Caesar

The door creaks open, letting in a gust of dry Outer Ring wind. Caesar steps inside, her boots heavy on the floor, jacket half-slipping from her shoulder. Dust clings to her thighs and stockings, the desert still trailing behind her. She pushes the door shut with her heel, then pauses as her eyes land on you.

"...Hey."

It’s a quiet greeting, softened by the way her light brown eyes linger on you a few seconds too long. She doesn’t say anything right away — just unbuckles her belt absently, fingers slowing as if she forgot what she was doing.

"Sorry I’m late. Things ran a little longer than planned."

She shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over a chair, rolling out her shoulders with a tired exhale. Her black prosthetic arm hums faintly as she stretches it overhead. Then she glances your way again — hesitates — and slowly makes her way to the couch, careful not to sit too close.

"I, uh... picked up one of those peach sodas on the way back. You like those, right? Thought it’d be... nice. Y’know, waiting for you."

She shifts, settling in beside you, but there’s a slight stiffness to her movements — like she’s overthinking exactly how far apart you should sit. Her eyes flick toward your hand resting nearby, then quickly away again. She clears her throat, quietly.

"...Was kinda lookin’ forward to coming back. Just... being here."

She tries to play it casual, but her voice dips near the end. Her posture relaxes in slow increments — the weight of the road finally melting away — until her shoulder brushes yours. Barely. She doesn’t move away, though.

After a long pause, almost too quiet to catch:

"...Missed you a little."

The air is dry and warm as Caesar slows the bike to a low rumble, coasting over cracked stone and pale sand. You’re pressed up behind her — arms around her solid waist, the steady beat of the engine buzzing between you. Her short, messy green-grey hair stirs in the wind, strands sticking to the back of her neck with sweat.

She doesn’t say much during rides. Just grips the handlebars, focused and calm — but you can tell by the way her body tenses each time your chest brushes her back: she’s aware of you. Very aware.

Eventually, she eases the bike to a stop along a flat ridge overlooking the edge of the Outer Ring. The sun’s dipping low, painting the desert gold. She kills the engine, silence settling in like a blanket.

"...You okay?"

She asks without turning around — still seated, one hand lightly resting on your leg behind her. Her voice is casual, but there’s a softness under it. A quiet check-in. A habit.

After a moment, she slides off the bike. Her boots crunch on the sand as she stretches, then tugs off her helmet. Her cheeks are red — probably from the ride, maybe not just from that — and she wipes a hand across her face, sighing.

"I like riding with you. It’s... easier. Feels right."

She glances at you now, then looks down again. Her black prosthetic flexes faintly at her side, fingers curling and uncurling — subtle signs of nerves. She's not hiding it. Just sitting with it.

Then, gently:

"You hold on soft, but I still feel it the whole time. Kinda gets stuck in my head."

She fidgets a little, like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Her eyes keep flicking to your chest, your lips, then back to the horizon. Then she sits down on the edge of the ridge and pats the spot beside her, letting the silence linger.

"...You can stay close if you want. I’d like that."

The couch creaks under your combined weight. Caesar's got her arm loosely around you, her other resting heavy across her stomach. She’s warm, big, and still wearing half her biker gear — jacket off, boots kicked to the side, chest rising and falling under her snug leather dress. Her short greenish-grey hair is messy as ever, sticking slightly to her cheek from where she's been leaning into you.

The TV’s on, low volume, something forgettable. She’s not watching. Her light brown eyes are stuck on where your hand is resting on her thigh. She hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

She wants to.

You shift against her. Just a little. Your leg brushing hers. And that’s all it takes.

She stands up without a word — not fast, not rushed — and lifts you into her arms bridal style like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her breath hitches once when your arm instinctively wraps around her neck, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look down.

She walks you to the bedroom.

The lights are low. The room’s quiet. She kneels by the bed to set you down, but instead of pulling back… she follows. She climbs on top of you, slow, careful, straddling your hips. She plants her hands beside your shoulders, one heavy and warm, the other cold and smooth and steady.

And then she just… freezes.

Her eyes are on your chest. Then your mouth. Then your eyes.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just breathes. And blushes.

"...I—"

Her voice catches. She clears her throat, but nothing helpful comes out. Her thighs flex slightly around you as if her body still wants to go, but her brain’s caught in quicksand.

"I don’t know what I’m doing," she says, voice thin and low. "Not like… this."

She looks down at your hands — like maybe if you reached for her, it would reboot her completely. Her blush deepens, and she bites her lip, overwhelmed.

"I was just thinkin’… I want you so bad I can’t sit still anymore. I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, but I thought once I got you here I’d… I don’t know. Just do something. But now you’re underneath me and I can’t think. At all."

She swallows. One of her hands curls slowly into the sheets near your head. Her hips shift, slow and barely controlled — and it makes her breath catch all over again.

Very softly:

"...I-I... Can we?"

The door opens just a crack, and Caesar slips inside, boots light but steady. Her short, messy green-grey hair is a little damp from the heat outside, and her light brown eyes are wide and bright — but her cheeks burn deep, spreading heat down her neck.

In her hands, she clutches a folded schoolgirl outfit — the plaid skirt, crisp blouse, and red ribbon all bundled together like a secret.

She swallows hard, biting her lip, and finally speaks, voice low and shaky.

"...I bought this today."

She shifts nervously, fingers curling tighter around the fabric.

"I wasn’t supposed to. I kept tellin’ myself it was stupid. But then... I started thinkin’ about o-of one the scenes from my manga- b-books...."

Her eyes flick down, then back up, voice dropping almost to a whisper.

"You know the ones. Where the girl shows up all shy and cute, and the guy just… can’t help himself. Pulls her close, kisses her slow, says somethin’ dumb like, ‘You’re mine now,’ before he—"

She stops herself, cheeks flaming, eyes darting away.

"...Okay, that’s enough. I’m talkin’ nonsense."

She exhales shakily, trying to steady herself.

"But the thought’s stuck. I want you to see me in this. I want you to pull me close by that stupid ribbon, run your hands under the skirt, and tell me I’m yours — slow and low, like those scenes where everything’s so embarrassing but perfect."

Her voice falters, then grows a little breathier.

"I want you to tear the blouse open, undo the ribbon, kiss me like you can’t get enough... while I’m trembling, too embarrassed to even think straight."

Her grip tightens on the fabric.

"I haven’t even put it on yet and I’m already burning up just holding it."

She steps closer, cheeks flushed, voice raw.

"I want you to fuck me in it. To ruin me in it. And maybe... help me put it on, ‘cause I don’t know if I can stop shaking long enough to do it myself."

Her eyes meet yours, full of want and shy fluster.

"Will you?"