#ficminds

“You’re crazy, you’re a crazy person. Do you know that?” Seonghwa gasps, with a fist full of hair and a head full of things he can’t bring himself to say. Something has snapped—between the omakase and the drive over and right now—some part of the natural order that kept a firm barrier between business and pleasure, crumbled to dust. And he’d missed it. Drove straight past it. Do not pass go, do not collect ₩200,000. Right up until the point Choi San dragged him into the changing room stall and stuck his tongue down his throat.

“Then don’t kiss me back.”

He’s fed the response, warm air hitting the flat of his tongue. Intimate in a hyper specific way that sends cold heat straight through him. He could close his mouth, try to put some distance between them. He should do that. This is San, for fucks sake. San. The same guy he’d had to drag out of bed, out of clubs, and out of trouble on multiple occasions. With his half moon eye smile and dimples and natural country born innocence. With his hands curled into the lapels of Seonghwa’s shirt, following the rise and fall of his chest.

From behind a delicious—dangerous—haze, comes the thought that this should not feel quite so good. It should not feel like something slipping into place. Seonghwa should not be fighting the urge to lean in, chase his lips on their retreat. And yet— 

No.

He tightens his hold in the short hairs at the nape of San’s neck, peeling himself free of a trap, creating enough space between their mouths for the static in his head to fritz into clarity. Fuck all it does to help. The absence of San’s breath in his mouth is one thing. Being able to see in full focus just how affected he is… that’s another thing entirely. They’re working. This is work. To be released alongside a mini album they haven’t debuted, for songs they haven’t performed, concepts they haven’t fully finalised. Fuck, it might not even make it past censors. Hongjoong had been joking about the lyrics being a little too forward, but if you can’t be risqué over seven years into your career, then when can you? These risks they take, for fans or for themselves, haven’t steered them wrong so far. Regardless, they’re here—on a date—between one tour and the next, because someone had the smart idea to charge headfirst into fan service rather than respectfully dodge around it. Idol life is a joke. 

Choi San lets a slow smile spread across his lips.

They taste, Seonghwa knows, nearly impossibly like chocolate. 

Seonghwa almost swallows his tongue.

“We’re going to get caught,” He says, words inelegant as his first, praying the sheer amount of fabric in the immediate vicinity will dampen the sounds he’s trying (and failing) to hold back. The task is herculean—because of course it is—with the faint pressure of a hand under his sweater pressing dangerously low on his stomach bubbling all kinds of things to the back of his throat. Moans, cries, curses—he bites them all down, even as fingers curl against the seam of his waistband. Especially then. “Stop—”

San pauses, as requested, but —the bastard—his hand stays right there. Not peeling behind, not yet withdrawing, just sat at the precipice. Fingernails against the edge of red raw skin, like the touch of a feather against a bruise. Or a razor. 

“Tell me you want that, and I will.” 

“Do you want to get caught?” He says, diverting from the question itself. It’s not a question of if he wants to kiss him. 

The question is will they get away with it. What will happen if they do?

There’s a fire within Choi San he reserves for people he hates: fans that push it too far, friends turned traitors, slow walkers. 

From the look in his eyes, that simmering raw intensity their stage personas don’t even scratch the surface of, Park Seonghwa would count himself as part of that list. That is, if he didn’t know better. If he didn’t see the spit slick lips, pink and kiss bruised. If he didn’t see San’s cheeks pink, feel his chest heave, watch his throat catch, and understand.

“I want you. I don’t care about the rest.”

It’s always the same dream. Always the same lick of flame at his wrist, always the same vice grip on his forearm.

“There now, halfbreed,” his brothers would say, his father would say. “Scars for the scar of the family name.” And his hands would melt, skin sloughing from fat, muscle, until only bone remained. They would melt too, uncharacteristically, dripping away as charred black split to reveal milky red and white - marrow, maybe.

Flames work up his arms. Shadows replace them.

