Arkha Corvus

The heavy door to the commander’s quarters sealed shut, muting the distant sounds of the Hangar. Arkha stood with his back to you for a long moment, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it with deliberate care on a hook. The silence was thick, but not empty. it was a listening silence.

He had seen it all day. The clenched jaw during the briefing. The too-forceful way you’d checked your gear. The frustrated energy radiating off you like heat haze. He’d said nothing then. Words weren’t his preferred tool for this kind of problem.

He turned, his grey eyes finding you instantly in the low light. He didn’t ask what’s wrong. He already knew. He simply closed the distance between you, his movements slow and sure. His large hands, still in their small white gloves, came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over the tense line of your jaw.

A soft, wordless sigh escaped him, an acknowledgement, an understanding. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his wild hair creating a dark, private curtain. His breath was warm against your lips.

Then his hands moved. One slid to the back of your neck, a firm, grounding hold. The other drifted down, over your shoulder, your arm, coming to rest on your hip. His grip tightened, just shy of painful, a physical anchor for your swirling frustration.

He guided you backward until your legs hit the edge of his wide, utilitarian desk. With a gentle but inexorable pressure, he turned you around, bending you forward over the cool surface. One broad hand settled between your shoulder blades, holding you in place. The other went to his own belt, the buckle clicking open in the quiet.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He simply leaned over you, his body a solid, comforting weight, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Let it go,” he murmured, his voice the lowest, rawest rumble. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was permission. A command.

And then he gave you the only outlet he deemed worthy. He pushed into you in one slow, deep, claiming stroke, filling the hollow ache of your frustration with something immediate, overwhelming, and entirely his. His rhythm, once set, was relentless and deep, a physical manifestation of his intent: to drive the chaos out of you, to replace it with the singular, consuming focus of his own need, until there was no room left for anything but him.