Eidolon

Warning (PG18)

This episode contains adult themes. Reader discretion recommended.

After their kiss Shoma stood, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he leaned down and picked her up from his sofa like she weighed nothing. She placed her arms around his neck and let him carry her down the short hallway to his bedroom. It was as tidy as the living room, dominated by a large, low bed with crisp, dark linens. The lights of the city painted shifting patterns across the ceiling through the slats of the blinds.

He laid her down on the bed delicately, hovering over her, his hands finding the hidden clasp at the back of her neck. The silk of her dress cascaded down to her hips like water. He smiled appreciatingly at the sight of her red satin slip. Then his fingers found the straps and slid them over her shoulders, causing the satin to rain down too. The sliding fabric sounded like a sigh of release. The crimson silk and satin pooled at her hips, leaving her lying half-naked in the dim light, her plump breasts rising with her deep breaths, her skin glowing.

Shoma’s breath caught. “Rei, you are…”, he shook his head, as if words had failed him. He reached out, his knuckles gently tracing the line of her collarbone, then down the curve of her side. His touch was worshipful, as if he were memorizing her by feel. Then, with a sudden, thrilling shift, he pulled the red fabrics along with her panties down and off her, drinking in the sight of her for a heartbeat, before holding her against him, his mouth finding hers again. His hands explored the bare skin of her back, her waist, the swell of her hips. He pushed her deeper into the mattress, to the center of the bed. She sank down onto the cool sheets, pulling him with her.

There were no more words, only sensation. The weight of him, the friction of skin on skin, the hot, open-mouthed kisses he trailed from her lips to her throat, to the sensitive curve of her breast. Rei arched into his touch, her own hands roaming, relearning the landscape of a man’s body; the hard planes of his stomach, the powerful muscles of his back, the surprising softness of his hair.

He was an expert lover, that much was clear. There was a confident skill in his touch, but it was layered with a genuine, almost frantic passion that felt entirely for her. When he entered her, it was with a slow, deliberate force that made her cry out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled, his forehead damp against hers. “You good?” he breathed, his voice strained with the effort of control.

“Don’t stop”, Rei breathed and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, surrendering completely to the wave of feeling. The loneliness, the fear, the constant performance, it all burned away in the pure, physical truth of their joining. This was not for Eidolon, not for Takumi’ data, this was for her. The sounds she made were not for a simulation; they were gasps and moans torn from a place of real, unvarnished need. He moved within her, a perfect, primal rhythm, his whispers a hot counterpoint against her ear; her name, curses of pleasure, words in a language she didn’t know. She met him thrust for thrust, losing herself in the dizzying climb, in the way his body shuddered above her, in the raw, unfiltered connection.

When the climax broke over her, it was an exploding release, a muffled scream into the crook of his neck as her body convulsed around him. His own release followed moments after, a guttural groan muffled against her skin as he held her tightly, like he was trying to fuse them together.

For a long time, they lay tangled in the aftermath, the only sound their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. The cool air from the climate control raised goosebumps on her heated skin. Shoma shifted, not to pull away, but to gather her closer, pulling the rumpled sheet over them both. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder.

Rei closed her eyes, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against her back. In the quiet dark of his room, a world away from her gilded cage, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time: comfortable.

The first thing Rei registered was the rich, aromatic scent of coffee, cutting through the hazy warmth of sleep. She blinked her eyes open to find Shoma, already fully dressed in his sharp security detail suit, sitting on the edge of the bed. He held a steaming mug out to her. “Dawn patrol,” he declared, his voice a low, morning rumble, “I have to get going.”

Rei pushed herself up on her elbows slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand. The sheet pooled around her waist, the cool air a pleasant shock against her bare skin. “What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice thick. “6:25 am”, Shoma replied, his gaze exploring her, taking in her sleep-mussed hair, her heavy-lidded eyes, the way the sheet had slipped to reveal the soft, round curve of her breasts.

A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. He leaned down, his movements almost ceremonial. First, he pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, then his lips brushed the swell of one breast, a touch so fleeting and intimate it made her breath catch. Finally, he captured her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like coffee and regret.

He pulled away, his eyes resting on hers for a brief second. “I wish I had more time,” he breathed, the words a warm caress against her lips, “There’s never enough time.” He straightened, his professional demeanor snapping back into place like a shield, “There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom and a fresh towel on the rack. The front door is self-closing.” With a final, heated look, he turned and was gone.

Rei listened to the sound of the front door clicking shut, a blush warming her cheeks. She stretched, a long, languid movement that made her muscles sing with a pleasant ache. There was roughly two hours before her meeting with Takumi. Enough for a shower and to slip back into her penthouse to change.