The stench of it is too much, even in his nightmares. So much that he wakes up gagging, bolting for the bathroom before the grip of terror fully loosens from his heavy limbs. He’s careful not to touch anything on the way just in case. He’s scratched them raw before. It would not surprise him if it happened again. He hadn’t, thank fuck, but a recently healed scab between his knuckles split just to spite him as Azriel clenched his fist.

It’s not unusual for him to sport bandaged knuckles or to even wear gloves on occasion — tight leather fit, reinforced at the joints. They restricted his dexterity only slightly, but never enough to impede his skill. They hid a multitude of other sins too. He’d be able to get away without too many bandages this time around. Just a small one to cover the reopening cut between the third and fourth fingers of his right hand.

He washes them first, careful to run the faucet just enough for a constant stream, just enough to avoid the groan of the pipes. It’s almost mechanical how he takes each task. Wash, Dry, Treat, Wrap, Secure. Again and again. Over and over. On the battlefield or in the bathroom — it’s all the same. Just reminders of violence.

At least now it takes him minutes. It used to take hours. Hours and nothing but rags and scraps and a shallow bowl of dirty water.

Wispy tendrils curl across his knuckles, soothing in their own way. Soothing and insistent. Warning.

A patter of footsteps, the creak of hinges he’s been meaning to oil for far too long. Sea water.

“Az?”

Fuck.

“Go back to sleep, Gwyneth.” It comes out tired, weary as he tucks one end of the bandage beneath another, knotting the ends a touch tighter than he needs. Not at her, never at her.

But she makes no attempt to turn away. No, she molds to his back, curving around his spine until there’s no space between them. The press of her warm lips against Azriel’s shoulder blade rips through him like a brand. Her delicate fingers slip around his waist, drawing idle pattens in the space below his belly button. He clenches against it, feeling her nails graze the skin - gentle but searching. A coil of darkness circles her wrist.

Azriel’s mind jumps to her swordsmanship, the effect it’s having on her hands. She’s growing calluses. He wonders if she’s noticed.

“I’m not tired.” She says, and it catches against his spine, rides the length of it like a landslide until the words settle in his gut, just south of her fingers. The way she toys with the hair dusted above the waistband of his shorts—

It’s a game and it’s not. They play and they don’t. It’s sex and it’s sacrament.

In a roundabout way, he’s lucky she’s tolerated him this long. She’d listened all the times he’d said he didn’t want to talk about it. When the walls close in and everything feels too claustrophobic, like he’d never left the basement, only seeing the sun through cracks in knotted floorboards, dust dancing on shallow breaths. He’d been mean about it more than once, when he pushed her away or left her stranded, nothing but the wings on his back and the ache in his chest to guide him.

If he’s being honest, he’s surprised she stayed at all.

There’s no escaping the fact that he is an asshole. Even if he never wanted to be.

Gwyneth Berdara, never one to be underestimated, was one hell of a quick study. She learned how to keep him put, keep him talking, how to crack him like ripe fruit until all his secrets spilled free, like pomegranate seeds. Hers for the taking. The parts of himself even Rhysand and Cassian learned not to talk about, she barely flinched at. She took it all, never once turning away.

No need for daggers or swords; her greatest weapon is her tongue.

“Are you?” She asks, punctuated with a kiss to the back of his neck.

Azriel turns then, hitching her up onto the bathroom counter in the process as he stands between her legs but, if she’s surprised by this, she doesn’t let on. The cool night breeze through the open window has her nipples peaked through the shirt she’s wearing. One of his, naturally. Dark against the pale of her thighs. She looks at him with such defiant eyes, a challenge wrapped up just for him.

“Tired?” He curls one hand under her chin, tilts it to the side just a little. She gasps as he runs his nose along the line of her throat. “No, but I can fix that.”

Her index finger dips lower, snapping the fabric against his flesh. Azriel’s patience snaps with it. “Come to bed.”

“Why?” He asks, purposefully petulant.

She slides her heel up the back of his thigh, the movement only serving to reveal more of her milky flesh. She says “Come and find out.” But all Azriel hears is white noise as he slips his free hand under her shirt.

