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Caiatl drapes herself across her thrown with a huff. She pulls at her fingers, cracking her knuckles and revelling in the satisfying pop. Her flagship has been in the atmosphere above Earth for weeks, waiting for the next move as the traveller’s portal remains gaping, becoming for them to follow after the witness. Yet, a certain level of restraint is to had here. One cannot simply go rushing after an age-old enemy of another to commit an act of revenge you do not understand. There is too much to this puzzle that has remained unanswered. Too much that even the guardian has yet to attempt crossing through the portal. Thus, Caiatal’s flagship, and the entire Cabal fleet, have remained in orbit around Earth, impatiently waiting for its next orders.
It has been a long, boring wait. The wait isn’t helped by the fact that she is waiting for someone to visit her. A particular someone. With blue skin that swirls like the heavens above Torobalt, icy blue eyes that mock the frozen tundras of Europa, and strength beyond measure - even amongst guardians. The Commander Zavala. And he’s kept her waiting for two hours past the agreed-upon time. Normally she would have called the meeting off by now and sent a message that they would reschedule it. However, she lacks anything better to do with her time than wait.
The doors creak open, and she barely glances up. It’s most likely another Psion come to bring her some work, or a soldier looking to pay their respects to their Empress. Cold indifference is the best approach until she knows who’s approaching her.
A small cough, as if someone is clearing her throat, earns her attention. Lifting her left tusk in curiosity, she turns her head to see who the cough originated from. At the foot of her throne stands a man half her height, holding himself as if the moment he exhales, the world will crumble. Her tusk drops quickly as she attempts to disguise her sympathy.
“Commander Zavala,” she says softly, keeping her voice quiet in case any guard still lingers in her throne room. She knows that his title is the last thing he wants to hear right now. It is the last thing she wants to say. But formalities must be maintained until they are sure they are alone.
“Empress Caiatl, I offer my deepest apologies for missing the scheduled time for our meeting. I have been swamped with work since -” he waves his hand vaguely. She knows he doesn’t want to say it. It’s bitter on his tongue, enough that she tastes it on hers. - “Well, you know. I had picked up a document to skim and sign it before heading to your ship and became engrossed in work. I hope you can forgive me.”
“I understand. I haven’t had a free moment to myself for quite some time. Even as I waited, I was working. I cannot imagine the amount that has been brought upon your shoulders,” Caiatl assures him, rising from her throne. “Are you able to have our meeting now?”
“Yes,” he says, offering his hand to her. She carefully rests her hand on his, and he brings it to his lips, kissing it chastely. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
She can feel her cheeks flush behind her helmet as she takes her hand back.
“Follow me, then,” she hums, her tusks lifting slightly.
He nods his head and trails down the hall after her. Footsteps echo through the flagship as they pass by Cabal and Psions alike, on their way to work or to their quarters. Life clings desperately to her fleet; claws and tusks dug into the metal like frightened children. The Cabal are strong. They are proud. They are victorious. But right now, the uncertainty permeates everyone. Even here. Even her. They have no home to return to, they can only look to the future for hope, and the future has never looked bleaker. She cannot blame them for their fear. She can only blame herself for not doing more for them.
Something warm wraps around the side of her hand, holding it carefully. She doesn’t need to look down to know Zavala has gingerly taken her hand. She rotates her wrist slowly until she’s holding his hand. She can hold his whole hand in between just her forefinger and thumb. It takes his whole hand to even cover her palm. The two of them walk side by side silently down the hall. She cannot assuage the fear of all her citizens. However, she can provide refuge for herself and a lonely commander in the eye of the storm.
Familiar doors slide open and closed, allowing them to hide from the rest of the ship. Her room is warm and humid. A large bed is in the centre of the room, just beyond the entrance, where they leave their shoes. A neat closet is tucked into the side of the room, with a door leading to an adjoining bathroom next to it. Various stands of armour, weapons and a large couch decorate the room. As well as a rug, masterfully woven to resemble the (now ruined) jungles of Torobalt.
Zavala’s shoulders are still held rigidly next to her as he dismisses his armour, leaving him in a well-loved wool sweater and worn jeans. Even dressed significantly down, he retains the stress of someone holding the world on their shoulders.
