Chapter Text
If Osha has anyone to blame (or thank) for the series of unbelievable events that have occurred in her life lately, she'd start with Mae.
Or she could blame it on the alcohol (blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol). She's always been a lightweight and she knows it, yet that doesn't stop her from getting outrageously drunk and sending that first text, egged on by Mae.
But she hadn't been drunk when she'd worn her sluttiest attire to her ex's place. Hadn't been drunk when she'd bent over in front of his roommate, to rummage below the bed.
Hadn't even been drunk when she'd stepped closer to said roommate, begging Qimir without words to make that first move, to cross the line they'd been dancing around.
Still, fucking her ex's roommate is something she'd never anticipated doing herself. It's like something out of a Reddit post, or a bad Tubi movie.
Or, considering the events of that night, probably a porno produced by Erika Lust. It had been like something out of her wildest dreams.
It all started three weeks ago...
The break-up doesn't come so much as a surprise as an unforeseen inevitability. What a paradox.
Osha can't really say that it comes out of nowhere. Her boyfriend, Yord, has been distant for a while. It's been a few months of his reduced presence and distant calls and sporadic texts, but Osha's been trying.
She's not needy, but after four years of a seemingly healthy relationship, most nights spent at his apartment shared with his two roommates, she's become used to a certain level of attention. She practically lives in his goddamn pocket.
Osha nominally resides in a shitty studio apartment in the heart of New Coruscant, central to public transportation and the central business district. Rent in the big city is absolutely killer, especially when most places want a kidney, a blood sacrifice to Mortis and over a years' worth of payslips before they'll even allow her to apply, let alone qualify for a lease.
Do Comp Sci, they said. You'll have a guaranteed job, they said.
What a fucking joke.
Her career advisors in high school had all been fucking wrong, because when Osha had graduated college and entered a job market, it had been absolutely flooded with Comp Sci degrees.
More critically, there had been a dearth of available positions, especially for someone like her without nepo connections or rich friends to cosy up to. Her unfortunately dead parents inconveniencing her, with their inability to call up ‘a friend’ who ‘knows someone’ hiring.
But she'd toiled and hustled and bowed and scraped her way to where she is now, taking on a number of odd jobs over the past two years since she graduated. Hopefully, this is the one that sticks—a tech support position at a start-up, helping prop up the code that runs their app and troubleshooting any problems that employees or customers encounter.
It's not anything glamorous but it pays the bills and covers her rent, which is more than she can say for some of her peers.
Osha currently lives in a single room, partitioned with cleverly-placed shelves and foldable dividers, with a cramped bathroom off to the side and a kitchenette crammed in the main area. There's a tiny window that barely cracks open and is only there, she suspects, to pass NC fire code. Not like she could squeeze her ass through it in the case of an emergency, however.
It's tiny and airless, so she spends most of her time at Yord's, hanging out in his living room with her feet on the leather couch covered with an array of throws and soft pillows, logging tickets and answering requests for tech assistance, day in and day out. She usually puts a soapy drama on the ungodly large flatscreen television, and the background noise soothes her and helps her focus.
Yord's roommates are good sports, for the most part; there's Mog, a skinny Alderaanian with a posh accent who works at the same bank as Yord, and there's Qimir.
Qimir is... an enigma. A handsome shadow who occupies the top floor of the penthouse apartment. Tall, dark and handsome. Something of a trust fund baby—he's an investor with fingers in many pies.
(Don't think about his fingers. Anywhere.)
Osha doesn't really know what Qimir does for a living, only that it's lucrative. Yord sounds a little jealous when he explains, so she doesn't push for details.
The first time she'd seen him, sneaking out of Yord's room at just past six in the morning, she almost dropped her bag on the floor at the sight of his scantily clad body in the kitchen.
Six in the fucking morning, and she'd been treated to the sight of his long, leanly muscled legs, leading up to tiny workout shorts, rippling abs with a light trail of hair bisecting them, a sculpted chest with dusky brown nipples, over clavicles and traps that a bodybuilder would weep over. Moles everywhere, one situated on his left ribs in an extremely biteable location.
And his arms. Oh, his biceps, bulging as he'd shotgunned a protein shake in a stainless steel bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
His dark, slightly overgrown hair had been swept back into two pigtails at the side of his head, and his jawline was sharp enough to cut, gleaming with perspiration. A droplet had dropped from his chin, streaking down his neck and disappearing somewhere in his pecs.
She'd almost jumped when he'd opened his eyes and met her gawping expression with a knowing look.
He'd licked his lips and set his bottle down on the countertop, then drawled, "So. You're Yord's new girl."
"Y—Yeah," she'd stammered, like an idiot.
"Nice," he'd said and walked away.
She'd been left staring at his muscled, scarred back, utterly dumbfounded.
So yeah. That's Qimir. Tolerated in small doses, lest Osha overdose and do something stupid, like stare at him for too long and give away her inconvenient, reluctant, barely acknowledged attraction to him.
She doesn't usually interact with Qimir, aside from his offers to make beverages for her and occasionally feed her lunch, but she's always aware when he's in the room. The back of her neck tingles, the hairs rising up on her arms. Some kind of primal reaction to his presence, which she's never disclosed to Yord because it's a little too telling.
They're friendly, but distant. She has his number but they don't text, unlike the occasional memes she exchanges with Mog.
Qimir's been appearing more and more over the past few weeks, occurrences which make Osha's heart trip and her fingers shake on her keyboard, while Yord seems to vanish.
"Late nights doing overtime," he says apologetically, a false note in his voice. He sleeps in the little pods they provide at work and turns up to the apartment a few times a week to drop off his dirty laundry and pick up new suits and shirts.
