that though you’ll never be able to break your king, uraume is where you’ll find your bidding done.

After a lot of negotiating and a meeting having to be moved to Tuesday, she was finally allowed to sit and breathe. Of course, not before her mother woke her up at 8 a.m. to call and check up– which ended up being an hour-long call. 

"I know, maman." Camille sighed, leaning over the counter and cradling the receiver in the crook of her neck, dropping a large scoop of crushed coffee beans into the coffee maker. "I'll come visit next week."

Her mom continued talking, speaking so quickly that Camille barely had a second to get a word in.

"Yes." Another sentence, followed by a question, then silence. "Yes." Another, her mother even humming after her question, waiting for an answer. "I said yes."

Camille sighed as her mother finally said goodbye. "I love you too," she smiled, finally hanging the phone back on the wall. The coffee maker familiarly sputtered before dripping the coffee into the pot below. She stood, leaning her hip on the counter as she waited, appreciating the small silence while it lasted. It wasn't every day she didn't have somewhere to be, and she was fully committed to taking advantage of it today. 

Still dressed in an oversized silk pajama set, she rubbed her eyes, bringing a hand up to grab a mug from the cupboard. Just as she poured herself a cup, the intercom beside the door buzzed loudly, interrupting. 

She groaned, walking over to it when it buzzed again. 

"Jesus, I'm coming," she said, completely to herself. The small silver button buzzed back when she pressed down on it. 

"Good morning," a familiar voice chirped. 

"Daniel? What are you doing here?"

"Evelyn told me you had a free day. We're going to breakfast."

Camille stumbled, trying to find an excuse. "I just woke up! I'm still in my pajamas!"

"See you in five minutes down here," Daniel replied enthusiastically. 

"But–" she tried to protest, but heard the familiar buzz of the line ending. "...Hello? ...Daniel?"

She groaned loudly, taking her finger off the button and beginning to walk back to her room to get ready, leaving the full cup of coffee on the counter abandoned. 

"Unbelievable," she muttered. "No one seems to respect a girl's well-deserved day off."

Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom, quickly fastening a pair of pearl earrings, her hair lazily pinned up, in an effort to look presentable. She hopped out, putting on a heel before grabbing her purse sitting on the counter. 

Down the hall, an elevator operator stood, smiling lightly when she came closer. 

"Good morning, Camille." 

"Morning," she sighed, entering the open door he was holding. 

"Your friend had been down there for ten minutes."

"Don't remind me. He's very impatient," she laughed. 

Living somewhere with an elevator operator, doorman, and full-time security had once felt incredibly extravagant. Now it was simply another part of her life.

As the elevator landed on the bottom floor, the doors opened, reflecting the dark hardwood floors that still smelled of fresh polish and the gold chandeliers in the lobby. Daniel stood, smiling brightly once he saw Camille. 

"Only took you eleven minutes."

Camille thanked the operator, walking towards Daniel and rolling her eyes. "You're lucky it wasn't longer."

"I was convinced you went back to bed."

"I was considering it," she laughed, pulling her bag higher on her shoulder. "I honestly still am."

"You'll feel better after breakfast."

"I already had breakfast."

"Coffee doesn't count, unfortunately," Daniel shook his head, walking towards the large glass doors. The outside of New York was dark, clouds covering the sky as light snowflakes fell. The contrast was stark between the warm, golden lighting inside and the cool blue of the city. 

The doorman nodded, opening one of the large doors and holding it. The sharp wind of December flooded in, immediately waking any tiredness left in Camille. She quickly stuffed her chin in the neck of her jacket, throwing her hands into her pockets as her purse casually slipped further down her shoulder. She had officially regretted changing out of her warm pajamas. 

A flash went off across the street; a paparazzi stationed outside the apartments, waiting for someone famous to walk out. He jumped at the opportunity, quickly bringing up his camera to get a photo of her and Daniel. 

"Really? Even in this weather?" She huffed. 

Daniel followed her gaze, moving from Camille so they weren't walking so close together. "They must've got here after I came." 

"And now they get a photo of us leaving my apartment."

Camille looked away, walking towards the curb where a dark car pulled up. Daniel smoothly walked in front of her, opening her door as he raised an arm for the paparazzi across the street. Camille quickly grabbed his arm to shoot it down. 

"Please just get in the car and don't encourage them," she said as Daniel lightly chuckled and shut her door, moving to the opposite side of the car. 

The car pulled from the curb, slipping back into routine traffic. The photographers got further and further away, blending into the city life. The windshield wipers swiped the falling snow from the window, even though snow had already begun piling up in the crevice at the bottom. 

"If the next headline says something about you leaving my apartment, I'm blaming it on you."

Daniel just laughed, ignoring Camille's annoyance and changing the subject. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Obviously I slept."

"Okay... for how long?"

