Page 103 of Ravaged By the Reaper
He kneels beside me on the cold metal deck, fingertips brushing along my ribs through damp fabric—making me forget every label but his.
Light from the porthole flickers against his jawline, bone-spur ridges casting sharp silhouettes. I lean in and kiss that line—first rough, then soft as I drift upward to his ear.
“Amara,” he breathes, voice low and full.
I press nearer, our breaths harmonizing with the station’s hum. I whisper against his throat, “Your breath used to scare me.”
He laughs, pitch trembling. “Used to?”
I nod. “Now… you’re home.”
A real, deep laugh. Then he lifts my chin with a single finger, his red eyes fierce yet tender. Desire isn’t war—it’s sedimented hope, bricks laid over broken battlegrounds.
I cup his face between my hands and kiss him slow until the world softens around us.
His hands begin gentle exploration, muscles rippling beneath my touch. There’s something sacred in this closeness—trust built on shared futures and salvaged peace.
He turns and finds a soft cloth in a nearby crate—slips it around my shoulders like protective armor.
“You feel safe,” he murmurs.
I trace his collarbones beneath it. “I can breathe.”
The red hallway lights dim, distant laughter from the crew fading into an echo behind sealed doors.
Lowering myself to his neck, I plant soft kisses along the line where metal fades into flesh. The seam of scar and augmentation is warm beneath my lips, pulsing faintly as though even the machine surrenders to me.
Haktron’s breath rattles against my hair. His claws twitch at my hips, holding steady but trembling with the restraint of a predator caging his own hunger.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, the words low and reverent, roughened by disbelief. “Not dream. Not shadow. Mine.”
I lift my head, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw. “And you’re mine,” I whisper back, steady and certain. “Not because fate says so. Because I choose it.”
His eyes flare at that—red embers blazing brighter, softened only for me. His chest rises beneath my palms, each inhale a thunderous vow.
“You have no idea,” he growls softly, “how long I’ve ached to hear that.”
“Then let me show you,” I murmur, sliding my hands down the planes of his body, tracing the scars he once wore likeweapons. He shudders beneath the touch, muscles straining, as if no battlefield ever wounded him like this gentleness does.
He cups the back of my neck, dragging me down into a kiss that tastes like fire and surrender. There’s no rush. No violence. Just the slow claiming of mouths, the collision of need with reverence.
We move together slow—urgent in our absence of urgency. Every shift of his hips, every glide of my body against his, is deliberate, unhurried, as if we’re memorizing one another.
“Amara,” he groans into my ear, the sound cracked open by longing. “You undo me. You break me apart?—”
I press a kiss to the scar running over his collarbone. “No,” I breathe, voice shaking with the weight of truth. “I’m putting you back together.”
His claws drag lightly across my skin, careful as scripture. “I don’t deserve this,” he says hoarsely.
“Then take it anyway,” I whisper, kissing him again, pouring every ounce of belonging into the press of lips and teeth. “Because I don’t deserve you either. And still—we’re here.”
The rhythm builds between us, not frantic but inevitable, like tides pulled by twin moons. His body surrounds me, fills me, claims me, but each thrust, each breath is tempered by a vow: not to consume, not to cage, but to belong.
We move together slow—urgent in our absence of urgency—woven with comfort and profound need. Each touch is a promise of belonging.
I trace a scar on his side—bare ribs once broken, now healed—and whisper against the ridges, “You carry me.”
His inhale catches—response more potent than any words.
