Page 8 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The moment she says it—mine—something primeval shifts inside me. There's a vibration, like a drum struck in the core of my skeleton, waking something older than logic. It pulses, drips with bone-fire, forging us into one violent promise.

I don’t think. Everything is instinct and heat.

My hands clamp around her wrists and lift—they’re light, delicate, but her gaze is fierce, molten with challenge.

I pin her arms above her head. My body swings down, a living cage of strength and bone spurs.

She’s small beneath me—silver hair, flushed cheeks, lips still parted from her whisper—but her eyes analyze me the way prey maps predators.

I lower my mouth, and the shuttle air explodes into heat and scent. Her breath tastes of copper and star-roses. I press my tongue harder, deeper, claiming more than lips—my teeth graze her lower lip. Violent devotion. I grind forward, deeper still, demanding.

She claws for control—her Companion training roaring to reclaim dominance. Her fingers dig into my chest—but I don’t relent. I growl low, a stuttering rumble in my throat. The very vibration of the word detonates between us: “Mine.”

Her eyes widen—not fear, not shock, but the thrill of conflict caught under flame. I shift—plating my weight more into steel and scorch. Her pulse drums beneath my fingers clutching her neck, iron-fisted and precise—not to choke, but to claim. To hear that drumbeat echo in my bones.

She shudders. Not resistance—surrender with fire in her veins.

I lean in, teeth pressing where skin is soft. My spurs chafe through cloth—but it's not pain she's tasting. It’s ownership. Respect. A raw, instinctive tie that doesn’t ask for consent—it bares it.

Her breath hitches; a whisper of sound against my jaw. Her hair scatters against my chest; the knot of sweat and blood tickles my skin.

In the sinus hot wash of her scent—annihilation, defiance, damnation—I know this is no courtship. This is war turning to worship.

I growl again, deeper.

She doesn’t look away. Her lips part; rain of whisper-dark desire sparking between us.

My fingers press harder—not to kill, but to anchor. So I never lose this moment.

So she knows: this isn’t about gentle screens or polite court; this is brutal, ancient, necessary.

It begins.

Claws rip through fabric—tear, scrape—jagged audros under claw-tips.

Clothing shreds and vanishes like ash in wind, discarded layers no longer fit for the moment.

Her skin shimmers in strobe-lit half-darkness—smooth, warm, fragile by mortal measure.

I could shatter her with a careless thought. But I don’t.

I am not careless.

Her breath quakes, but not from fear. It’s shock.

Desire. She arches into me, jaws parted, eyes glowing with stormfire.

I match her. Not with gentleness, but with intention, fierce reverence.

My hands cradle her hips like forged anchors, and she responds, pressing closer until our bodies align in bone-memory.

“Don’t hold back,” she pants, voice already wrecked with heat.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I growl, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Her pulse throbs beneath my tongue—ripe, lightning fast. I lick a trail from her collarbone to her jaw and catch the gasp that spills from her mouth.

“Then show me,” she dares, nails digging into my shoulders.

I shift inside her—slow, deliberate—letting our boundaries merge.

Her scent slams into me: jasmine and sweat, copper and surrender.

It's intoxicating. The shuttle hums and vibrates around us, but I don't feel it.

I'm tuned only to the sound of her moan, the pulse of her heart, the slick, delicious stretch around me.

She trembles. Not from pain. From sensation, raw and unfiltered. For a heartbeat I freeze in that moment—skin slick, rhythm aligned. She is tight, slick, all-consuming, and utterly mine. My mate. My match.

“Maker, you feel...” she gasps, the rest lost in a moan as her body clenches around me. “Stars…”

Every thrust is a promise, primal and unspoken, a vow spoken in muscle and breath. I don’t think. I devour every tremor. Her warmth surrounds me, a velvet prison that draws me deeper.

“—Haktron—” she breathes, voice ragged.

I grip tighter, not to dominate but to anchor myself. Her fire burns away restraint. I slide one clawed hand up her side, fingers splaying across her ribs. She shudders when I brush the underside of her breast, the peak already taut and begging for my mouth. I oblige.

Each heartbeat spells her name. Each tremor is a battle cry. She gasps and writhes beneath me, and I drink it in.

“You’re not afraid?” I rasp, lips slick from her skin.

“No,” she pants, hips meeting mine with raw hunger. “Not even close.”

I growl, the sound low, like magma grinding bone. “You should be.”

“Then make me,” she hisses—and I snap my hips.

The sound she gives me? That’s not submission. That’s surrender wrapped in challenge. And I accept.

Her legs lock around my waist, dragging me in deeper, harder. Her eyes lock with mine, wild and unblinking. She’s riding the edge, chasing something feral, and I’m going to give it to her.