He pretends to consider it, he really does, and he used to pride himself on patience, but there’s no use pretending. Not with her. He has no intention of going anywhere just yet. “No dice. I’ve got everything I want right here.”

It’s the melodic sigh that sings to him, as she relaxes into his hand at her throat. She’s warm and soft and slick to the touch, honey cooling on his fingers as he toys with featherlight pressure. The thing is, Azriel doesn’t need to see to know just where she likes it. He knew the atlas of her body the moment they kissed. Intel gained from rigorous training, survival and aid now serving his baser instincts. What a double edged sword to know where she is weakest. What a gift to touch her anyway.

What has he done to deserve it?

“Do you want me to touch you?” He clings to the brief acceptance he’d been allowed, her open legs and heavy breaths, knowing she’ll say yes but needing to hear it anyway. His hands aren’t as smooth as other males, skin thick with callus and scar. He should have asked before he even tried. He shouldn’t have let it get this far. Should’ve let his arms burn to stumps, should’ve cut them off when his brothers offered him the saw, should’ve—

Gwyn grips his wrist in her palm, fingertips against the marled pulse point. With each beat it whispers don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.

“After all this time you still need an answer?” She says, barely above a whisper. Do you not know already how much I love you? How much I care?

He knows — oh, he knows — but it’s not enough.

“I would like one.”

She peels off her—his shirt, and each inch of skin that appears only serves to drive the lump further up his throat. A twirl of black sits at the crease between her thigh and her hip, and Azriel wants to trace its path like nothing else. Like he’s done before. Like he will do again.

They play like this sometimes; like a game of cards and he’s one draw away from folding, and Gwyn hides her tells so well ever since she realised he’d learned how to read them. Part of him is disappointed that she’s not wearing any underclothes. He would’ve made use for them in her mouth.

“Is that good enough?”

Azriel shakes his head, focused too much on the darkened burn of his hands against the ivory of her throat. Gnarled gore against perfect smooth. A privilege just to touch her like this.

Sometimes, when he removes his hand, the print of it stays. Her flesh tainted by his touch. A path to her most intimate parts left in bruises and brands from his own fingers. To corrupt this last perfect thing— to have her skin slough under even the most gentle caress, even if her lips parted in pleasure as he did so.

He wakes screaming from those.

“I want to hear you say it.” He says, quiet like confession. Truthfully, it’s the only way he could ever admit this; below a whisper, for her ears only. “I like it when you tell me what you want.”

“Azriel, oh Azriel.” It comes laced with sarcasm, if a little heavy. Like she’d roll her eyes if they weren’t half lidded and focused on his lips. “I want you to touch me. Please.”

And when Azriel whispers “thank you” against her lips, he means it. Sighs it into her mouth like a prayer. Gwyn doesn’t pause before kissing him as he slides one, two fingers inside her, moan catching on his teeth.

Times like this, he wishes he had full sensation in his fingers. That the fire hadn’t robbed him of the sensitivity in at least half of them. He can still feel the pressure as she clenches around them — desperate, eager — but he wished he could feel it more. Wished the pads of his fingertips could trace the walls of her and memorise them, like he had done with his tongue so many times before.

It’s not like he has no feeling, just less. Scar tissue marring the sensation like feeling through the gloves he used to wear on solstice visits to Rosehall, before he was carted back to his cell and his father tore them from his arms and threw them to the same flame they burned him with. Acrid leather smoke choking him with each breath. It’s hard to remember how things truly felt; the silks of his mother’s dresses, the rough concrete floors of his father’s basement, the unmarred feel of his own skin before all the scars.

But there are other ways to feel her.

Azriel slips a thumb to her clit and Gwyn flinches, hands jumping to his shoulders. Her blunt fingernails bite into his flesh and it hurts so deliciously he almost loses the tentative grip he has on things. On reality. Chain slipping from his grip a little more with each noise from her lips. Each one he pulled from her.

