Page 48 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“I don’t know the words,” I rasp, voice ragged in expectation. “I’ve never moved like this before.”
My claws uncurl, fingers open. “I’ve never wanted more than your body—in raids, in fight. But I do. I want you—all of you.”
My chest heaves—hot animal breath collides with her space. Sparks of fear and need ignite between us.
“My instinct was claim. But that’s not enough.”
She looks away. Shadow sliding across cheekbone.
My world is steel. Predictable danger. But she—she’s unpredictable gravity that shifts courage from bones I didn’t know would yield.
“I’ll learn,” I say. “If you let me.”
Because kneeling isn’t surrender. It’s pledge.
Outside, Gamma hums its quiet watch under midnight lights. Inside, the moment strains between pledge… and breathing.
Then she steps forward—eyes flooded with sudden need. Not submission. Recognition.
My throat tightens. Fear hums in calibrated muscle.
But beneath that is fulfillment.
Because she made me kneel. Not conquered. Invited.
And something ancient and human blooms.
The viewport hovers behind us—anunblinking eye to this subtle conspiracy of skin and stars. Outside, space drifts in infinite darkness, but behind us, the cabin glows with something warmer.
She moves above me, weightless as dawn spilling through a fracture in the cosmos. Every move is deliberate, charging the zero-G air with intimacy. Her fingers trace across my chest—across jagged bone spurs and violet-spattered scars, each mark a violent tale, now softened by her touch. These aren’t wounds any more—just maps she’s learning to read.
The cabin hums—metallic, soft, constant—like the heartbeat of a living ship. The scent of scorched circuits and sweat lingers in the air, but it’s eclipsed by her: jasmine, trust, the hush of something ancient stirring.
When her lips map the ridges of my bone spurs, it’s with awe, not hunger. She kisses the spines of my armor like sacred scripture, breath rattling in hushed exhalations across cold bone.
I shiver. From awe. From being seen entirely—not as beast, but as someone capable of tenderness. That’s a vulnerability I wasn’t built to bear… but she wants it. And to be wanted this way—subdues the roughest battle inside me.
She strips me slowly, reverently. Fabric drifts in arcs through the air, floating like memory. Her eyes stay focused, compassionate—no cold assessment, no performance. She doesn’t seek conquest or service. She seeks connection.
With each layer that’s shed, I feel simultaneously lighter—and completely exposed. Vulnerability becomes a muscle I’m learning to flex, and I respond—not out of obligation, but because she beckons me with trust.
Then she folds into me—weightless flesh meeting hardened bone. The tremor I release isn’t weakness—it’s belonging. A quake of surrender that rises soft and molten, escaping me in quiet moans against the hum of the alloy walls.
She whispers, “Slow.”
Not command. Not seduction. A soft imperative rooted in feeling.
I obey.
Every motion is intentional communion. Her heartbeat, pressed against mine, pulses into me—two rhythms in beautiful, trembling harmony.
She drifts, lips tracing the collar of my neck, where bone meets skin, and the taste of metal and confession blooms on her tongue.
I moan—not from exertion or want—but from release. Release of war, of pretense, of fractured pride. Release into being seen.
We move like wind through a cathedral—gentle, weightless. The station hums, oceans of stars slide by outside, bearing silent witness.
She leads. I follow.
