Page 14 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

Islouch in the engine room, framed by hissing plasma conduits and the raw scent of scorched alloy.

Fingers inked with soot trace the edge of Bloodfont—my scythe—claws calling metal like old ritual.

Sparks hiss each time stone-sharp teeth glide along the blade. The echoes clatter, industrial lullaby.

No one told me “no” before.

Never.

In the raids, commands, fights—they all bent to me like metal in my claws. Even fear kneels before me.

That refusal of hers stung worse than any blow. Not rejection. It was a challenge. Something that bruises but pulls at every sinew.

She doesn’t want to be owned.

She wants to be chosen.

The engine hum drones under my skin. I breathe in the torsional scent—oil, ozone, lingering heat. I taste it. Base, strong, elemental. It grounds me as I scrape away the last burr from Bloodfont’s edge.

I replay her words: "I’m not your prize… but a partner." The memory tightens in my chest—tiny firebird nestling bones.

I glance at the shimmering blade. Heir of war and blood. And wonder—how do you choose someone like her?

A voice crackles in my comm—Panaka. “Reaper—status?”

“Brooding,” I reply. Laugh tastes heavy.

He chuckles. “We will meet the ship closer in two days. Don’t murder too loudly.”

I snap the compad dead. Silence folds darker than any night.

I stand slowly, circling the shaft room. My armor throbs against plasma coils. The station’s hum buzzes faint overhead. I can feel my claws trembling—something between hunger and need.

Outside, the floor panels clink as boots move. I want to stalk her, catch her voice in soft. Listen. Understand.

She shies from submission—even to me. Not fragile. Fierce. I’ve broken steel, shattered shields—but never faced this fire: defiance—not born from fear, but from self-worth.

I sheath Bloodfont, heavy and sacred. My bones growl with… pride? Uneasy revelation.

I navigate corridors, following the hiss of vent air. I find her in the lounge—quiet, face turned to Earth-viewports. The starlight paints her silver hair.

She senses me before I speak. When she turns, guard rises in his eyes—something wild and proud.

“I’m not taking you,” I say low, voice rough as thunder. “I’m choosing you.”

She studies me. I can’t read her face. Not yet. But the tension trembles in the air.

“I don’t want pats on the head,” I growl. “I want... to earn you.”

She breathes out, weight shifting. “You don’t have to—just… start.”

Her words are small, like embers.

We stand, starbase hum pressing us.

And I realize, I’m ready to learn.

Now.

Steam lifts from the cooling lines. Sparks rattle in my palm as I sharpen Bloodfont in the engine room—each metal rasp a savage hymn.

Oil and spent fuel oil mix into the air, thick and clinging, and every inhale tastes of war and machine empathy.

My fingers are bruised but precise, forging edge and temper as I drive deep into gunmetal blues.

Never told no.

Not to clients, not to captives, never to a battlefield that bent under my claws. Authority has always been my bone and spine.

But Amara, her refusal wasn’t recoil. It was calibrated, like a blade spun by intent.

That truth rips deeper than any scar. A cut I didn’t ask for, but can’t ignore.

She refuses ownership. She wants to be chosen. Delicious chaos. I taste the terror of that, curiosity coiling in marrow.

The station’s hum thrums through my metal floor panel—cold, invisible vines of gravity.

I sheath Bloodfont, exhaling carbon-black breath. There’s no armor deep enough for the ransom her words demand.

I surge up the maintenance ladder. Sweat-slick skin against humming conduits. I want to understand that choice. To earn it.

We find her in the reading alcove—darkened, and still. The glow of holodiscs spills across her features. Her eyes trace words in some language, curiosity anchored to decay.

Light whispers across bone spurs. She looks up, startled—unsure—but doesn’t retreat.

I step in, the air thick with metal-lips and distant engines.

“I don’t know—” No. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants honesty.

I kneel. That’s new. Terrifying. Even the floor drops to cold panel beneath my knees. I kneel like offering—not submission, but truth.

She stills, thin line of tenderness flickering on features carved by prophecy.

“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—an unblinking 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.

There’s no lightning strike. No clash. Just slow, reverent alignment.

In her touch, pride melts into tenderness. I’ve never been touched like this—not with such reverence.

Her fingers find my throat.

“Not claim,” she murmurs. “Choice.”

The word settles in me, solid and true. I don’t say anything but yes—with every shuddering breath.

When we crest, it’s not obliteration. It is balance—symmetric, fierce, binding. Release blooms inside me, coraling around bone and blood and breath until I’m undone.

We lay back together, light and gasping—our forms entwined in orbit around our own afterglow. My arms cradle her; she presses in, fingertips trailing sparks up my neck.

She breathes, “I choose you.”

I let the station’s heartbeat echo our own gentle tremor. The world outside continues its ceaseless churn, systems whirring and lights flickering. But inside this quiet sanctuary, I don’t want power. I don’t want control.

I just want to hold.

Because when a Reaper is chosen—not taken—that is everything.