Chapter 97 - 96: Warm Skin And Hot Temper.

Chapter 97: Chapter 96: Warm Skin And Hot Temper.

It’s the door to Khobi’s room that bears the brunt of his anger, and the entire wall seems to shake as he slams it behind him.

On the bed, sheets pooling around his waist and torso laid bare, Loac stirs, eyes flickering open at the commotion.

When he sees who it is he yawns, and stretches so that the smooth lines of his abdomen pull taut and inviting.

It’s a pointless endeavour; Khobi doesn’t even look.

"You’re back early," Loac remarks, voice dusty with sleep.

He looks like he hasn’t left the room all day. There’s a plate of half-finished food sitting on the floor though, so either he has, or some poor servant has brought him some.

"What do you care," Khobi snaps hotly, pacing and trying to remind himself that Rogard isn’t a child,that he can take care of himself.

But it’s hard, when he had looked so small before Spidra. Rogard had told him to leave, but he hates himself a little for listening.

"I don’t," comes the dry response, and the sheets rustle as Loac turns in bed, reaching down to hook up a snack from his plate.

He knows it won’t do any good, but that doesn’t stop Khobi from driving his fist straight into the nearest wall.

It doesn’t help.

It just ends up hurting.

"Fuck," he hisses, to himself more than anything, even though there’s now an ugly, suspiciously fist-sized dent in the wood.

His knuckles throb. One of them starts bleeding. It doesn’t make him feel better, but he figures it’s better he punches a wall than Rogard’s dad.

"Wow," Loac remarks flatly from the bed, mouth full of food, "You look...pent up."

Khobi lets out a slow breath; knowing full well what he’s getting at but refusing to take the bait.

But Loac tries again, scoffing like Khobi’s being ridiculous.

"Who pissed you off?"

Red eyes shoot a meaningful glare across the room, and where it’s a look that would make most grown men baulk, Loac remains unaffected.

"Right now, you," Khobi shoots back, temperature spiking as Loac tucks his arms up behind his head and sets him with a cocky sneer.

"Tsk, ’scuse me for asking," he drawls lazily, quirking an eyebrow, "You always like this?"

"Yeah."

"You must be real fun at parties."

"I don’t go to parties," he scoffs, fully intending to sarcastically draw attention to the fact that he hasn’t had the occasion since he’s been a prisoner his whole fucking life.

But Loac doesn’t seem interested.

"Neither," he yawns, shrugging like he honestly couldn’t care less, "Hate shit like that."

Well, that’s...actually, Khobi’s a little surprised.

Mostly that he can relate.

His boiling over temper drops a degree or two, hovering around a tentative, rolling simmer.

In part because, well, that’s probably the least antagonising thing Loac’s ever said to him, and in part because his knuckles are fucking throbbing like he’s just crushed a couple of them.

Nothing feels broken, exactly, but they definitely feel dented, if that’s possible.

"No company today, huh?" he ribs snidely, turning his hand over to try and best catch the light.

His knuckles look kind of ugly.

"Not today," Loac replies, as if Khobi’s asked him something inane.

"A man’s gotta sleep."

"Gee, I wonder what that’s like," Khobi grits out sarcastically, and Loac snickers.

He’s too busy inspecting his hand for damage that he doesn’t realise Loac’s left the bed until he’s standing right beside him.

For a soldier, the man moves quieter than a servant.

"Nice shot," Loac murmurs from right behind him, and when his breath ghosts against the nape of Khobi’s neck he nearly leaps right out of his skin.

Instantly, he whirls to face him, in case he’s about to try something, but Loac’s focus isn’t on him, it’s on the hefty dent he’s left in the wall,wood splintered and cracked from the force.

He looks almost thoughtful, if that were possible.

Fascinated, even.

He’s so close Khobi can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.

It makes Khobi’s skin tingle. Unconsciously, Khobi’s gaze flicks down his chest, and then away again, in relief.

He’s wearing pants this time thank fuck.

"Thanks," he snorts sarcastically, edging away so that Loac’s skin’s no longer brushing up against his.

(The heat lingers.)

It’s like Loac doesn’t even hear him. He just stares vacantly at the hole in the wall, long fingers tracing the space under one of his eyes.

It looks about where Khobi managed to land a punch on him last time.