“Zavala, take a deep breath,” she orders, reaching for her helmet.
“May I ask why?”
“Humour me,” she says, pulling off her helmet and placing it on the armour stand beside her.
He raises an eyebrow at her but does as he’s told, slowly exhaling. She watches his shoulders sink as he melts into the couch.
“Do you feel better?” she asks, unbuckling her chest plate.
“Very much so. I think I’ve been clenching my jaw all day,” he chuckles dryly, rubbing his jaw.
She selects a thick cylinder from the dresser next to her. Then she chucks it at him. He catches it, unscrewing the cap and running the topical ointment across the underside of his jaw. She pulls off her chest plate and greaves, leaving herself in the undersuit, and deposits herself on the couch beside him. Silently, he passes the ointment to her, and she runs it over the sides of her head.
He chuckles to himself, and she lifts a tusk, staring at him.
“Is there something funny, Commander?”
“Sorry, it’s nothing. It’s just -” he gestures to nothing - “From all this, you could think you’re just using me as an excuse to relax. I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
“I would never use you in such a manner. This, all of this, means a great deal to me,” she insists, appalled at his suggestion.
“It’s a joke, Caiatl,” he assures her, resting his hand on her thigh. “I know you think better of me than that. Hopefully.”
“I do. However, your doubt worries me. What would you like me to do? Prove it?” she inquires, setting the ointment on the coffee table.
“You’ve proven it time and time again. I assure you,” he says, regarding her carefully.
“I don’t think I have. You sound unconvinced. So tell me, how do I prove it to you?” she repeats, playing with the hem of his sweater.
“I think you already have something in mind,” he says, swallowing hard as her hand slips under his sweater and rests against his stomach.
“Stop me if you need to,” she murmurs, slowly raising her hand until his sweater is discarded on the floor.
His breath catches as her fingers trace the thin scars across his chest. There’s a slight appraisal of her gaze that combines with the tenderness of her touch. He doesn’t feel like he needs to hide here or make excuses. He can allow himself to sink into the attention, knowing there’s respect behind it. To her, he is a man. There is nothing else to it, no extra addition to the sentence nor exception. He is whole in her eyes. There is no lingering idea of him that haunts her acceptance.
His pants are tugged off until they hang around one of his ankles. She watches him intently as he lets her lift him until his shins rest against her shoulders. He’s perched over her mouth, steadying himself with a hand on the wall behind the couch and feeling extremely exposed. He’s hesitant to move, unsure of what she intends to do. Then a gentle hand on his back guides him down until he straddles her face, thighs pressed against her tusks.
He actually gasps when she drags her hot tongue across him.
She is nothing like what he’s used to. Her body runs hotter, her fingers are far bigger, and her tusks dig into his thighs, leaving imprints of their carvings. It’s addicting. She doesn’t mind when he grinds against her face, rolling his hips against her tongue as she laps at him. He reaches behind himself awkwardly, scissoring himself open in desperation. He can’t take one of her fingers without some prep work, but even she’s impatient. His hand is batted away quickly, and he’s embarrassed at how wet he is. He knows she can tell; she can hear the squelch of her fingers pumping in and out of him. It feels a tad bit like he’s being split open. He shudders at the thought, unable to stifle the moan that leaks from his lips as she finds just the right angle.
Attentive as always, she repeats the motion, revelling in how he all but whimpers above her. He’s desperately grinding his hips against her face, nearly doubled over as he feebly attempts to keep himself upright. She rubs circles into his hip with her thumb, her other hand rubbing herself through her armour. She can feel herself unsheath, the short, thick length pressing against her undersuit and palm.
Forgetting herself momentarily, she impatiently adds a third finger to Zavala, and he spasms around her. This time he fully doubles over, shuddering and whimpering as he grows oversensitive.
“I would apologize, but… it seems like you enjoyed that,” she murmurs against his inner thigh. She holds no malice in her voice, trying her best to remain impartial and not sway his opinion.
“Was it that obvious?” he chuckles nervously, trying to shimmy his way off her shoulders.
“It makes sense that you would enjoy something bigger, as I am twice your size. However, I wasn’t aware you enjoyed it rougher.”
“I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject,” he admits, straddling her lap. Nothing is said over her unsheathed length straining against her pants.