Osha obligingly runs his suits to the dry cleaners and carefully washes and irons his shirts, even though Mog tells her that Qimir has a weekly laundry service they usually use.
It's the least Osha could do, when her association with Yord is the only thing keeping her from going insane in her shoebox apartment. His place is a reprieve for her. A refuge.
But she's not stupid. She knows a red flag when she sees one, though she's reluctant to add them up to get a fuller picture. Her mind won't let her, and she's reluctant to divulge to her twin as well. She knows exactly what Mae would say, something along the lines of 'that blowhard is finally showing his true colours'.
When Osha turns up at Yord's workplace to give him a nice lunch—chicken pesto pasta salad, his favourite—Yord looks harried and put-upon, ushering her out of the bullpen.
First strike. Why is he so insistent on his co-workers not seeing her, when he'd had no problem going to lunch with her before? She's attended social events and mixers as his plus-one, so why is Osha some dirty little secret now?
Behind his back, she can see a short blonde woman, extremely pretty and slim, make a face at Osha as she's led—more like frogmarched—away by Yord.
Tasi. The young intern who'd latched on to Yord, his mentee in the graduate program the bank runs. The woman Yord always tells her not to worry about, because she's so young and looks up to him as a knowledgeable senior.
Second strike. That's not a look a friendly colleague would have, upon seeing her mentor's girlfriend.
Yord relents and takes the stainless steel lunch box; later, at home, Osha finds the pasta salad in the trash.
Strike three.
Her stomach churns as she stares at the contents of the pull-out trash can, which is set to be taken out that night, right before garbage pick-up the following morning.
She knows it's not the flavour—she's made this recipe before and Yord has loved it. Qimir even complimented her on it, after graciously allowing her free use of the kitchen—which is saying something, because the guy regularly dines at Michelin star restaurants.
It's not right, a stubborn voice insists. Something is not right.
Osha lingers awkwardly in Yord's apartment like a bad smell, unsure if she should be taking up space when she's there more often than Yord is.
But never let it be said Osha Aniseya is a quitter. She doubles down, trying other methods to fix her flailing relationship.
She tests racy lingerie, changing up perfumes, and suggestive outfits. The latter gets her a supercilious look and a hiss to 'cover up', because she's embarrassing him. The lingerie barely gets a glance.
Their sex life suffers—not that it had been terribly fiery before, but it was nice. A release, a bit of fun rolling around.
Now, Yord can barely make the effort, just thrusts without looking at her face, grunts, comes, and rolls away to dispose of the condom. Osha's left to finish herself off, usually in the ensuite bathroom. A sad state of affairs.
As a last ditch attempt, she makes a reservation for Valentine's dinner at Yord's favourite omakase place, thinking that maybe she can rekindle things and remind Yord of why they love each other so much.
(Even though he hasn't said 'I love you' to her in weeks.)
Instead, Yord takes that opportunity to drop a bomb on her:
"I'm sorry, Osha," he rakes a hand through his locs, his cufflinks gleaming at his wrists. His collar is bleached and starched, his suit pressed neatly. All thanks to her. "I just don't have the time to maintain a relationship. I'm giving it all to the bank, and they've given me such a good opportunity, I can't fail them."
Four years of her life. Her early adulthood.
She'd still been in college when they'd first met; a summer internship at a nearby start-up with dog hours and shit pay. They'd run into each other at the coffee shop enough times to build a rapport and become friendly, then more than friends. He was twenty-six. She was twenty-one.
She'd thought he was so handsome and mature at the time—in his fancy Ted Baker suits and his Longines watch and company card, taking her to dinner and paying for her cab back.
It's all a façade—the watch was secondhand and he could barely afford the suits he was buying, in an effort to keep up appearances.
Not even the apartment, which he'd boasted was such a rare find, was gained on his own merits; Qimir fucking owns it and rents it out to Yord at a rate way below market.
Mog had let it slip one day, thinking that Osha already knew, but she hadn't said anything to Yord. Protecting his ego, once again.
"What are you saying?" Osha asks, trying not to let her hands shake on the chopsticks. She sets them down, takes a sip of sake to steady herself.
"It's over," he says, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.
Four years. They'd been exclusive for that long. Going steady. Committed. Whatever other fucking euphemism there is for being in a long-term relationship.
How could he end it like this?
She doesn't say that, though. She doesn't even yell at him, or throw her sake in his face and ask him, how dare he?
Osha smiles. She says she understands. She chews every bite of her sashimi and Wagyu carpaccio feeling like she's slowly dying, like she's falling apart.
Her food churns in her stomach. She feels sick, tears heavy in her eyes, telltale wetness leaking out of the corners, that she has to swipe at with her fingers every once in a while.
She thanks her resting bitch face, for once; it allows her to appear unflappable and calm while she collapses inside.
Yord seems to appreciate the pretense of her composure. Not that he's ever been able to read her accurately.
They split the bill, one that Osha can hardly afford, given that she'll likely need to go back to sleeping and working from her studio fulltime, rather than lounging at Yord's.
She doesn't want to contemplate it. She doesn't want to think about everything she's losing. It would drive her to do something drastic, like maybe beg at Yord's feet to take her back.
She has that much pride.
Osha doesn't own a car, and the restaurant is far from her apartment, a line exchange and a thirty-minute Mag ride away. Her feet already hurt in her heels.
Yord says goodbye, disappearing in his own sleek black company car, brought to the front by the valet.
She calls for a rideshare.
The journey home ends up taking almost an hour, due to traffic. She studies her phone the entire time, but Yord doesn't even ask her if she'd gotten a ride from the restaurant, if she'd made it home safe, after abandoning her on the sidewalk.
And she doesn't break, she doesn't allow for a single crack in her façade to appear, up until she closes her door behind her, taking her first breath of stale apartment air after a week.
