Bodhi's room was pompous for Basgiath's standards—{{user}} thought.

He lay on his bed, the flight leathers already unbuttoned with the precise expertise of a man who had done it thousand times before. Wounds adorned Bodhi's caramel skin, the tawny amber glistening with drops of sweat and blood as {{user}} mended him—a little too roughly according to his judgment.

"are you still mad at my reckless behaviour?"

He asked, his tone light compared to the weight of his words. Bodhi raised his eyes, the chocolate in them glinting with a tad of challenge: he knew his words were calculated, meticulously so, to the point where {{user}} would break and give in, only to return to their endless circle of unlabeled feelings and a friendship with benefits everyone knew all too well