“Maker, you’re…” she starts, but her voice breaks on a scream when I hit the spot that makes her whole body quake. Her fingernails leave trails down my back. I feel blood. It excites me.

She claws, bites, curses in three languages I don’t speak. I answer with thrusts that shake the shuttle’s frame. It’s not just sex. It’s claiming. It’s war.

“I’ll ruin you,” I growl against her throat.

“Then do it,” she snaps.

And I do.

When she breaks beneath me, trembling and soaked, she cries out my name like a battle hymn. I follow, a snarl ripped from my chest as my body locks tight with hers. We collapse together, panting, tangled, drenched in sweat and something older than need.

I cradle her. Not gently, but with purpose. A Reaper holds what he claims. And I’ve claimed her.

“I’m not done,” she whispers into my throat.

“Good,” I growl. “Neither am I.”

I shift her against the metal wall, her slick thighs gripping my waist like a vice.

My cock still pulses inside her, thick with heat and hunger.

Sparks cascade from the shorting overhead lights, the flicker painting her silver hair in flame and shadow.

Her pussy clenches again, and I snarl low against her throat. She’s insatiable—and mine.

Her fingers rake through my hair, anchoring me to her body, dragging me back into the fire we started. I don’t resist. I bare my teeth, licking the sweat from her neck, tasting the salt of exertion and desire.

“Haktron…” she breathes, more plea than command. Her breath feathers against my ear, her voice soaked in want.

I rear back enough to see her eyes—blue ice turned molten. Every time she looks at me like that, I remember what it means to be alive.

I grip her hips again, lifting her easily. Her back arches against the shuttle’s steel bulkhead, her pussy already wet and ready for me. I thrust deep, and we both cry out. The shuttle hums and shakes, but nothing could match the power of her body gripping mine, pulling me deeper, tighter.

“Fuck,” I hiss, jaw tightening as I bury myself to the hilt. “You take me like you were made for this.”

Her nails scrape bone and muscle. “Maybe I was.”

We move together in a rhythm born of survival and fury, a tempo that would tear lesser creatures apart.

Her body is a temple and a battlefield—sacred, violent, consuming.

My bone spurs scrape against the shuttle walls, leaving trails in the metal as I drive into her, over and over. Every thrust is an oath.

“Mine,” I growl, again and again, branding her with the word.

She breaks on me again, trembling, moaning, muscles clenching. Her orgasm rolls through her like a storm, dragging me with it. I hold her tight, feel her heartbeat crash against mine.

I slam into her one last time and let go, roaring her name as I spill into her, filling her, claiming her all over again.

She collapses against me, breathless and dazed. I press my forehead to hers. She’s radiant—wrecked and powerful and beautiful in ruin.

“I love you,” she whispers.

My chest clenches. I kiss her temple, voice raw. “I love you.”

No lies. No masks. Just truth.

In the still aftermath, I hold her tighter than ever before. The fire may return, the war may rage—but here, in this metal shell, with her breath warming my throat.

I follow her—a release built from unconstrained rage, need, possessiveness. My breath trashes. My hips move one final time—not for her, but for us. The world shatters into white heat and then collapses into quiet. All I feel is the echo of her release, mirrored in the quake deep in my core.

When we collapse, it’s not falling. It’s melting.

I bury my face in her hair—tangles of silver, sweat, human warmth—and I breathe her in. Her heartbeat drums against my chest, still fierce, still wild. I cradle her close. My spurs dig gently—reverently—into ribs that still shudder. I taste her mouth again, soft, salt-sweet, quiet now.

She whispers into the tangle of my hair, voice ragged: “I didn’t argue.”

I press a kiss into her temple, teeth grazing soft skin. “Good girl,” I murmur, voice thick with something like awe.

No need for words. In the oppressive hum of the shuttle’s engines, in our ragged breathing, in the aftermath of what we just wrought, everything is said.

I hold her—for longer than I’ve held anything that mattered in my entire life. The world outside is still collapsing. Systems are failing. But right here, in this small space wrapped in sweat and blood and fierce claim, time is carved out for us.

She sighs, soft and close. The shame of Companion training, of years sculpted to control and discipline, drips through me—washed away by the pulse of raw chaos we just shared.

I whisper again, soft but trembling: “I am yours,” even though I already said it.

She doesn't respond with words. Her body relaxes into mine, breath even. The trembling slows. The storm abates.

Together, we’re bruised. Scarred. Bonded. Not by vows or contracts—but by violence and blood and breath.

The shuttle shudders again, a reminder that nothing’s done. The battle outside is not over. Duty awaits. But for now... for this one moment, we are carved in flame.