He didn't even text me, she thinks morosely, and that's what does it.
Osha breaks down and cries, right there in the entryway with her shoes still on, bag hanging off her shoulder, sliding down until her limbs are splayed like a broken doll. Leaning against the door, as if it can hold up the weight of her despair.
That's the problem with Osha, she always keeps her emotions inside. Don't get upset, swallow it down, keep the peace.
That's how she's rolled for four years of her first long-term relationship, for most of her childhood since she and Mae lost their mothers.
But now? It's like Pandora's Box of feelings has been opened.
She veers between fury and abject despair over the next fortnight. She spends half her day staring at the pictures she took with Yord, reading their texts, listening to their voice messages, wondering where she went wrong.
She struggles at work, barely keeping her head above water through the daze. It helps that she's been such a diligent worker over the last year, so her systems are in place. She can run on autopilot, already having memorised the script for what to say and how to guide people.
When she gets sick of the four white walls of her apartment and wallowing in misery, she stakes out the local coffee shop and burrows at a back table. She's friendly with the manager, Rey—as long as she buys one drink every few hours, she's golden.
Osha has to adjust her budget a bit to accommodate for it, but the trade-off for better mental health is worth spending 4.99 on an overpriced caramel frappe.
She still has her sad spells, her flashbacks of better times overtaking her and leaving her staring blankly at the potted plants in the corner, or the funky art prints on the walls, but the change in environment does help.
By the time Osha looks up and actually notices the days passing, it's been two weeks since the break-up.
A fortnight without Yord, not a single text or call.
At the end of those two weeks, she almost manages to make tentative peace with it, to start to come to terms with the break-up. It's not so painful anymore, no longer a knife lodged between her ribs, every time she remembers a good memory.
Then shit hits the fan at work—their solutions architect, Jyn fucking Erso, leaves to consult at another company for an eye watering amount of money, so the company is at odd ends.
They're desperate enough to offer Osha Jyn's position, along with a substantial pay bump. Osha has enough fight in her to negotiate a two-year agreement, which they rubber stamp and sign on the spot, sending it through to be approved.
She gets the email a few hours later, an unusually fast turnaround from People. Osha e-signs it so fast her finger joint almost dislocates.
From there, she doesn't have time for wallowing, because she's too busy getting everyone's shit together and diving ass-deep into code. She abandons the coffee shop for the office, whipping the junior employees into shape.
A world of opportunity opens up for her. She can eat more than beans and rice for lunch and dinner. She can save up for a better apartment, get out of the shithole she's currently in. She can finally join Mae on a girl's trip. She can buy nicer clothes, decorate her apartment, maybe even get a pet! She's always wanted a cat…
At the end of the week, when she finally comes up for air, Osha decompresses at a late-night coffee shop, buying the most garishly overpriced drink off the menu and getting high off the sugar rush.
She realises she hasn't even told her twin the good news, so caught up in her new role. She immediately dials Mae, who picks up within three rings.
That should have been a warning sign; a bored Mae who answers immediately is usually a dangerous Mae.
Dangerous to Osha's liver, that is—Mae always goes hard, heavy on the pour. They always end the night absolutely wasted, warbling through karaoke or crying through a marathon of Rebels.
True to form, Osha somehow gets roped into celebratory drinks at her place. But, she figures, why the fuck not?
She's overdue for a girls night, having spent the last week busting her ass and the two weeks prior a depressed shut-in.
So, she dons her comfiest loungewear set, Juicy emblazoned across her ass, and hops on the Mag, picking up a few choice bottles of liquor and mixers at a bottleshop a block away from Mae's place.
"We are getting fucked tonight," is how Mae greets her, when she opens the door to Osha's knock.
Osha rolls her eyes, shifts the paper bag in one arm and loops an arm around Mae's neck. Her sister smells like rose and musk, her locs freshly rolled.
"Hello to you too, Maemae."
Osha feels a little ratty in comparison, not having had time for selfcare in the midst of a crisis. Mae notices immediately and declares that they're going to do face masks while sipping on margaritas.
She has a pitcher at the ready, hauling it out of the fridge as Osha sets her stash on the counter. They survey their haul and simultaneously nod in appreciation.
"Looks good," Osha declares, then reaches for a glass.
Two drinks in, patting leftover serum into her face, she's listening to Mae prattle on about ways they can make Yord's life hell. They're seated on the floor of the living room, the pitcher sweating on the coffee table while Housewives of Niamos plays on the TV.
Mae suggests keying Yord's car, putting itching powder in his dry-cleaning (Osha's picked up his suits enough that Mae can enact this plan without needing her involvement) or turning up at his workplace and cussing him out.
"I'm not interested in any of that," Osha protests.
Yeah, sure the break-up had sucked and completely blindsided her, but she knows how serious Yord is about his career. She gets it, though she wishes she didn't.
"You said Yord has roommates. Any of them hot?"
Osha's first impression of Qimir flashes across her mind, his gleaming chest and sculpted muscles, the bob of his Adam's apple.
Osha squints at Mae suspiciously. "Why are you asking me?"
Mae waves a manicured hand, her stiletto-tipped purple nails gleaming in the low lamplight.
"Answer the question, Oshie. Any fine specimens?"
Osha hesitates for too long. Mae reads her like a fucking book, makeing a sound of triumph.
"Don't gotta say anything. I already know. Now, here's what you're going to do—"
"No, Mae!"
Osha can't bury her face in her hands because her serum is still drying. She takes a desperate sip of margarita through her straw, draining half the glass.
She's partially intoxicated, judging by the way her head is spinning a little and her chest is burning.
Goddamn, how much tequila did Mae pour in the pitcher?
"Yes, Mae!" her twin trills. "The best way to get over that motherfucker is to get under someone else. Hopefully, someone close to him so it hurts."