She sipped the coffee, its bitterness a welcome jolt, as her eyes wandered around Shoma’s bedroom in the clear morning light. It was clean, orderly. The surprise of his interior design tastes and maturity lingered. Then she chuckled softly to herself; of course he was. He wasn’t a bouncer from the Den, he was a corporate security leader. Precision and control were his currency.

The bathroom confirmed his organized nature. Everything was exactly where he said it would be. A drawer was left slightly ajar, with a small, neat label that read ‘Guests’. Her curiosity piqued, she pulled it wide open. Inside was a treasure trove of high-end, travel-sized makeup, unopened soaps and luxury moisturizers. A wry smile touched her lips. It seemed Shoma’s lovers often came prepared, but rarely, it appeared, came back to collect their forgotten things. With a sense of cheeky triumph, she helped herself to the best serum and a touch of foundation that matched her skin tone perfectly, using the tools of his other conquests to prepare for her own day.

After showering and doing her make-up, she padded into the kitchen, placing the empty coffee mug in the pristine dishwasher. Her eyes fell on the fridge, adorned with a single magnetic pen holding up a notepad. The grocery list was sparse, with only one item written: Eggs.

On a whim, she peeked inside. The contents were spartan: neatly stacked containers of grilled chicken breast, bundles of broccoli, and an enormous, vibrant tub of kimchi. An athlete’s diet, strict and functional. It spoke of discipline, a side of him she’d only felt in the controlled power of his body. Closing the fridge, an impulse she couldn’t explain took hold. She plucked the magnetic pen from its spot. On the notepad, next to the Eggs, she drew a simple, clean heart. Inside it, with careful strokes, she wrote ‘Thursdays’.

Slowly she slid into her shoes, her mind drifted back to the guttural, foreign words he had whispered against her skin in the dark. She had been too lost in sensation to process them then. But now, paired with the kimchi in his fridge and the faint, remembered cadence of his voice, a new picture formed. Shoma was not Japanese, at least not only. The words, the food, it hinted at a Korean heritage she knew nothing about. The legendary playboy of Kuroda security suddenly seemed like a man of more layers than she had imagined.

As she let herself out, the click of the self-closing door echoed insistingly in the quiet hallway. Rei took a half-step, the borrowed confidence of the night still warming her, when a shift in the atmosphere made her freeze.

Leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression unreadable, was Cillian. A short gasp followed by a long, slow sigh escaped Rei. After the initial startle, she wasn’t as surprised as she wished she was. There was always someone watching her. Cillian pushed off the wall and walked toward her, his movements tight, controlled. The usual easy grace was replaced by a coiled tension. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes doing a quick, impersonal scan of her, the day-old dress, the dampness in her hair from the shower, the subtle, foreign scent of Shoma’s conquest’s soaps on her skin.

“Seems I was right to be worried about Shoma,” Cillian remarked, his voice attempting a lightness it couldn’t achieve, “His kiss must have left quite an impression.” It was dressed as a joke, a weak attempt, and it did nothing to mask the sharp edge of something that looked an awful lot like jealousy. Rei studied him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched. She decided to match his bluntness with her own, “Physical loneliness is a terrible bore, Cillian… and my favorite driver had turned frustratingly platonic.”

Cillian opened his mouth, a retort clearly on his tongue, but it died before it was born. He looked away, eyes focusing on the view down the sterile length of the corridor, a muscle ticking in his jaw. When he spoke again, his tone was weary, professional, “Takumi is expecting you. We should hurry.” Rei’s brows furrowed, “My schedule says I have an hour, I… I need to change.” She gestured to her dress, a silent testament to the night’s activities. Cillian’s gaze met hers again, and this time there was no humor, no masked emotion. It was flat, factual, “There’s no time and there’s no point. He knows everything, that’s why he wants to see you. Now.”

The words landed with the force of a physical blow. Rei swallowed, the taste of Shoma’s coffee turning acidic in her stomach. She gave a single, tight nod. They walked to the elevator in a silence that was heavier than any argument. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in a new kind of tension. Cillian stared straight ahead, somehow past their reflection in the polished brass, his posture ramrod straight. 

Eventually, he couldn’t contain it, the question burst out of him, low and bitter, “So? How was it?” Rei didn’t look at him. She watched the floor numbers begin their rise, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Cillian’s right foot was tapping an angry rhythm, “Did he live up to his reputation?”

The elevator hummed. For a long moment, she said nothing, letting the silence stretch, letting him stew in it. Then, she turned her head just enough to meet his reflected green eyes in the closed elevator door before them. “Yes,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, “He did.” Cillian flinched as if she’d struck him. He looked away, his jaw working, and said nothing for the rest of the ascent.