Work Text:
One can only take the scratch of pens on paper and ticking of a clock amid silence for so long without losing their mind, and Ashton is no exception. His own pencil finished designing his next project almost an hour ago, moving on to doodles around the margins. He adds a last bit of shading to the clump of Imogen's curls he'd been sketching before letting the instrument clatter to the table and heaving a sigh.
"I'm bored. This is boring."
Imogen doesn't bother looking up. "I need to have this essay done for Professor Eshteross by morning so he can finish my recommendation," she reminds him for the umpteenth time. "I told you you didn't have to sit here with me."
"I didn't have anything better to do! Milo's out of town, Letters-"
"Then quit bitchin'."
Ashton flops back in their chair with a huff, rocking it further so he can stare at the impossibly high library ceiling. They don't know shit about this essay other than it's for Imogen's grad school application, but, gods be damned, he'd rather be anywhere else than this fucking library right about now: hanging out with Letters, tinkering in the shop with Imahara Joe. Laying in bed with Milo, who was currently hours away with some hookup they'd met online, probably taking their dick like a champ, since they take Ashton's so well. He chuckles quietly at the thought, knowing that whoever Milo's with won't be able to drag the same pretty sounds out of them like Ashton can, will never know them that way, is just a means to an end.
With Milo busy, though, and his dick starting to take interest in his current train of thought, Ashton wonders who else is available. He knows Orym is off visiting Dorian for a while, so that's a no-go, even if he wishes he could be between them again (he'll have to see if he can go with Orym next time; Dorian's ass is divine, after all). He's about to pull out his phone to see if Fearne's free, Fearne who's always DTF and play however dirty he wants, Fearne who'd probably be more than willing to sit on his face if he asked-
"Would you get your head out of the fucking gutter, Ash? I can't focus with all that."
Ashton nearly tips onto the floor, startled. Their cheeks flush, remembering Imogen's ability and how loudly they were probably projecting on accident. "Sorry."
"I'm almost done, and then you can go fuck as many of our friends as you want." Imogen's smirk doesn't escape Ashton's attention, even as her pen never stops moving.
They rub the back of their neck, embarrassed, and steady back to start a new sketch for something crazy Letters had proposed for their chair a while back. It's starting to look somewhat plausible, definitely something Joe could hack together and Laudna could touch up the aesthetics for, Laudna, with her long, slender fingers that look so pretty wrapped around their throat, her pale skin contrasting beautifully against their grey...
His dick twitches in his pants again and he snaps himself out of it. Imogen needs to focus, which means Ashton needs to focus-
But it's so hard to focus when he can see the way her teeth and lips settle around the end of her pen as she pauses to think, a soft, nervous nibble as she tries to concoct the perfect sentence. Lips he’d rather have around his cock, teeth that could be biting down on Fearne’s nipple while he eats the two of them out…
Imogen kicks him in the shin, hard, and he yelps. A nearby librarian gives him a stern look.
“What the fuck was that for?” he hisses.
She kicks him again, softer. “If you don’t stop or leave, the only thing my teeth will do is bite your dick clean off.” Ashton winces. “So think quieter or stay the hell away from me until I’m done.” She speaks firmly, threats full of promised followthrough.
Ashton holds his hands up in surrender. “Shit, okay. alright.” He picks his pencil back up, flips to a clean page in his sketchbook, and starts doodling again. Nothing fancy, just a rough sketch of Letters and the new fella they’re seeing. He’s still figuring out how to get Letters’s new hair texture right, them having recently decided on experimenting with locs. Frida is blessedly close-shaven, saving him extra time. He gives up when he gets to their prosthetic arm, not having had a chance to get a good look at it yet.
His line goes wide when he feels pressure in his lap, like someone is squeezing his dick. He jumps in his seat, managing not to disturb that damned librarian a second time, and when he looks up at his tablemate, Imogen is smirking at her essay. Pen still scratching away, her free hand is making a similar rubbing motion against the table top as Ashton feels over his pants.
That little witch.
They don't say anything about it, doesn’t dare risk her stopping touching him, even if it’s phantom. Still worked up from his earlier fantasizing, it doesn’t take long for Imogen’s spell to bring him back to full hardness. The movements are even and firm, the way she knows they like during a quick handy, and fuck, he wishes it were her actual hand touching him, soft and warm.
Without looking away from her papers, Imogen moves her casting hand underneath the table and Ashton gasps sharply, doubling over the table top when they feel the spectral substitute move down through their pants to make direct contact with flesh, stroking them with proper ease now. It speeds up, the motion barely perceptible to others aside from small ripples in Imogen’s bicep. Ashton’s orgasm builds quickly, faster than even the quickest of quickies, a spring ready to snap. They stifle a groan when the spell appears to end, stimulation ceasing entirely. Ashton looks up at Imogen with pleading eyes, begging her to cast it again, keep going, please, but instead the deep lavender of her eyes lock onto them, and with a wicked grin, she casts another spell.
“Come.”
The inescapable rush of Command washes over him as his dick pulses, orgasm crashing into him like a runaway train as he comes in his pants. His shouted FUCK! into the silent chamber of the library echoes, drawing all eyes and ears, but Ashton doesn’t give a shit, riding out the spasms for the duration.
He’s panting heavily as aftershocks keep rolling through him when the spell ends. Imogen’s gaze hasn’t left him, smug and satisfied, and she finally puts down her pen. She moves the topmost sheet of paper aside, tucking the rest neatly into a folder, and realization sparks when Ashton sees that the extraneous page only contains senseless squiggles.
“You are so in for it later, I swear to the gods-” he growls lowly, stopped by the swift approach of the librarian from earlier.
“Sir, if you aren’t able to keep your voice down, I’m going to have to request you leave the building,” she says, none too happy.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He manages a smile, but the woman doesn’t look convinced. “I-”
“We were just finishing up to go,” Imogen chimes in, charming as ever. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute, right Ash?” She hands him his bag.
“Right.” He stuffs his sketchbook and pencil in as he stands and slings it over his shoulder. “Apologies again.”
He lets Imogen drag him out the door by his wrist, waiting until they’re on an empty pathway to her dorm before pulling away and pinning her to a tree. “You think that was fucking funny?”
“Very. And very hot.” She’s unapologetic, but looks up at him pseudo-innocently. “What was that about me being ‘in for it’ back there again?”
He growls, head sparking, and presses his new, still-sticky hard-on against her hip. He leans in close, lips to her ear. “I’m gonna pin you to the fucking floor and wreck you as soon as we’re inside, princess. I don’t give a shit who fucking hears us, I’m gonna make you scream .”
Imogen shivers beneath him. Her real, solid hand from his shoulder down to his dick, squeezing lightly just as she had with Mage Hand.
“Promise?”