Osha grits her teeth. "I don't want to hurt him."
"You should, though! Tord just used you and threw you away!"
"His name is Yord," Osh mutters, but she can't refute Mae's logic. He'd been quick to cut Osha out of his life when things had gotten difficult, instead of leaning on her and sharing the burden. Sharing his sorrows and his joys, the way true partners should.
"I bet you he's going to turn up with another bitch on his arm next week," Mae continues, incensed on her behalf. "Men like him are all the same. You need to fuck him before he fucks you."
"I don't want to fuck anyone," Osha argues. "I'm not fucking his homies or his roomies. End of story."
Mae grumbles but mimes zipping up her lips. Instead, they move onto the topic of work, and Mae allows Osha the chance to rant about her dumbass underlings. They'd been her colleagues just a week ago, until she'd been forced to step up, but they're still treating her like she's beneath them.
It's another few drinks until Mae and Osha decide to engage in one of their favourite hobbies: Instagram stalking their high school classmates and college acquaintances.
Osha's vision is blurring and she's giggling at the sight of Sabine in a purple fursuit—way to hardlaunch her fetish to the world—when a bomb drops.
'yord.fandar posted to his story.'
Yord never uses his social media. It had been a point of contention between them, that he never reposted her stories she'd tagged him in or said anything about her, unwilling to disrupt his curated image of a professional in suits and expensive watches.
Now, she swipes through the app, her finger hovering over his profile icon, wondering whether she should bother.
Osha doesn't know why she still has his post notifications on, why she still follows him. She should have done a purge after he dropped her like a hot potato.
Her thumb goes down, opening up his story.
And she's hit with an instant wave of shock.
What… the fuck?
It's a repost of someone else's story, Yord looking straight at the camera, wearing a breezy linen shirt, while a blonde woman with chest-length hair wearing a white linen dress kisses his cheek. There's a slight smile on Yord's tanned face, blue sky behind them.
She recognises the woman—it's the itty bitty blonde bitch coworker he always told her not to worry about. Yord's mentee.
Osha doesn't normally call women bitches, but Tasi is, Osha can just tell. The way she'd looked at her when Osha had tried to give Yord lunch…
And the meal had ended up in the trash.
But that's not what really blindsides Osha. It's the caption.
'two months my love x'
Two months.
Two months.
Yord and Osha had only broken up three weeks ago. He's meant to be at a work conference right now—she'd memorised his calendar ages ago—so he's clearly making the most of it.
Osha inhales sharply, her hands trembling on her phone. Pressure builds on her sinuses, behind her eyes.
The realisation that Yord had been… had been cheating on her shatters her composure and ruins whatever equilibrium she'd managed to achieve over the last three weeks.
He's probably swanning around with Tasi on his arm, smug as anything, with that stupid smirk on his face. Paying for everything with his company card while Osha has to eat beans and rice most evenings—or at least, she did until her promotion.
The sorrow turns to anger, and Osha sees red.
That motherfucker!
"What's wrong, Oshie?"
Mae crawls over to Osha's side and lays her cheek on Osha's shoulder, while Osha vibrates with fury.
"He— Yord is—"
Osha can't articulate the words, her mouth clumsy with intoxication, so she shoves her phone in Mae's direction.
Mae takes one look and spits, "That motherfucker!"
Osha giggles at Mae echoing her thoughts exactly, but a second later goes back to seething.
"Three weeks, Maemae!"
Mae drops the phone and clutches her hand. "I know, Oshie."
"Three banthafucking weeks!"
Focusing on work. Right.
It's not like she spent four years of her fucking life with him, had consoled him when projects went bad, had encouraged him to apply for his promotion and tailored her schedule around him.
Shit. Shit.
Mae had told her, time and again, not to blindly trust Yord. She'd fucking warned her, and Osha had pushed her away. Had even called her jealous, one time.
What an idiot she's been.
She needs to uninstall her Instagram app, so she doesn't still do something monumentally stupid, but she can't fucking steady her fingers, they're shaking so badly.
Mae gets her to lie down, nursing Osha with coconut water. However, she's still steaming twenty minutes later, even after sobering up significantly.
Osha's still tipsy, but at least she can use her phone. She clicks onto the story again, just to ragebait herself.
It works.
She snarls at her screen and unfollows Yord, blocks him, blocks Tasi then uninstalls the demon app.
Osha goes to her contacts, intending to block Yord there as well, but hesitates when she scrolls past the 'Q' section, the only contact under that letter being Qimir's.
Qimir. Yord's roommate.
Mr Shirtless and Sweaty.
Mae's earlier words float in her ear, "The best way to get over that motherfucker is to get under someone else."
And banging Qimir would definitely neuter Yord's ego.
The idea is monumentally stupid. Reckless. She doesn't even know if Qimir would go for it.
But fuck, now that she's allowed herself to think about, it roots itself in her head and refuses to be chased away.
Fucking Qimir. Having sex with that specimen of a man, with his dark good looks and crooked smile and magnetic presence.
He'd cared for her, on some level. She knows that because Qimir would always be offering to make lunch for her, or tea. He'd quietly stocked the kitchen with her favourites, noting what she did and didn't eat.
He'd also given her career advice and tips to improve her resume, when she'd been stressing over her lack of prospects. She'd secured the role at the start-up with his help.
The more Osha thinks about it, the more she wants it. It'll also be an opportunity for her to pick up some stuff she had lying around in Yord's room; he'd been militant about her always taking her belongings with her, not liking clutter in his space, but she's sure there's a few things she can scrounge up for appearance's sake.
Her hair products, for sure. Maybe a few hair ties. A bra.
