The apartment felt too quiet, too empty, when Aezhyrrael wasn't here. Weeks now, since he’d last seen him and the silence here still screamed. Calix shifted on the sofa, not paying attention to the documentary for the last half hour that it droned. Cold lights beyond the night-stained windows a contrast to the heat coiling low in his gut. He shouldn't think about him. Shouldn't let the memory of those pale, cold claws—so terrifyingly capable of rending flesh—evoke anything other than fear.

Yet, the phantom pressure lingered. The memory of that possessive weight, the chilling intimacy of being utterly seen, utterly claimed. His breath hitched. It was madness. This aching tension, this unwanted thrumming beneath his skin whenever his thoughts strayed too close to those sharp, pale features, the unsettling grace, the scent of ozone and something anciently cold that clung to him.

He traced the line of his own hip through his trousers, fingers trembling slightly. A low sound, almost a whimper, caught in his throat. His back arched just slightly off the cushions, chin tucking down as a shiver traced its path up his spine, hot and sharp. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of those knowing, predatory eyes, but it only sharpened the memory, intensified the coiling knot deep inside him. His own hand drifted, hesitant then seeking, chasing a release that felt both traitorous and desperately needed.

His breaths grew ragged as the air itself felt thicker for the conflict in his fraying mind. What was he imagining? Claws around his neck? His eyes roll as he groans at himself and the architect of his unwilling desire glowering behind his eyes.