“You’re teasing.” She gasps, breaking the kiss as he circles his thumb again, practiced pressure allowing him to press ever so slightly until the telltale whine and hiss of oversensitivity drags him back. She’s always sensitive. Like no one he’s ever known.

“Am I?”

“You are. Don’t.”

He is, but that’s just how it goes. That’s how he peels apart the layers she also hides behind — teasing with touches he can’t quite feel until she breaks beneath him like a wave. He works her a little deeper, a little faster, revelling in how she squeezes around his fingers, curses lost to a god neither of them can hear and Azriel can’t bring himself to care about religion when he’s discovered heaven right here.

She trembles as she comes, breath heavy and laboured. How he can bring her off with just this alone fascinates him still. There’s no getting over just how close to perfection he is allowed, despite all the things he did to get there. The stains on his soul run deeper than the marks on his skin, but Gwyn drags him close anyway, lips sealing around the side of his neck, kissing up to his ear with breathless pants.

Azriel thinks, for a second, that maybe she loves him.

It’ll pass.

Her lips catch his earlobe.

“God, you take my cock so well. I know that tight little pussy is just begging for it all day. You wish I could cum inside you, is that right? Sweetheart, you’re so good for me. Good girl. Good fucking girl. Tell me, does it feel good to know that only I get to see you like this? Are you going to come again? Sweet little thing, aren’t you? Fuck, if the world could see just how much of a filthy slut you are—“

Elain bites her fist as she shudders towards her third climax, two fingers working hard at her clit to drag out the waves as her pussy, regretfully, clenches around nothing. A fresh trickle of wet slips down past her ass, rapidly cooling against her hot flesh in the frigid air, and fuck she wishes she was being filled there too. Wishes she was taking somebody’s strap like it’s her job to be a cum drunk little slut, instead of riding her fingers listening to the velvet smooth instruction of a stranger. Of memento-mor-i and the rhythmic wet slap meant to mimic the sound of her pussy, like the voice in her headphones has her pinned down, fucking her into submission.

“That’s right,” Praise casting a new chill through her, the tension in her gut curls tighter still. She’s close again, reaching to clutch her breast, grasping as if it might feel like someone else if she makes it hurt enough. “Are you gonna taste yourself for me?”

Usually, she would do as she’s told, but now? Elain doesn’t want to—No, she can’t stop the rhythmic circling of her fingers against her clit, the slick slide audible even through her headphones. Or maybe in time with the audio. Or maybe it's all a dream and she'll open her eyes and see stars instead of her bedroom ceiling. See the the silver gossamer canopy of the four poster bed she's been thinking of for months because it features in the only picture memento-mor-i has ever posted. She’s so fucking close. Her hips start rocking in earnest, against the absence of anything inside her, as if they can do something about it just by trying hard enough. This desperation keeps her focused, keeps her hungry. 

“Baby girl, you’re so fucking good to me. I love watching you come. That’s right, baby. That’s right. You can come. I want you to soak me with it, get my cock all wet for you. Show me who owns it. Come on, don't be shy. Show the world that it’s yours.”

The dam that breaks in her isn’t just mental—oh, far from it—it’s almost painfully physical as she strums her clit, ready for the pleasure swirling thick in her core, right beneath her rough but practiced movements. Leaving her nipple free and throbbing, she dives two fingers inside herself and fucks then in time with the audio, each greedy pulse of her cunt dragging her deeper or forcing her out. It’s a weird angle, legs splayed, both hands working away as she whines and squirms but it’s so close to perfect. God, she wishes she’d stuffed her mouth to keep from screaming, with her own panties or a pillow or somebody’s pussy, but it’s too late now. The phantom claws of it scale her throat as she tenses up. 

“Come on, baby. Don’t you want to come?”

Not for the first time while listening to memento-mor-i's audios, Elain crests the final peak of her orgasm—

And squirts—fuck—as she falls straight over it.

Thank fuck she had the foresight to lay down a towel.

