It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’sreal.His mouth crushes mine, full of need and reverence and restraint stretched to its last thread. I gasp into him, tangled in sensation—his hands anchoring my back, mine gripping his shoulders.
His claws never scratch. He holds them just shy of touch, always braced, always pulled back from danger. But I see it in his eyes—how badly he wants to give in.
“Garokk,” I breathe, pulling away just enough to see his face.
His pupils are blown wide. His chest heaves.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” I say.
And I mean it. God, I mean it with every fiber of me.
Because he looks at me like I’mhis, but not in a way that cages. In a way that claims andhonors. He could break me. But he won’t.
He’ll worship me.
I can’t breathe. Not in that panicked, drowning way—but like my lungs forgot how air works, how it’s supposed to feel going in and out. My body’s weightless even though I know we’re on artificial gravity, because he’s looking at me like I’m the only star left in the universe.
Garokk’s hands hover just above my skin like I’m sacred. His claws don’t even touch yet, but I feel him everywhere.
"Is this okay?" he rumbles, voice low and tight, like it’s dragging across gravel. Not because he’s unsure of himself—but because he's terrified of breaking me.
I nod. I can’t speak. Not yet.
The room is warm, for once. No flickering panels, no clanking vents, just the hum of life support and the slow rise and fall of our breaths. He found us this tiny, barely-lit crew suite buried deep in the Hulk’s underbelly—patched air filters, faded murals on the walls, a bed that still responds to touch with a wheezing sigh. It smells like old metal and ozone, but also like him—like salt, like embers, like something wild the galaxy never tamed.
I reach for the hem of my top. My fingers tremble. Not because I’m afraid, but because I’mnot. That’s the part that undoes me.
“I want this,” I whisper.
He still doesn’t move. His gold eyes flicker, uncertain. “You’re sure.”
“Yes.” I sit up just enough to brush my lips against his jaw. “I wantyou.”
He breathes in like that means something more than it should. Maybe it does.
Garokk moves slow, like each inch is a promise. He touches me like he’s cataloging everything—mapping my ribs, the inside of my wrists, the soft dip of my waist. I gasp when his claws graze the back of my thigh, not in pain but because it’shim. Because I trust those claws not to cut me. Because I trust him not tohurtme.
“You’re small,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against mine. “Soft.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to grin, “you’re huge and terrifying and way too warm.”
His chuckle is a low, reluctant rumble that vibrates in my chest. “You complain a lot.”
“You like it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just slides his hand under my back and pulls me closer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me through sheer contact.
The heat between us burns slow, like coals in a fire that’s been waiting for oxygen. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his pants—whatever rough cloth this ship has kept intact—and he growls low in his throat.
“You aremine,” he says, voice shaking. “Even if you walk away. Even if this ship falls into the sun. You will always be my jalshagar.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t even know if I want to say anything. So I kiss him instead.
It’s not soft.
It’shungry.
