Page 102 of Ravaged By the Reaper

I finish the melody, and the crew roars.

He strides to me. Picks me up with arms that held me when I had no hope. Spins me once—our chains clinking. He sets me back on my feet.

He bellows through the roar:

“She is mine!”

The ship echoes.

I look at him—blood-slicked deck between us, the chain golden in torchlight, hair stained with ember sweat.

I lean forward, kiss him—fierce, claiming, holy.

The crowd continues to cheer. I taste salt, embers, triumph.

We stand in that blaze—two souls forged through fire, lyric and weapon, bound by choice, liberated by love.

The galaxy is far away—obscured by firelight, music, and the thrum of our hearts.

Here, we are home.

The cheers fade around us,replaced by the steady hum of the Widowmaker’s hull and our ragged breathing. Torchlight pools around us, painting us gold and shadow. Chains tinkle softly as our bodies press close, still bound to each other, still breathless.

I press my forehead to his chest—warm, scarred, honest.

He wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close. His breath is steady. Mine flickers with the residue of combat, of music, of vow.

Everything about this moment could be a war strategy. A conquest. A display.

But here—now—it’s something else.

It’s us.

His lips brush my hairline. “That was something.”

His voice is rough, quiet like gravestone wind.

I smile into the hollow of his armor. “We made something beautiful.”

My fingers tangle through his hair. The faint electric hum of his breath steadies me. I can feel the certainty in his heartbeat, low and sure.

“Let me untangle this,” he whispers, leaning in.

One by one, I undo the chains, each link slipping from my throat. Then his. The metal drops to the floor with soft clinks that echo.

Unclad of armor, his skin is pale beneath the burn of scar lines and sweat. I brush my fingertips along the faint curve of one—my fingertips tracing his history, his survival.

He films me with a lopsided grin. “I don’t think any of this made me weaker.”

I reach for the black fabric of his uniform, and in that moment I’m suspended between war memories and raw desire. His gear—the Reaper metal, the hard lines splintered by battle—no longer define him. Tonight, I only want him.

I press my palm to the steel of his chest plate. The armor hums with static life, but beneath it—under the faint shadows of healed wounds—I find softness. My fingers trace the burn-scar trail winding from muscle to bone.

He draws a slow, ragged breath.

I don’t let go.

We shed armor and clothes piece by deliberate piece, until bare skin and scars remain. I see the architectural strength beneath: scars and muscle wrapped in vestiges of life—tired, relentless, beautiful.