"Enough."

"Enough usually means not enough."

"And why does my sleep schedule pertain to you?"

Daniel lightly punched her arm. "Because you act like this with me if you don't get enough sleep."

Camille softened her shoulders, finally smiling for the first time this morning. "Okay, you win. But that's why I needed that coffee."

The car slowed, joining the usual morning traffic of Manhattan. Pedestrians hurried on sidewalks, holding newspapers over their heads as a shield from the snow. Yellow taxis accelerated once the lights turned green, slipping through thin slush. 

"Evelyn said you've been impossible to reach this week."

"Evelyn has seen me every day this week," Camille shot back.

"Still, it seems like you've been ignoring calls," Daniel implied. 

"I answer every call that comes through."

"Yet you ignored my call yesterday." 

"That's because it's you."

Daniel acted sarcastically shocked. "I'm offended." 

The truth was, she had answered pretty much every call. Most of them even before the second ring. 

It was always Evelyn calling to review her thoughts on a new script, her mother checking in to make sure she was eating well, and directors who knew her personal line calling to offer her roles. It should've felt like a blessing to be this busy, but in the midst of it all, she could only think about one thing. 

It was never Michael who called. Not that she'd been waiting for him. She was busy, exhaustingly busy. Still, every time the telephone rang, she found herself moving just a little faster than before.

Her life continued around her just the same as before she scribbled her number on a napkin. That was six days ago now. When did she start counting? 

The car slowed beneath the restaurant awning before she could continue, a familiar doorman standing outside, walking over to the car to grab the door.

"Miss Beaumont," he nodded, Camille stepping out of the car and flashing a smile.

"Good morning."

Daniel slid across the back seat, leaning out of the same door and greeting the doorman. "Morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Hart."

The doorman held the restaurant door open, both of them swiftly walking in and meeting the host at the front desk. She had a phone cradled in her shoulder, holding open a reservation planner and flipping through as she talked. 

When Camille and Daniel walked in, she smiled, holding a finger up and scribbling a last name into one of the boxes before dropping the receiver back down. 

"Hello, we have your usual table ready. Please follow me," the young woman said. 

Daniel thanked her, following her closely with Camille. "You called ahead?" Camille asked. 

"I just wanted to make sure they had the one in the back."

Both of them sat at a round table in the back. Every table they walked by glanced, focusing back on their coffee, and forgot about it. 

The host set down two menus on the table. "Your server will be right with you."

Camille smiled, nodding when the woman continued. "And Miss Beaumont?"

"Mhm?" she mumbled, taking a sip of her water. 

"I just wanted to say I love your work."

"Thank you," she smiled. "That's really sweet." 

The host nodded, turning on her heels and walking back towards the stand. She never asked for an autograph, just gave a compliment about her work. 

Daniel watched her walk back to the front before speaking. "Nothing about my work."

Camille looked back, unimpressed. "It must be hard being reduced to my breakfast companion."

The usual server appeared at the table, holding a pot of coffee, flipping over both of the mugs in front of them and pouring a gracious amount. Camille thanked him before bringing her lips to the glass to take a small sip off the top.

"Better?" Daniel asked. 

"Much better."

The server took their orders, scratching them onto a paper notepad before returning to the back. 

Daniel took a sip of his coffee, relaxing in the chair. "So, which role are you taking?"

"How do you know about my future roles?" Camille asked.

"Evelyn sent me the scripts."

"Why?" 

Daniel shrugged. "She wanted my opinion."

"Does everyone talk about my career behind my back?"

"Only when you refuse to answer the phone," he replied. "So?"

Camille settled in her chair, sighing. "I don't know," she admitted. "Evelyn likes the period piece."

"Of course she does."

"She says it's safer, better for the media." Camille grabbed across the table for the small creamer cup.

"It's also twelve weeks in LA next year, and you can't book anything else if you do."

Camille poured the creamer, watching the dark brown coffee turn lighter. "It's a good director." 

"But it's not what you want, Camille. That's obvious."

"I like the comedy better," she confessed. 

Daniel took another sip of his drink. "Then why not take it?"

"It's not that easy," she sighed. "Everyone still thinks I'm that little girl from the television. If I spend an hour and a half tripping over furniture and making jokes, I'm not exactly proving them wrong."

Daniel shot back quickly. "But standing silently in the background of a serious one will? Doing another movie in a dress far too small for you while the entire world talks about your looks proves you're not little anymore?"

Camille rolled her eyes, focusing back down at the cup. "So you don't like the romance either," she stated.

"It's not that I don't. I know you don't like it. You want something more. I think you should chase that instead of whatever looks best on paper."

Camille smiled, looking back up at him and shaking her head. "When did you become so wise?"

"I usually am; you just never noticed." 