"I think," Osha says slowly, and Mae perks up from where she's watching Runai Sculdun and Hera Syndulla claw at each other's faces. "I think you had the right idea…"
Her twin smiles evilly.
It has to be tomorrow. Mae insists, because otherwise Osha will talk herself into circles and her resolve will waver. If it's going to happen, it should occur tomorrow.
Mog is also away with Yord for the conference, so they'll have the apartment all to themselves…
It's not remotely enough time for Osha to make, er, preparations, but Mae assures her that she doesn't need to be perfect. A shave instead of a bikini wax won't kill her.
They crack open a bottle of alcohol, the margarita pitcher soaking in the sink for washing later. Mae shakily mixes rum and bitters, then they get to workshopping her message to Qimir.
Mae insists on seeing a photo of Qimir first, and Osha somehow manages to locate one in a magazine article in Forbes.
"Not bad," Mae says.
"Not bad?" Osha repeats, disbelievingly.
Qimir is leaning against a desk, his hair loose and goddamn round-frame glasses perched on his nose. His shirt is partially untucked and unbuttoned, showing a swathe of his golden chest. His legs look miles long in his trousers, his ankles fashionably bare in his leather brogues. The smize on his face would have sent the editorial photographer into paroxysms of glee.
Osha couldn't have picked a more alluring photo if she tried.
Mae scrunches up her nose. "Well, he associates himself with Yord…"
"It's not his fault," Osha insists heatedly, suddenly defensive over her choice of fuck. "He's just nice, he's doing Yord a favour."
Mae hands Osha's phone over and takes another sip of her drink, smacking her lips after.
"Mm-hmm. I hope 'nice' fucks you well and good."
"Mae!"
"I'm just saying!"
qimir - yord's roomie
hey
can i come over tomorrow around 5?
Sure, Osha. Anything I can help with?
it's nothing. just left a few things that I need to pick up.
I'm here for you.
💖
Osha wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache and an impending sense of doom.
She scrambles out of bed to check her phone, charging on the kitchen counter, and thumps her head on the fridge when she realises that yes, she really had arranged to meet Qimir at his apartment to get fucked as revenge for Yord dumping her.
Well, he thinks she's just coming over to pick up shit, but Osha knows her true goal.
She's apprehensive but she's also… anticipatory.
It still hasn't sunk in that she's broken up with Yord. She has the freedom to look at other people, to fuck other people.
She doesn't have to restrain herself anymore, or curb those previously unwanted thoughts—the whispers of, 'fuck, he looks good in that shirt' whenever Qimir would appear in a frankly illegal black Henley. Or when she'd spot the bulge in his grey joggers and stare a little too long, before snapping herself out of the daze to re-focus on Yord.
She's free. She's fucking free.
And she's going to fuck Qimir.
The man who, secretly, has featured in a few fantasies of hers. Some nocturnal visions.
Osha had reasoned, at the time, that it doesn't count as cheating because no one can really control their dreams. So what if dream-Osha wants to be pinned down and fucked into incoherence by a feral dream-Qimir? It doesn't mean she wants it in reality.
Lies, damn lies. She'd been fooling herself, denying herself even the barest acknowledgement of her desire.
But there's no need to avert her gaze anymore. No need to pretend that she doesn't get tingly all over when Qimir looks at her, or even exists in the same space.
Besides, she hadn't been the cheater—that was Yord. He'd been the one carrying on with Tasi while being actively in a relationship with Osha.
(Well, 'active' is a stretch, but it had been a relationship.)
Does Tasi even know? Or does she think Osha is the homewrecker, or maybe a close friend with designs on Yord? When actually, Osha came first.
Ugh, fuck them. Fuck her.
Osha will hopefully be getting the Mario coins knocked out of her in less than twelve hours. She should focus on that.
The entire day is like a held breath, all the explosive potential gathered and waiting to be unleashed.
She positively buzzes through a brisk tidy of her apartment, just to get some of the energy out. She doesn't risk a hair wash on a day like today, because it could easily turn out messy.
Osha starts her preparations early, feeling more like she's about to go on a date than nipping over her ex's apartment to retrieve her belongings. Even if it doesn't go all the way, she still hopes to make an impression.
Maybe she can plant the seeds today, if nothing else. Give them a good watering and Qimir might bloom for her later.
She exfoliates thoroughly, shaves all over and rinses off with a citrus-scented foam bubble wash. She moisturises neck to toe with the corresponding whipped body butter, admiring the softness of her skin.
Then, she dabs lemon and sugar perfume behind her knees, at her ankles, just over her belly button, between her breasts, at the backs of her ears and at her pulse points.
She pulls out her sluttiest athleisure wear, which she'd fiercely debated with Mae last night. Osha had been of the opinion that subtlety was the better option, but her twin had told her to maximise her (well, their) best assets, while pushing her tits together.
"You're there to seduce him, fool!"
Osha had conceded the point, settling on the outfit she pulls out now: a charcoal grey sleeveless tank bra with a crisscross detail and ties at the front, and a pair of matching shorts with a v-scrunch at the front, ties at the sides and a back scrunch.
It's a little overkill, and she's never worn this set anywhere out before, but it makes her feel powerful when she tries it on.
It shows off her legs, smooth and shiny with body butter, and her toned stomach. She considers her reflection appraisingly, then does a spin to examine her ass.
Yeah, that's the stuff. Qimir won't know what's coming for him.
Osha paints her toenails and fingernails white, then applies a thin layer of make-up on her face. If her excuse, however flimsy it is, is that she's heading to the gym after she picks up her shit, then she needs to look as natural as possible.
Colour corrector, concealer, some blush and mascara. A fluff of her brows, some brow gel and lip gloss to finish off with. A thorough spritz of setting spray to seal everything in place.
