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Call Forth the Raven

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You weave between the tables of The Rowdy Raven, tray held high and stacked with goblets and pints, both full and empty. As you move through the crowd, definitely more than a little rowdy at this time in the evening, you laugh, you smile—you maybe even flirt a little bit with a few of the patrons who catch your eye, even though there’s only ever one man in Vesuvia who can hold it.

You had felt Julian slip in sometime just past 9, dark circles under his eyes and looking more than ready to nap in the nearest booth. But despite his long day, despite his struggle to remain upright, his eyes haven’t left you in the two hours since, not even to blink or glance at a shouting patron as they smashed their pint glasses in celebration.

Now, somewhere closer to 11, things are starting to settle. You cross to the corner booth Julian is reclining in, a new drink on your tray to replace the near-empty one he is nursing in his hand. You place it down in front of him, nudging it closer when he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy watching you, eyes a little droopy as he looks you over with what you can only describe as the dopiest fucking grin you have ever seen on any man in your life.

Wordlessly, and still ignoring his new drink, he beckons you closer. You roll your eyes and oblige, stepping forward so his hand can curl around the back of your thigh. It keeps you there between his knees, his thumb drawing small circles as you murmur and laugh about your evening to him, one hand on his shoulder to keep your balance.

As you tell him about the travellers from Nevivon, the drunk who had lost his wooden eye, the woman who had broken her chair over a man’s head for propositioning her, his hand slowly creeps higher and higher. All the while, he watches your lips move with a smile of his own, as though in a haze.

You trail off as you notice that particular smile, that dazed look, along with just how high his hand has crept up the back of your thigh. Your breath catches in your throat as he jerks up and tugs you into his lap, your legs landing slightly askew either side of his narrow hips.

He leans in, his soft lips and equally soft kiss to your jaw drawing you into a false sense of security before he murmurs to you, his voice perfectly filthy and low, “I’ve been so hard for you all night, princess.”

As he speaks he grinds up against you, slow and languid, as though he could torture himself with the heat of you for an eternity.

But only one of you enjoys that sort of recklessness. The other of you always heats up a little too fast, gets a little too needy and impatient. You’re a ticking bomb the moment any part of him comes into contact with you, and it seems to be his favourite game to see how fast he can make you go off each time he does it.

You rock slowly against him, already aching as his fingertips trace your spine through your clothes. Your hands tangle in his hair as he kisses across your chest, suckling gently wherever he cares to, leaving little red marks that he could make disappear in an instant if he really wanted, but you like them a little too much.

“Julian—” You groan his name, and there’s nowhere near the level of insistence that you had been going for—just straight up, pure frustration. A little petulance. A little desperation. And complete confirmation that he is in control.

He grins, a little lopsided as his hair falls in front of his patched eye. He leans back in the booth, hands settled on your hips, seemingly content to watch you grind on him. He knows you will never come like that. Knows it’s only a matter of moments before you say his name again, even less demanding than the time before.


And there it is. You snatch a hand off his hip and try to push it down between your legs, up under your dress, but he merely grins and twists it out of your grip. You growl, of course, and push out at his chest. But he won’t let you off him, pinning you with his hands and his gaze and his grin.

“Ah ah ah—don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs to you. He even has the audacity to pout a little. “I was enjoying my show.”

Your lips twist, unimpressed. “Were you, now?”

“Oh, very much so. I could honestly watch it all night.”

“I know you could. That’s why I’m leaving.”

“Stay for a little longer, love. I’ll be nicer. I promise.”

To make his point perfectly clear, his hand smooths over your thigh and under your dress, just the way you had been asking for, inching a little closer to where you tried to take it before. His knuckle brushes against you, and you sigh and lean into him, your anger instantly (and almost shamefully) placated. Your eyes close as you rock against the one chance for satisfaction he is giving you, the barely-there touch you both know is only serving to drive you deeper into insanity than before.

“Do you want more?” He asks after a few moments.

You nod.

“My fingers?”

You nod again, the movement a little uneven this time.

You can picture Julian’s smile even without opening your eyes: it’s lazy, a little amused. He has one elbow propped up on the back of the booth behind him while the other toys with you.

He doesn’t have to hold you there. He knows you love it too fucking much to actually follow through on your threat of climbing off.

“Ask me nicely,” He tells you. “Tell me exactly where you want them.”

“My—” You keen softly as he switches tactics, pressing the pads of his index and middle fingers against you through the damp material of your undergarment. You are wordless and dizzy from the sensation for a few moments before you finally managed to breathe out, “In my pussy.”

“Is that all?”

You groan. “Make me come. Fuck me with your fingers—”

“So, so close—”

“Fucking please, Julian!”

He laughs, his deft fingers immediately sliding into your undergarments.

They first find your clit, hard and throbbing, and his sure and certain circles against it make you hum and purr into his neck. Your hips continue to rock onto him, all your sensitive parts catching on his fingers and his stiff, throbbing cock. You feel him as he twitches beneath you and want so much to be filled with the thick heat of him, but oh, the things he can do with his fingers as they slip into you, as they crook and twist inside of you, oh

You come apart against him, hips twitching and grinding down into him, your teeth sinking into his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming. He murmurs his approval to you, but none of his words ever reach your addled mind.

You are shaking as you come down, throat somehow left raw, the sounds of the patrons beyond your secluded corner coming back to you in drabs. Julian pulls his fingers out of you only once you’ve stopped twitching, only once you’ve stopped letting little whimpers loose every moment or so, and you hear him moan in appreciation as he licks them clean of your taste.

“That bar line is getting awfully long.” He comments softly in your ear, and tops it off by gently biting down on your lobe, tugging on the earring there.

You laugh, breathless and shaking, before agreeing and trying to lift yourself off his lap.

He helps you, holding your hips steady as he watches you with the same lazy smile, now with a flicker of something a little darker in his eyes, promising you – even as you walk off with your tray, even as you resume passing out and collecting glasses for the remaining 2 hours of service – that there is so much more to come once he has you pinned, naked and breathless and desperate and begging, beneath him when the two of you go home that night.