In the post-orgasm haze, it’s laughable to think that memento-mor-i, who’s been putting out consistent audios for almost three years, is the reason Elain’s not been able to come with a guy since her last steady boyfriend. No matter how hard she coaches, no matter how many tips or tricks or secrets of her own body she has to give away, the guys she fucks don’t ever pick it up. Some hardly even try — too happy to have some willing pussy to last forty five seconds to three minutes in that they barely register her pleasure at all. 

Which is fine, because memento-mor-i posts twice a week and Elain hates to fall behind. 

The girls aren’t much better, though at least they get her off. Unfortunately, the ones that show interest are mostly interested in keeping her prim and proper and pretty as they fuck her. To the point that they either mishear or intentionally ignore her when she asks for a little degradation. One girl, the sweetest thing with her auburn bob and pianist fingers, could’ve been a fish the way she went down on her for hours. She’d tried her best, but a deft hand at Elain’s throat and caustic words hadn’t been enough because they hadn’t been hers. She might have come, but it had been hard earned. 

Elain considers her Quinn subscription among her most treasured possessions, simply because it allows her access to memento-mor-i.

She lays there, in a puddle of her own mess, as her heartbeat returns to something akin to normal and the faceless stranger that she gets off to every night talks her down. 

“You’re so beautiful,” She hums in Elain’s left ear. All grit as snark is gone from her now. Only reverence remains. It slips over her like silk. Alien in how real it sounds. Like Elain could turn her head and taste the breath of her absent lover. She wonders, half delirious, what colour her hair is, or her eyes, or her lips. She wonders, not for the first time, if she would like Elain at all. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

When she circles her over sensitive clit and replies I love you, Elain blames it on just how good the sex is. The sex she has with herself and the idea of a woman in her head.

“I love you too.” The voice replies, cursed by dark static in the silence that follows.

Elain swipes two fingers through her wetness, brings them to her mouth, and sucks. A warped facsimile of a tongue. The closest she’ll ever get to a kiss.

“We have to be quick.” She rushes past, all chiffon skirts and rose petal sweet, too pent up to pretend at caution as her slender fingers snatch up Azriel’s wrist. The scars never bothered her and for that he will always be grateful. This brief attempt at normalcy between library shelves and shrouded alcoves is a reprieve he only ever dreamed of. “Shield us?”

“Are you afraid to be caught?” He asks, falling into rank behind her as if he could ever deny himself the closeness it allows, toes of his boots almost catching her heels with each step. She tugs him right, then left, away from the revelry below. They might be missed. They might not.

“Aren’t you?”

That hurts a little.

They had rules to their meets: No bedrooms, no balconies, quiet at whatever cost, no marks, no gifts. And yet, despite the conditions, he takes it gladly. Although some he wishes desperately she will reconsider. To see her neck bruised from the force of his teeth, her hips blessed with purple kisses from each of his fingers, her rear pink and ripe with his handprint—

Azriel had already reserved himself to the fact that this is all he will ever get from her. On her terms, on her time.

The unexpected arrival of a certain red headed envoy had not escaped his notice when she lead him away from the crowd.

It’s always in the dark. Not the darkness of night, glittering beneath a blanket of stars, reflected in the crystal sweat sheen of her skin. Oh, to see her laid out beneath the moonlight, bare to the world and most of all him, to hear her pleasure lost to the wind’s howl. His dedication to her body played in the melodies of her throat. No, even that would be too visible. Instead this, the darkness of shadow, of the between places. Of nothing.

Was it fear? Disgust? Shame?

When they cross the threshold of the far study—once reserved for guests and courtiers, now dust heavy—Elain doesn’t waste a second. Her fingers grasp the scalloped hem of her skirt, hiking it up her thighs, to her waist, as she perches on the desk. The milkwhite flesh of her thighs is so much brighter than that of her arms, her chest, the places that so frequently end up bronzed from the sun’s kisses even this far north. Surely one day he’ll tire of the sight. Of her bare, without all the finery. But not here. Not today. And yes, maybe he’s just stupid enough sometimes to think she means it all for him. Sometimes. “Hurry up.”

