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By the time he realises what Dedra Meero is actually like - not the calculating, exacting ISB Supervisor he had followed and fantasised about and almost ruined himself for, he’s already been living with her for weeks.
Which is, frankly, too late.
Because the version of her that he thought he knew is absolutely not the version of her that inhabits this apartment.
The Dedra who has composure tighter than a blaster trigger, who withers junior officers without a word? She’s left at the door when she enters the apartment, and she brings the real one inside - the one who pads barefoot through the apartment, who steals his shirts with a frequency he was not prepared for - she is a menace. A smug, seductive, bare-legged menace who he’s sure entire life's purpose now is to ruin his day for her enjoyment.
She steals, and wears his shirts like they’re made for her, loose and oversized - always rolled to the elbows and barely buttoned. Sometimes, on rest days, she’ll wear one tied at the waist with a pair of his underwear. At this point, if it wasn’t for their trips to the grocery vendor, he would be convinced she didn’t own civilian clothes.
Syril, who prides himself on discipline, who once ironed the seams of his socks, completely crumbles
Every time he sees her in his shirts, he thinks he forgets how to breathe.
He will be in the middle of preparing dinner, always a meal that requires multiple moving parts to be complete at the same time, and she will wander up behind him and whisper the most diabolical things in his ear, low, warm and devastating
“I can’t wait to have your cock for dessert.”
“You looked so good for me on your knees last night.”
“I’ve been thinking about you fucking me all day.”
He is ruined. The amount of meals now that she has outright sabotaged with a well-timed whisper is beyond ridiculous. It’s reached the point now where he’s seriously considering giving up trying to cook, or simply banning her from the kitchen, if only to try and preserve the structural integrity of their dining table.
This isn’t teasing. This is warfare, and she is winning.
On the occasion that she doesn’t completely ruin him first, he is the one who reaches for her, dragging her into his lap as she walks past, hands sliding underneath his stolen shirt, his mouth seeking out hers with a kind of desperation that barely feels sane. But even then, he knows, knows that she planted the seed, set the trap. It’s a bare foot sliding up his calf at dinner, or the way she will wait until she knows he’s watching to unpin her hair and shake it loose from its place at the nape of her neck.
He can pretend all he wants that he’s above it, that he’s not playing her game, but they both know better.
—
One evening, she’s draped herself across the lounge like a sun-drenched cat, long limbs out and a datapad loose in one hand, clearly only half reading whatever is on it. She’s wearing one of his kriffing shirts again - this one seems to be a repeat offender for her - navy in a fine twill that creases if you even think about breathing on it. She’s got a haphazard amount of buttons done, and the sleeves pushed up her forearms and the collar hanging open to her sternum.
He stops mid-step, an arm full of clean and pressed shirts and uniforms and just stares at her “Why do you do this to me?” he mutters
She doesn’t even look up from the datapad “Do what?”
“You know exactly what” He waves a hand vaguely at her general direction, like that’s a sufficient enough explanation.
She finally looks up at him, one perfect brow arched with scathing intent. “You mean look better than you in your own clothes?” her lips curl upwards “Or did you mean ruin your concentration again? No? Oh, wait -” she tilts her head “You must mean that thing from the shower last night. And this morning”
He could power their apartment building with the heat radiating from his face now.
She rises slowly from the lounge, approaching him and cupping his cheek, brushing a thumb along his jawline. Without breaking eyecontact, she flicks the buttons of the shirt open and drops it from her shoulders, letting it fall behind her and disappearing down the corridor.
He follows.
Of course he follows.
—
Occasionally, when she pushes him just far enough, when she’s too smug, too sure that he won’t do anything about it - he breaks..
It’s devastating.
One night, she leans over the kitchen bench and starts to tell him in obscene detail about the dream she had, looking him straight in the eye - about how his mouth is on her and she's dripping as his hands hold her down her hips and her legs shake while she comes. The next thing she knows, she’s laughing as he tosses her straight over his shoulder and she’s dropped onto the bed. He pulls her legs forward, kneeling in front of her on the floor, her ass barely on the bed - he intends to make her dreams come true.
He eats her like it’s what he was put here to do, and he intends to do it slowly, torturously to make her pay for ruining dinner again. He wraps one hand around the back of her thigh, a hand splaying out over her hips. Of course, she’s not wearing anything at all under the shirt she’s stolen, which for him just makes it easier to run his other hand up her inner thigh, stopping before he touches her. Even in the dimmer lighting of the bedroom, he can see she’s already wet and his mouth follows the path of his hand, pressing kisses along her thigh, gently touching his lips to her, his tongue flat and gentle, tasting her, and he can hear her moan from above him. He uses two fingers, sliding them inside her, followed by a third and he needs to hold her hips down to stop her from sliding straight off the edge of the bed. He works his fingers inside her, slowly, listening to her barely contained moans and pleas to him. He knows exactly how slowly to take it to drive her to the edge of insanity but not over. Small circles of his tongue on her clit, never for long, and the hand that held her hip down is on her breast, pulling her nipple between two fingers. When her moans turn to begging “Syril, please, please” his fingers work harder inside her, and he pulls her clit into his mouth. She comes with legs shuddering around him - his name on her lips and a hand gripping his hair.
Another night, she is driving him crazy, running a foot up and down his calf while he tries to tell her about the briefing report he’s giving tomorrow and how, if it goes well, he’s likely to get a promotion out of it. Then, the foot isn’t on his calf anymore, it’s between his thighs, and she’s saying something about how turned on she got when he pinned her face down on the bed the night before, his hands pushing against her shoulders as he drove into her from behind and he stands so suddenly the chair almost topples to the floor. He grabs her, both hands under her ass and lifts her onto the table, pushing her underwear aside and sliding into her, her hands braced behind her on the table and her ankles locking together behind him. He’s not gentle or slow, and the entire table shakes as he fucks her, watching her laid out on the table with her hand between them, building her own rhythm in time with him. He doesn't stop when she comes, back arching, fingernails digging into his thighs.
The plates are left half-full and completely forgotten.
The next morning, he pads quietly into the kitchen while she’s still asleep, clearing the table, straightening the chairs, returning the kitchen to its precise, clean state.
When she emerges, bare legged with hair falling down around her shoulders, she props herself up on the kitchen counter and holds a hand out for the caf she knows he has ready for her. He gives it to her, stepping between her legs as she inhales deeply, taking a mouthful. When he kisses her, she tastes bitter and sweet all at once.
As she wraps her bare thighs around him, pulling him in closer, all he can think is that he’s never been more glad to have his life ruined