"Bet you’re glad that wasn’t your face," he can’t resist saying, even though in the back of his mind he knows, somehow, that that isn’t what Loac’s thinking at all.

It still manages to snap Loac away from his thoughts.

"I told you that was a lucky shot," he growls darkly, flinging Khobi a narrowed look.

"Tch, you really think that?" he scoffs, squaring up to him and folding his arms across his chest. Loac’s gaze drops briefly to the heavy flex of his biceps, then rises back to face him with eyes endless pools of black.

"...Then hit me," he says, voice so low Khobi can almost feel it on his skin. He inclines his head slowly, and it feels like a challenge. "If you can."

Khobi’s been told he’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the armoury, but even he’s not that stupid.

"What, so you can go running to Khnoji and he can chuck me in a cell?" he snorts dismissively, "No way. I’m not gonna fuckin’ punch you—"

Then Loac takes a step closer to him, and Khobi’s arms graze against the skin of his chest when he stands his ground.

(Soft.)

(And firm, at the same time.)

"Go on," Loac murmurs—goads, even, leaning in close enough that when he exhales his breath dusts against Khobi’s lips.

It makes Khobi’s temper—and temperature—spike again. "I know you want to," he adds, voice thick with something that Khobi can’t quite place.

But whatever it is, it’s definitely making him want to do exactly what he’s asked. "I won’t tell Gurdet.

It’ll be our little secret. If you can even touch me, that is."

Well, Khobi thinks, expression darkening, he did ask nicely.

He doesn’t aim for his face this time, because that’s exactly what he’ll be expecting.

So he goes for his gut,right where it’ll knock the wind right out of him.

His fist, even injured, comes out of nowhere, hard and fast and with enough force behind it to floor him.

If only it had hit him.

Loac, the bastard, dodges with exaggerated ease, and grabs him by his collar as he flies by.

And the next thing Khobi knows, his chest is being slammed up against the wall,arm wrenched behind him, pinning him there.

"What the fuck," he hisses, cheek stinging from being thrown against the wood. Loac’s hand clenches a little tighter on his wrist, and he presses in close as Khobi struggles against his grip, weight bearing down on him from behind.

"What, you thought I wouldn’t hit you back?" he snorts, a condescending lilt to his voice.

He sounds smug, and Khobi regrets not aiming at his face when his lips tease the shell of his ear.

He shudders, and Loac’s voice dips low and suggestive.

"...I bet you’re a real tiger in bed."

Khobi resists the urge to roll his eyes. It always comes back to this, doesn’t it? The way he acts sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t already have enough people falling over themselves to climb into bed with him.

"Like you’re ever gonna find out," he taunts back thickly, "You’re dreaming if you think I’m ever getting in that bed with you. I’ve seen what you do in it."

"...Doesn’t have to be in a bed," he points out slyly, and Khobi’s nose wrinkles.

"Gross."

"Huh, didn’t take you for a blushin’ virgin," Loac muses mockingly, gaze heavy as it bores into the side of Khobi’s face.

It’s a lazy taunt, and Khobi’s getting kinda sick of it.

"Who said I’m a virgin," Khobi taunts back with red eyes smouldering, so that Loac knows that someone’s already had what he never will.

Loac wets his lips, eyes gleaming, and Khobi realises dimly that he’s tracked the motion.

"So you’re not." He didn’t realise Loac’s voice could go any deeper. But it has, and he sounds hungry.

"None of your business."

"...Then why so uncomfortable about fucking?" he asks, and when Khobi feels his smirk against his skin, he twists in his grip and spins to face him.

"I’m not," Khobi grinds out steadily. Evenly, so Loac knows he’s serious.

He’s perfectly comfortable with fucking. Enjoys it, even. Maybe even misses it. But he’s not this desperate, so he gives Loac a warning shove with a hand to put some space between them.

"I just don’t want to fuck you."

"Is that so?" Loac hums, undaunted, closing the distance between them until his chest is pressed flush against Khobi’s outstretched hand.

His dark skin is hot to the touch, and Khobi’s fingers burn and twitch at the contact, and the red in his eyes flares wild and dangerous.

But if Loac sees the warning in them he doesn’t heed it. If anything, it draws him in, his own gaze scorching, and equally dangerous,the kind filled with carnal promises of sin, and pleasure.

It sends a low, agonising shudder undulating down Khobi’s spine, and something about it makes his breath catch in his throat.