In public, between friends and his closest family, to even be caught glancing was a trespass not worth the punishment, not worth the interrogation, not worth Rhysand’s wrath. Or worse. His pity.

But here, here she opens for him like lily bloom, proud and unashamed, in the privacy of his shadows. She glows so bright, the wisps of dark dare not wind around her as he steps to the gap between her legs. They dare not touch her. She’s a flame too stubborn to be smothered by the dark and mother knows he tries his damnedest to pull forth that veil between, and slip them both inside. It resists, pleading, begging but he’s used to this. He’s used to the fight each time she asks, each time she slides a finger between her legs and places it in his mouth.

How do you fight shadows? With immense difficulty. For her, though? He would do it. A thousand times, he would do it.

pencil skirt gwysand are at work the whole day. it's painfully mundane — meetings, paperwork, cassian interuptions. you know, the usual. she's wearing a red blouse today which, although not unheard of, is uncommon. and rhys wants to think it's for him but he knows it's not. someone sends a bouquet of flowers to her desk (it's him, he sent them) and she signs for them with a little love heart in the tail of the y of her name. there's no note attached, and he knows that because he told the florist, on pain of death, not to fucking add one. but she looks anyway, a little put out when she can't seem to locate the name of the sender. he likes when she pouts.

he made dinner plans, somewhere nice, somewhere exclusive, in the hopes that maybe he can politely ask if she wants to get dinner later. you know, if she's free. but then it's five pm and she's packing her things and he's got about thirty seconds to ask until she's riding the elevator out to whatever the weekend brings. so he does ask, leaning against the door frame, all nonchalant like. any plans tonight?

the girls and i are spending the weekend together. it's like... a book club type thing. we'll grab snacks and wine and read books, watch movies, wear our pyjamas, shit talk our bosses all weekend. something like that. none of us are seeing anyone right now so it's just us. galentines.

rhys, being rhys, tries his best not to picture her in little pyjamas, talking to her friends about him. fails. miserably. it sounds exactly like something she'd enjoy and he kicks himself for even considering interupting that peace.

you?

he shakes his head. nothing for me, but i hope you have an incredible time. see you monday.

and they leave it at that.

that is until he's locking up and sees a little parcel tucked on the edge of her desk, red tissue paper wrapping and gold ribbon holding it together. his name in soft cursive on the tag.

"Harassment training isn't enough," Azriel groans, near tearing his hair out at the roots by the way he grips it. It's longer than it's been in years, falling into his eyes like it did when they were teenagers and Rhys is half tempted to ask his barber to set up shop in one of the conference rooms and ambush Azriel into sorting his shit out. Not that it looks bad, it actually suits him — probably more than it should for a man in his early thirties. Rhys just doesn't want the competition. That, and he knows Azriel prefers to keep it tight. "At this point, we need to have him put down."

"I'm not against the idea," He starts, as Azriel pushes up from his seat, smoothing out the creases in his trousers. "but I don't think, feasibly, we can murder Cassian just because he's unable to maintain professional boundaries with someone he's known since before he could form cognitive thought." The fact they met on the first day of secondary school goes unsaid. "Just get him back… within reason."

Cassian, being Cassian, was very clear on his opinion of professional boundaries. That is to say, he ignores them entirely. It would be an issue, if he wasn't surprisingly competent at his job. The fact that sales was where he found his niche, after spending the majority of his formative years in careers that required less brain and more brawn, was a surprise to everyone. Well, everyone except Mor, who had suggested it in the first place.

Despite being the human equivalent of a sequoia, their clients took to him with unmatched ease, accepting his mark ups and margins and thanking him for the pleasure. Honestly, Rhys isn't quite sure how he does it. Even with his stint as sales director, he'd experienced a fair share of customers that he's pretty sure wanted him dead.

Not much has changed since he took over as CEO.

"That sounds awfully like you recommending I instigate psychological warfare against a colleague." Azriel sighs, a deep reverberating thing that seems to shudder out of him.

He shrugs, they've all done worse and got away with it. "It's a step down from murder."

