Page 13 of Beast in the Badlands
RENN
I squint at the jumble of wires and parts sprawled across the med bay table, my fingers deftly connecting circuits. The transmitter hums to life for a brief moment, a soft glow pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. Hope surges through me, but it flickers out as quickly as it arrived—no signal.
“Damn it.’ Frustration claws at my gut.
I push away from the table, pain lancing through my legs with each hesitant step. Emry would lose her mind if she saw me on my feet. Good. I’d like to see her try to tell me what to do now.
I lean against the wall for support, the cracked plaster rough against my skin. Each movement sends fire shooting up from my thighs, a constant reminder of how vulnerable I am here—how useless. But I won’t sit still like some discarded tool.
Wandering through the building, I take stock of this space that feels both foreign and strangely familiar.
Emry’s touch softens the harsh edges of this ruin; she’s marked it with remnants of her presence.
Notes taped haphazardly to walls, sketches scribbled in haste—her attempts to create something that resembles order among chaos.
My gaze drifts across makeshift comforts: a frayed blanket draped over a chair, small potted plants sprouting defiantly in corners where light manages to seep through shattered windows. She’s made this place feel less like a graveyard and more like… home.
Home? The thought catches me off guard, an unwelcome warmth creeping into my chest. Anger simmers beneath the surface as I stomp down the corridor, barely able to contain it—the bitterness curling like smoke in my mind since she walked out without so much as a backward glance.
In one of the quieter, dimly lit rooms, something unexpectedly catches my eye—a scarf draped languidly over an old, battered chair, like a forgotten promise left behind in the ruins of this once-bustling facility.
The fabric is thin yet surprisingly colorful, a kaleidoscope of vibrant threads intricately woven together in patterns that dance and swirl, reminiscent of stars caught in the endless expanse of black skies.
I find myself drawn to it, my hand reaching out almost of its own accord, as if it has a magnetic pull that I cannot resist.
Before I fully grasp what I’m doing, the scarf is in my hands, its texture soft against my calloused fingers.
I breathe deeply, almost instinctively, without thinking—her scent envelops me like an embrace, a heady combination of sweetness mingling with something wild and fierce that is unmistakably Emry.
It stirs something low within me, igniting a heat that pools dangerously deep in my core, an unsettling feeling that intertwines with the raw, unyielding anger I’ve been trying to suppress.
What the hell is wrong with me? I question myself, grappling with the confusion swirling in my mind. This isn’t about her warmth or softness—it shouldn’t be. I’m a soldier, a Reaper, forged in the fires of war; emotions should be a luxury I can’t afford.
And yet, here I am, a prisoner of my own desires, caught in a web I can’t seem to untangle, teetering on the edge of something far more complicated than mere survival.
The scarf's fabric slides between my fingers like promises I can’t keep. Her scent sticks to my throat, cloying and sweet. Pathetic. My cock thickens anyway, straining against the leathers I’ve barely managed to unstrap.
I collapse into the chair she once occupied. Metal groans under the violence of my weight.
One hand wraps around my shaft—all that Reaper hunger hardening in my fist. The other presses the scarf to my face.
Visions ambush me: that sharp mouth of hers twisted in defiance as I pin her against the wall.
Her legs kicking uselessly while I split her open on my length.
Squeezing that bruised peach of an ass until her curses turn to gasps.
“Fuck,” I grind out, thumb spread wide over my leaking head.
The rhythm of my own hand is relentless, each stroke a lash against my sanity.
It's as if every tug, every twist of my wrist, is a blade carving into my flesh, a sweet agony that borders on the exquisite.
I tilt my head back, my eyes closing against the onslaught of visions that flood my mind's eye.
A snarl rips from my throat, raw and feral.
She should be here, Emry, with her defiant gaze and her spirit that refuses to bow. Kneeling between my thighs, her lips would be a slick, crimson ring around my girth, her breath hot and desperate against my skin.
My hips betray me, bucking up into my fist with a mind of their own. Precome streaks silver down my knuckles, a testament to the fervor of my fantasy. I am not gentle, have never been gentle. Such tenderness is for dead men and poets, not for a Reaper like me.
I yank at myself with brutal force, imagining Emry's throat constricting around me, the way her eyes would water with the effort to accommodate my girth.
I can almost hear the wet rasp of her breath, feel the sting of her nails as she scrapes blood into my wrists in a silent vow of her own defiance.
The air in the abandoned med bay grows thick with the scent of my arousal, mingling with the ever-present aroma of decay and antiseptic.
It's a primal symphony, a testament to the life that still thrums through my veins despite the desolation that surrounds us.
I am a creature of war and ruin, yet in this moment, I am undone by the phantom touch of a human who has seen the darkness of the universe and yet refuses to surrender to it.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a battle cry against the emptiness that threatens to consume me. The chair beneath me creaks and groans, protesting the violence of my release.
“Insolent,” I mutter, arching. The chair’s legs screech against the floor. Her blood’s iron on my tongue. Her scream a hymn. Faster. Filthier. Light fractures across the cracked ceiling.
When it hits, my roar shakes dust from the walls. I shake through it—back bowed like a snapped spine, tendons raw wire. Her scarf still smothering my mouth.
Breaths jagged. Body a wreck.
"Fuck…"
I slump sideways, gaze fixed on the door. She’ll smell this, some primal part of me hisses. Take it as a gift. A threat. I ache to drag her in here and prove whose scent will linger.
But for now, I wipe my hand clean on the scarf and wait.