Camille lightly chuckled, taking a sip of her drink while looking around the restaurant, deep in thought. "The period piece is based in the 20s. I bet the sets would be so cool."

Daniel watched her think. "Since when do you care about movie sets?"

Camille set her cup down, resting her elbows on the table. "I know, I never have... I was blown away when I saw The Wiz ones though."

"You saw them?"

"Yeah, they're still filming," she added. "Michael showed me."

"Michael who?"

"Michael Jackson, how many Michaels do you think I know?"

"Apparently one well enough to wander around his movie set with him."

Camille smiled, remembering the night. "It was after the record store; we got fried chicken and ate it there. It was actually pretty funny; we had to sit on this little blanket next to the set of the yellow brick road and practically had a little picnic."

"What a weird first date."

"It was not a date," Camille corrected sternly. "We just got food."

Daniel leaned back in his chair, listening. 

"You should've seen the costumes. Diana Ross' shoes were out, just sitting on the shelf. They had grey rhinestones instead of the red. Isn't that interesting?" 

"Very."

"And Michael's costume was absolutely ginormous. They have to stuff it with trash bags and other stuff."

Daniel's face wrinkled. "Trash bags?"

"Well, obviously clean ones. He told me the real straw was too itchy."

"That's understandable."

Camille relaxed her shoulders, realizing how excited she had just gotten. "Anyways, it was fun. He knows all these little things about the cast. Even the costumer designers, producers, everything. You'd think he was a full-on actor."

"It sounds like it was fun."

Nothing was embarrassing in admitting it. Michael was interesting, and she enjoyed the time she spent with him. It didn't have to be any more than that. 

"Are you going to see him again?" Daniel asked. 

"I don't know, I gave him my number."

"I'm assuming he hasn't called?" 

"No," she shook her head, trying to seem less bothered than she was. 

"I wouldn't overthink it. He is filming a movie, as you said."

Camille only shrugged her shoulders.

"How long has it been?" Daniel continued. 

"Six days."

Daniel laughed into his cup. "That isn't very long."

"I know it isn't. I'm not upset; I just kind of thought he would." 

"He probably will."

"And if he doesn't?" Camille shot back quickly. 

"Then he doesn't," Daniel shrugged. Camille frowned at his simplistic answer. "It doesn't make the night any less enjoyable," he added. "You enjoyed yourself, had a nice night, and maybe made a new friend. None of that changes just because the phone hasn't rung."

Daniel watched how his advice still managed to leave her pouting. "Do you like him?"

"I don't know," she started. "I just don't know if I like him like that. I barely know him." 

"Well then you don't have to put a label on how you're feeling."

"That sounded intelligent."

"I have my moments," he nodded. "He does sound nice, though. I'd like to meet him."

"Why?"

"Because you've spent the last five minutes talking about the yellow brick road and trash bags, and yet you look the happiest you have all morning."

Camille kicked his leg under the table. "What? I said I liked him," Daniel laughed. 

"You haven't even met him."

"Well then I guess he better call you."

By the early evening, a small layer of snow had covered the top of every building Camille could see. After breakfast, she was now dedicated to enjoying her day off. 

She sat on the couch in a white, cotton robe, her hair still damp from a shower. A black and white movie played on the television, lighting up the otherwise darkened living room. A bowl of popcorn sat on the glass table; her foot rested beside it as she carefully painted her toes a deep shade of red.

In the movie, a woman had run into a hotel lobby as a man called her name repeatedly, pretending not to hear him. Camille grabbed another handful of popcorn. 

The telephone rang beside the counter in the kitchen, Camille's hand still deep inside the bowl. She shot up, wiping the salt on her robe and grabbing the phone, all before the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Before you start complaining," Evelyn started. "They've changed the start time of the meeting to 7:15."

Camille sighed loudly into the receiver. "Ugh. 7:15 is criminal."

"You wanted today off."

"And now I'm being punished for not working myself into the ground." 

"Wear something warm. They expect it to snow all through the night. And bring both scripts; Martin wants to know what you're considering next" 

"I already know which I want," Camille said, hopping up onto the counter to sit and continue painting her toes.

"The comedy?"

"If you already know, then why are we having a meeting?"

"Because wanting to do something and committing a year of your career to it is very different."

"Do you not think I should do the comedy?"

Camille could faintly hear the rustling of a planner from the phone. "I don't think you shouldn't do it, it's just," Evelyn continued. "You're young, Camille. You're in the peak of your career. As your friend, of course I want you to do what you want. As your publicist, though, I think you should be smart."

"And the period piece is smart?"

"The period piece has a respected director, a higher budget, and would look much better. You shouldn't completely disregard it."

Camille painted a small stripe of red on her pinky toe, taking her nail to clean it up. "Fine. I'll see what Martin has to say tomorrow."

Evelyn sighed, her voice immediately changing to a more enthusiastic version. "Well now that that's done... tell me about Michael Jackson."