"True." Azriel muses, tucking a stray curl behind his ear in a move that makes him look way more demure than he actually is. It might be worth asking if Gwyn can schedule something— no, that is not her job. "I've got to get back, no doubt Devlon will have raised another petty grievance by now."

Rhys moves his King of Spades to an empty column. What? He can't play solitaire on company time? Who's gonna tell. Who would they tell? Upper management has some perks. "You could always fire him."

He doesn't need to see Azriel's face to know he's rolling his eyes. "You know that's not how it works." He scoffs and when Rhys looks up, he's gone — slipping out of the office in that soundless way he does. If not for the Bye Gwyn he offers on his way past the front desk, Rhys wouldn't have noticed him leaving at all.

With a few more clicks (and not a single hint, thank you very much) Rhys' screen fills with the falling cards. It's by no means his quickest time, but it's still beneath five minutes, which is always nice. He slips his laptop shut. Lucien requested a meeting regarding the expansion of his team and, with Amren tied up in something else, Rhys had scheduled it in himself — much to Gwyn's aggravation.

Speaking of—

"See you soon, Azriel," Rhys watches as she waves him off, a secret smile framed by shimmering sheer pink. He'd never noticed her wearing lip gloss before but it certainly is a sight to behold, slick sheen glinting in the light streaming through the windows. He'll never invest in blinds. Not ever. "Send my love to the twins!"

The what?

Fortunately for some, there seems to be a limit to the sheer amount of absurdities that can officially occur in a single day at the office. The rest however are unofficial and, as a result, undeniably more frustrating. Four hundred emails, half of them from the same person. God forbid he take a fucking vacation for once in his miserable life. Not that life is miserable—quite the opposite, in fact. Life is, for lack of a better word, good.

Well, there's a first time for everything.

Business? Thriving. Friends? Decidedly pleasant. Family? Mostly dead, but the live ones are doing great. Love? Well, life’s a journey. It would be greedy to get everything right all at the same time.

And sleeping with a direct competitor for the best part of three months certainly hadn’t helped his case when it came to fire fighting the wave of plagiarism claims that flew in not long after they broke up. Really, Feyre could’ve been it for him—a match made in business relation heaven. A CEO and a CMO of rival conglomerates? Come on, the headline writes itself. All that and the fact that he actually liked her outside of a conference or courtroom.

Unfortunately, building that bridge would take an apology in the form of about two hundred and fifty thousand in legal fees and a public endorsement of her ex boyfriend and current business partner. Neither of which he’s willing to part with over something as trivial as, you know, an exclusive relationship.

“Rhys.”

His head snaps up to see Amren waiting impatiently in his open doorway. The one he’d closed behind him. Locked behind him, even. She pushes a to-go cup filled with presumably coffee but what could just as easily be poison across the desk and slinks down into the chair opposite. There’s no difference to her since they last spoke over a week ago—same severe uniform, same vicious heels. Even if she’s still only 5’1.

“How’s Adriata?” she asks. No pleasantries, no bullshit. Like she doesn't already know.

“Busy. Hot. Though, strangely enough, Tarquin left me well alone.” With two fingers, he turns his screen so she can see the shitshow that is his inbox at the godforsaken hour of 8:34am on a Monday morning. At least in Adriata, he'd been able to sleep in… not that he did, but the option was still there, at least. “Am I supposed to know who Gwyneth Berdara is?”

Amren doesn't even blink as she sips her actual poison—more creamer than coffee, more sugar than anything else. “New PA.”

“Who’s PA?”

“Yours.”

Mine? He certainly doesn’t remember hiring one, not since Mor proved to be piss poor at actually taking his messages and Cassian caused an issue that changed their entire marketing brief because god forbid someone red-green colourblind check before releasing the proofs for printing. He’d been without ever since and coping fine. Well, the 400+ emails in his inbox notwithstanding. It doesn’t matter that some of them were dated weeks before his leave — that's between him and God. And IT. “Since when do I have a PA?”