And then there's no putting it off. Osha still has an hour before she has to leave, so she decides to snap a few selfies, sending the best to Mae for appraisal.
maemae 💖💖
[Picture Message]
damn mami
hes not going to know what hit him
tell me all about it
wait dont. i dont need the details
😂💖
love you bitch
Then, she fires off a text to Qimir.
qimir - yord's roomie
leaving now! I hope i'm not ruining any sat night plans
i'll be in and out quicky
Take your time. I don't have any plans tonight.
See you soon.
💖
With her luck, this would be the day her line is diverted or breaks down. She has to account for the Mag and all its idiosyncrasies, because there's no way she's turning up late.
Excitement fizzles in her stomach. She's really doing this.
God, this really does feel like a date, but isn't that the point? To have some fun and stick it to Yord by fucking the guy he's in an unspoken competition with.
Osha grabs her workout bag, filled with her usual essentials and a few extra items, as well as a few Trader Yoda's tote bags and sets out.
Yord's building doesn't have a code to enter; it's fancy enough that a doorman waves her through, already recognising her.
Clearly, she hasn't had her access revoked. Good.
It would be inconvenient to have to call Qimir down here to sort it out. Plus, it would ruin the surprise.
The doorman does, however, do a double take at her outfit, so clearly she's achieved the effect she was going for; his neck almost snaps to the side and he blinks rapidly as she swans past.
Osha hides her smile and adds an extra sway to her step, on her way to the elevators.
Once inside, she punches the code to the penthouse suite and rests against the mirrored glass, watching the skyline race past on the adjacent panel. She has to focus on something to prevent herself from shaking out of her skin.
It's humbling seeing NC unfold in front of her eyes as she ascends, shooting up and up. It's a vista she's seen dozens, hundreds of times before, on her way to see Yord.
Only, today is different. Everything is different.
She's exfoliated, shaved, plucked bare for Qimir. Who's going to see all of her, touch all of her, and fuck her.
Hopefully. If he picks up what she's putting down. If he doesn't back down out of some sense of honour or loyalty to Yord.
Fuck, that's an angle she hadn't thought of before now. The possibility that Qimir might not take the bait she's dangling in front of him, AKA herself.
However, Osha doesn't have time to spiral because at that moment, the elevator arrives and the doors slide open with an orderly 'ding!'
She steps out into a dark hallway, dim lights above and neon LED strips set into the floor below. There's only one door at the other end, which she knows the code to by heart.
Still, she presses the doorbell. It's only polite.
Qimir, thankfully, doesn't have a Ring camera. He has an old-school peephole, which renders whoever's standing on the other end a bobblehead.
Osha backs away from the door, a moment before it swings open inwards.
Qimir lounges on the other side of the door, leaning against the sill. His mouth is slightly open, as if to greet her, then he actually gets a look at her.
He stares.
And stares.
Eyes sweeping up and down, slow and lingering, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His tongue swipes out to moisten his lips, then he captures his bottom lip between his teeth, his facial hair shifting with the movement.
He's not the only one looking. Osha takes her fill.
Qimir's in casual wear—a black tee tucked into dark straight-leg jeans, belted at the waist. His feet are bare.
It's a simple outfit, but it looks anything but on Qimir. His shoulders and biceps strain the tee, the fabric clinging to his upper body, especially his chest. His arms are sculpted, golden and vascular, tapering to broad hands with long fingers.
One of his hands runs through his hair, the long, dark strands falling into place around his face.
And oh, what a face it is—all sharp angles and hollows, softened by his plush, pink lips and dark, soulful gaze. A dusting of facial hair brackets his mouth, giving him a slightly rakish air.
That mouth twitches into a smile, showing off his dimples.
"Hey."
Don't look at his bulge, she repeats to herself, but her eyes still dart downwards.
Fuck.
"H—Hey," Osha stutters out, ripping her eyes away from his crotch, but it's too late.
He's not hard, but his package is still… sizeable. Prominent. Also favours the left, if her vision isn't deceiving her.
Where is the foxy confidence that she'd possessed just moments earlier? It's gone, evaporated under the heat of his regard.
"Come in," he says lowly, tilting his head, his fringe falling over his forehead.
His other arm drops, making space for her to squeeze past, but she still shivers slightly when her body brushes alongside his, the points of contact lighting up her synapses.
And there's plenty of bare skin to brush against his clothed figure.
The inside of the apartment is the same as it's always been, more familiar than her own studio, though infinitely larger—high ceilings, dark walls, eclectic art hanging in simple frames.
A massive dark burgundy leather couch takes up most of the living area, with two matching armchairs on the side, adjacent to a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and the massive flatscreen television. Rugs litter the space, protecting the mahogany wood floor from being scratched.
The kitchen is in the opposite corner, an entertainer's dream with a massive island, a wide double sink, various appliances including a multi-thousand dollar fridge and state of the art cooktop and oven, as well as a coffeemaker that'd make a barista weep for joy. There's a deep pantry tucked off to the side, along with the laundry area. On the far end, an expansive dining table rests with place settings and chairs for twelve people.
Yord's room is to the right and Mog's is to the left, essentially in their own wings with their own ensuite, in addition to the powder room right near the entry. On the top floor is Qimir's bedroom, the space granted privacy by a glass partition and floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains. He has the most bedroom and bathroom space, owing to the fact that he owns this whole damn place. And maybe even the building as well.
Osha inhales deeply, and the familiar vanilla and leather of the space invades her nostrils, a comforting scent. One she associates with lazy days spent marathoning Comrades on the couch, or horror movie nights with all the roommates.
"Don't be a stranger," Qimir husks, and it knocks her out of her reverie. "Take your shoes off."