“Well, now that it has been broached, would you like to continue?” she asks, passively waiting for a response with a raised tusk.
“Very much so,” he says, dragging his hand across her length.
She grins at him, lifting him with one hand and depositing him on the bed. She shucks off her undersuit and discards it on the floor, making a face at the mess in the crotch. She’ll deal with it later.
A large hand wraps around his hips, adjusting his position until they’re both comfortable. His legs are around her waist, resting on her hips. He’s watching as she slowly guides her length into him, biting his lip so hard that he tastes the familiar metallic twinge of blood. It takes all of his willpower to keep himself from begging her to hurry up. He is not that desperate. Not even as she rubs her thumb against his dick. He will not cave.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. Caiatl isn’t coy. She thrusts her hips forward and drags them back, letting him feel the stretch of her length. When they’d started this fiasco, she remarked that female Cabal’s lengths were often scoffed at and ignored. Males had large phalli, whereas females had much smaller ones. He was simply glad that he could take her without making Targe revive him every time.
Each thrust sends sparks shimmering through him. They dance across his skin as he grips the sheets, unable to keep himself from moaning. She’s no better, bent over him and fucking into him with wild abandon. She’s been close ever since he came on her face, and the desperation is leaking into her composure.
“Caiatl, please,” he whimpers, unsure what he’s even asking for.
“It’s okay, Zavala, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” she pants, barely able to string a phrase together.
His hips rock against hers, fucking himself on her length as she leaves bruises on his hips. Her thrusts aren’t gentle either, hitting against his thighs with bruising force. He’s going to be sore after this. He will remember this tomorrow as he stands in the cold wind atop the tower. Their little secret, hidden behind his armour.
He can’t stop himself from climaxing. He clenches and spasms around her length, causing her to slam her hips against his one final time before freezing. Shallow, short thrusts stutter into him as she cums hard. There is no fluid to it, simply an oversensitive nervous system. The two of them stay frozen in place, unwilling to move.
“... I think I needed that more than I care to admit,” Zavala laughs when he finally catches his breath.
“So did I. We have been under too much stress lately,” Caiatl agrees, chuckling as she straightens herself out. “I will get a towel. Wait here.”
“I can -” Zavala starts, attempting to get up only to fall back with a groan. “I’m just going to lie here if that’s alright with you?”
“That is why I said I would get a towel,” Caiatl hums, smoothing her hand across Zavala’s thigh.
“Right.”
She leaves him there for only a moment. Just only enough to fetch a wet cloth. He lets her clean him up, staring at the ceiling and attempting not to appear like a blushing virgin. She’s done this plenty of times, yet he can never seem to become impassive to it.
He groans as her hand ghosts over his dick.
“Are you sure you’re finished?” she asks, raising a tusk.
“I don’t want to seem selfish,” he admits, fidgeting with the bedsheets.
“You aren’t,” she assures him, dropping the cloth on the floor.
He shuffles backward as she climbs onto the bed. His leg rests in the juncture of her elbow, unable to reach her shoulder. She presses her crotch against his, giving her hips a testing roll. He moans unabashedly, rocking his hips against hers. It’s slower, less demanding, as the two of them work toward climax. Her hand rests on the sheet, and he rests his own overtop of it. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed as she hums at the sensation.
The room is silent save for the heavy breathing and small moans coming from them. The head of Caiatl’s length pokes from its sheath and rubs against his dick. He angles his hips for the pressure he’s looking for and moans when he finds the right position. She makes no move to stop him, leaning into the position and providing the force she knows he enjoys. It’s more than enough for her, even if the angle is a little sloppy.
It’s a sweeter climax. Languid as it rolls through their bodies, their hips rocking together as they come down from it.
“Are you satisfied?” Caiatl hums, dragging her hand across Zavala’s torso.
“Very. Thank you,” he sighs, sinking into the plush bed.
“You are welcome,” she says, lifting herself from the bed.
She grabs a new cloth, cleans both of them and discards their clothes into the hamper. Then she crawls back into bed, finding him already curled up under the sheets. She chuckles, pulling him to her chest and letting him rest in the crook of her arm. He smiles lazily, curling closer as Targe snuffs out the lights for them. Her measured breaths rumble softly against the top of his head as they slowly drift off to sleep.