"Oh, my God."

"Vincent told me!"

"Vincent talks too much."

"Maybe... but I want to hear all about it. Did you guys have—"

"Jesus, Eve! No!" Camille cut her off quickly. "We literally just got food and went to a soundstage." 

"I've already heard that much. I want to hear what Vinny didn't see."

"I've already spent my entire morning explaining this to Daniel."

"Well, Daniel doesn't ask enough questions."

"That's what I like about him," Camille said.

"No, that's a serious character flaw," Evelyn stated. "So, who asked who?"

"He asked me, obviously."

"What'd he say?"

"He said he was enjoying himself and wanted to keep hanging out."

"And then?"

"We went to the soundstage and ate Kentucky Fried."

"No, really?" Evelyn teased sarcastically. "What did you guys talk about?"

"Work, movies, what's next."

"That is horrifically boring. Did he bring up Daniel?"

Camille sat silent on the other line, trying to hide a smirk Evelyn couldn't see anyway. 

"He did! You have to tell me what you said."

"I told him we had been dating for three years."

"Oh no."

"...And that he was proposing."

"You're evil!" Evelyn laughed loudly.

"You should've seen his face!" Camille laughed with her. "He looked so scared and still told me congrats."

"When did he ask for your number?"

Camille's laughter died out. "Six days ago," she said softly, like a confession. 

"You counted."

"I did not; it just," she fumbled. "It just happened six days ago. I'm just very updated on the date."

"Mhm... do you hope he calls?"

"Just as much as I hope a new friend I gave my number to calls."

"Friend... I'll make sure to quote that when his tongue is halfway down your thro—"

"Goodnight, Eve! 7:15, I got it!" Camille cut her off, slamming the phone back against the wall. 

She took three full steps back to the couch before the phone started ringing again. She huffed, walking over quickly and grabbing it again. 

"I swear to God, Eve, I do not need to be interrogated—"

"Camille?"

Her hand froze. The familiar voice on the other end was quiet, almost uncertain.

"Michael?"

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi..." she stumbled, lowering the polish brush back into the container. 

"Sorry, is this a bad time?"

"No—no, not at all. I was just calling my publicist. Evelyn has a hard time knowing when conversations are over"

Michael laughed on the other end. "What are you up to?"

"Currently watching a movie," she said, looking back over at the living room. 

"What movie?"

"I'm not even sure. I missed half of it," she smiled. "What about you?"

"Camille," he started, disregarding her question. "I'm sorry I haven't called. This last stretch of filming has been exhausting, and every night once I get home, I think it's too late to call."

Camille smiled into the receiver even though he couldn't see it. "Well, you'll be pleased to know phones work after nine."

"I wasn't sure if yours did."

"It does."

"Good to know," Michael said, laughing quietly. "Especially because I almost called last night." 

Camille blushed behind the phone. "Why didn't you?" 

"It was after eleven."

"Michael."

"I know, I know, but I still think you shouldn't bother a girl that late at night. Doesn't send off the right message," he started, laughing as he remembered something. "It's because one of your old movies was on TV."

"Which one?"

"The one where you're in that little blue dress and are trying to steal that necklace for half the movie."

"Oh, God. You turned it off, I hope?"

"Of course not. Watched the whole thing." 

"That was your first mistake."

"I liked it!"

"Then you have terrible taste." She leaned down to the edge of her toe, noticing she had painted the side of her skin during the conversation. "Bon, look what you've made me do."

"What'd I do?"

"Distracted me. Now my foot's covered in red polish."

"You're painting your toenails?"

"Attempting to," she said, taking her finger to clean up the rest. "Or maybe the whole toe." 

"You're quite the multitasker; a movie, talking to me, and painting your toenails."

"Seems like I can't even relax on my day off."

A long moment of silence stretched before either of them said anything, Michael finally speaking up to break the ice. 

"Well," he said. "I should probably get back to the set before someone comes looking for me."

"You're calling me from set?" 

"Yeah... I snuck into one of the makeup trailers."

"Just to call me?"

"I was afraid if I waited till I got home it'd be too late again. Anyway, I need a break."

"Are you still in costume?"

Michael smiled at himself in the mirror, realizing how ridiculous he looked. "Yep, the whole get-up and everything."

"You called me as a scarecrow?"

"Why does that change anything?"

"I would've taken you much less seriously."

Michael laughed as a distant knock could be heard on the door. 

"Michael?" a muffled voice called. "They're ready for you."

Camille heard through the call, answering. "Well, it sounds like your hiding spot has been found." 

"Apparently," he sighed.

"You should go."

"I'll call you again. Earlier next time."

"A man that respects a woman's beauty sleep."

Michael chucked softly. "Goodnight, Camille."

"Goodnight, Michael."

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