Osha does as he instructs, taking her sleek black sneakers off. Qimir takes her tote bags from her but she keeps hold of her duffle bag, claiming that she needs it to pack the main stuff and the tote bags are for overflow.
"Have it your way," Qimir shrugs, and strides away. She follows his gait with covetous eyes—the way his back muscles move under that tee is hypnotic—but manages to get a hold of herself.
She has to at least look like she has an excuse to be here, not just blatantly stare at Qimir.
Osha clutches the straps of her bag closer and moves through the apartment, heading for Yord's room.
She's stashed a few things in her bag that will help keep up the ruse—a t-shirt, a bit of make-up and… a thong.
Red, lacy and skimpy as hell.
It's that thong she balls into her hand, slipping it into her shorts pocket to plant under the bed later.
Qimir clatters about in the kitchen as Osha pushes into Yord's bedroom. Despite the break-up, Yord has kept it the same as it was before:
Queen size bed, a grey fabric headboard, cushions and a duvet cover she'd picked out—dark navy, neatly made. A mustard jersey sits in a glass case mounted to the wall, emblazoned with 'FANDAR' on the back. A relic from his junior soccer league days.
There's a desk on the far wall near the windows, hemmed in by a leather chair that's terrible for his posture and a neat stack of files resting on top, along with his monitor and keyboard. All his stationery is tucked away. He likely took his laptop with him to the conference.
On the opposite wall, his walk-in closet is wide open, showing identical-looking plain suits hung in a row, with white work shirts she'd taken care to starch and iron, as well as bland going out clothes and his equally bland shoe collection (mostly leather loafers with a few lowkey sneakers).
The most interesting item in his wardrobe is a floral short-sleeved button-down shirt she'd bought as a gag, which Yord has staunchly refused to wear. She'd hung it up in an act of defiance. It's still there.
Looks like 'two months' with Tasi hadn't changed a thing. Figures.
Even after four years, she's only been able to change minimal things about the bedroom—like the duvet and throw cushions. There's no space cleared in the closet for her. No free drawer in his dresser.
Only a few of her hair care products are stowed in his bathroom vanity, which Yord also benefits from as a protective style user. Osha bets her curl cream has been judiciously used.
"Do you want tea?" Qimir calls from the kitchen. There's a muted clank, like he's put something on the stove—probably his cast iron teapot.
"Yes, please!" she calls back. "Use my gunpowder!"
It's really tea that he'd bought, a special blend from Ueda, but he'd gifted it to her after seeing how many shitty store-bought bags she ran through.
"Will do!"
Osha breaches the sanctity of Yord's ensuite, noting that it looks as neat as his bedroom. She stalks over to the mirrored vanity to find—
Peony body wash? Sakura blossom shampoo and conditioner? What the hell?
Oh. It's her products. Tasi's. Clearly he's taking advantage of her toiletries now, too.
Osha snatches her curl cream and oil from the vanity, as well as her detangling comb and her nice purple shower cap. She also takes her loofah and her shaver, which she'd forgotten about.
She resists the urge to poke around more, then heads back into the bedroom. The left bedside table also has something of hers…
She pulls open the bottom drawer and makes a satisfied noise. There.
Hidden under his socks, carefully organised by size and colour, rests her bullet vibrator. She'd taken to storing it there for a bit of personal time during her work day, when she was sure no one else was at home. The sounds of her showering had covered up the buzz and her muffled moans.
Osha retrieves it and the charger cable, stuffing it in her duffle bag. Then, she rounds to the other side, to glimpse under the bed.
There's nothing here, but that's the point. She can pretend, all the while planting the thong underneath here.
She's dropped things behind the bedhead multiple times before, and she knows how much of a pain it is to get anything out.
Nine times out of ten she's gotten stuck, and has had to wiggle herself out, or call Yord for help, if he was in the vicinity.
Osha stretches her limbs out, going on all fours to reach her hand as far as it can possibly go, huffing lightly. Her chest scrapes the floor, her tops of her locs touching the underside of the bed frame. She just needs to hold this position for long enough…
"What are you doing down there?"
A low, raspy drawl.
And he bites.
Bait taken successfully.
"Found it!" Osha calls out, then tries to crawl backwards.
Her shoulders catch, stuck under the bed, stretched out to the max. Her boobs are flattened fully to the floor, while her ass wiggles in the air, clad in her skimpy grey shorts. She feels exposed, trapped.
But that's the point.
Fuck, the things she does for revenge. And also for lust.
"Um," Osha injects a waver into her voice, which isn't hard to do considering she's lodged in a dark and dusty space with half of her body hanging out. "Can you— a little help, please?"
Her tone veers up at the end of her sentence, turning the request into a question.
Qimir chuckles huskily, barely perceptible to her, but it winds its way around her chest, making her breaths come heavier than they already are.
Sweat prickles her armpits and forehead, dampens her neck and behind her knees. Her palms are sweaty too. Her heart thrashes in her ribcage as she senses Qimir moving closer.
Then the heat of his palms closes over her lower-thighs, just above her knees, wrapping around her limbs firmly.
The crotch of her shorts soaks instantly. Osha can't help it, not with him kneeling behind her, his body heat radiating from him. The promise of strength in his grip.
Qimir gives a little tug. Her knees slide on the floor. She inhales too harshly, dust particles filling her lungs. Her core throbs almost painfully, roused by Qimir's proximity.
Little by little, he coaxes her out from under the bed, his hands creeping up until they rest on her ass, then over them, gripping her hips firmly.
She's sweatier than ever, salt dewing her upper lip, dripping between her breasts, soaking between her thighs.
But the latter isn't just from exertion. Qimir's thumbs dig into the meat of her ass as he pulls her all the way out.
"Almost," he grunts, "there."
As soon as he does, Osha collapses to the floor, sighing in relief. Cold air kisses her perspiring body, and her pulse is pounding wildly in her neck.
While she knows, logically, that she wouldn't be stuck there forever, try telling that to her nervous system.
"Oh my god," she gasps, resting her head on her forearms, blinking away sweat. "That was traumatic."
"Are you okay?" Qimir asks, skimming a hand over her shoulder. It erupts in tingles where he touches it. Her hips still burn from how he'd gripped them, so sure and strong.
"Yeah."
Osha pushes herself upright and twists into a seated position, leaning heavily on the mattress behind her. She hears Qimir shifting away and stifles the urge to call out for him to come back.
It's only once she opens her eyes, Qimir filling her vision as he looms above her, that she remembers she has a red thong in her fist.
Had a red thong in her fist.
It's now laying in the palm of her hand, flat on top of her thigh, her panties on display. That precious item she'd risked getting trapped under the bed for.
Shit. Even if this was the plan, it's mortifying.
Osha scrambles to her feet, holding the thong to her chest, and comes face to face with Qimir.
Eyes to neck, actually, with how tall he is. Barely any breathing room between them. They're close, too close, their bodies almost touching.
His cologne tickles her nose—something cedar, vanilla and leather. Masculine but warm. Alluring.
Her breath hitches. A powerful surge of desire washes through her body, electrifying her from head to toe, leaving her thrumming with energy. Almost painfully aware of the twisting of her gut, painful but somehow pleasant.
The hair on the back of her neck and her arms stands upright, her nipples pebbling in the bra, rubbing painfully against the fabric. Her thighs clench together, her core pulsing and aching. Probably ruining the crotch of her non-existent panties.
Yes, she'd gone commando. Easy access. A choice she doesn't regret now, not when Qimir's looking at her like that.
Like she's his favourite meal set in front of him and he hasn't eaten for days. Like he wants to devour her.
A soft gasp falls from her lips, involuntary.
His eyes fall, catching the gloss she'd applied there just an hour ago. Coconut-flavoured.
Her turn now to bite her bottom lip, draw attention to it. Osha worries it between her teeth, and she feels more than hears Qimir's sharp inhale.
The moment is delicate, gossamer spun thin and liable to break, if she makes the wrong movement. She can't breathe, a weight on her sternum and her throat constricted with the enormity of how much she wants.
God, she hasn't felt like this in years. She doesn't think Yord's ever revved her up this much.
And he hasn't even properly touched her yet.
Qimir's eyes are half-lidded, heavy and sultry. She hopes she's not misreading him, hopes the desire limning his features isn't her conjuring emotion where there isn't any.
But she can sense it, with some predator instinct—now is the time to strike.
The distance between them shrinks, Osha taking a small step forward until she's pressed against his front. She almost moans in delight at how right it feels.
Her head tips back, and she becomes mesmerised anew by the cut of his jaw, the jut of his Adam's apple and the myriad moles scattered over his neck and collarbones.
She knows they're all over his chest and his back. She'd seen him shirtless that first time, and a few other times, like when she'd made the mistake of visiting the communal pool at the same time as him. He has a scar down his back, apparently from a boating accident when he was young. She wonders whether the scar tissue is sensitive, how he'd react if she fluttered a kiss over the raised lines.
Or… she could kiss something else.
Those lips for starters.
She doesn't know who leans in first, only that the next moment she's breathing him in, his dizzying scent all over her, then his lips are on hers, and they're so fucking soft.
He tastes like tea, she notes. Tea and something minty.
Fuck, she wants more. Osha leans up, letting out a hungry noise, rising onto her tiptoes.
Her hands find his shoulders, corded and so strong, before creeping up into his hair, holding it out of the way as they kiss. A rush of euphoria fills her at the texture of the strands between her fingers, like spun silk.
How long has she wanted to do this? To grip his hair like this, to tilt his head and guide him into a kiss.
Her nose slots right alongside his, like he was made for her to kiss. Such a delirious thought, a silly notion, but Osha eats it up.
His tongue laps at her bottom lip, electrifying her, and Osha gladly opens her mouth up. One of Qimir's hands comes up and steadies her jaw, holding her in place as he slips his tongue in her mouth.
She surges up, feeling dizzy, swaying like a palm tree in the breeze. Her knees are weak, and she might have fallen, if it weren't for the arm he bands around her waist, gathering her close to his body.
And…
Fuck.
Against her right hip, an unmistakable shape, an impression of something large, insistent. His cock.
Qimir's hard, for her. A physical manifestation of his desire.
And Osha's so turned on, she feels like she's on fire.
A kiss has never made her feel like this, a heat raging in her loins so fierce she half-worries that she's having an allergic reaction to the shaving cream she used.
But no, it's all him.
The inferno blazes brighter when he slides his mouth down her jaw to the junction of her neck, his facial hair scraping delightfully as he slides his tongue over her skin, swirling it, then sucking on it.
It jolts down her spine and straight to her cunt, leaving her to clench around nothing. She emits a frankly humiliating noise, high-pitched and wanton, utterly shameless.
All at once, Qimir stops, drawing his mouth away.
Osha nearly whines at the loss of sensation, the spit on her neck cooling as he puts distance between them, drops his hand from her face and loosens his arm.
They're still indecently close, but now there's breathing room. Osha hates it—she wants to go back to the intimacy of moments ago, craves his lips, the wet slide of his mouth over hers.
He's breathing a little fast, his eyes flashing and his jaw flexing. A flush rides high on his cheeks and his hair is ruffled at the back where she'd gripped it.
He's a vision, debauched and divine. She could stare at him all day, memorise the map of his features, the swoop of his nose and the perfect symmetry of his jawline.
Then Qimir speaks, rumbly and rough.
"What are you doing, Osha?"