His mouth devours mine, and I taste stardust and steel and that quiet desperation he never lets anyone else see. My nails rake down his back. His claws scrape against the wall when hebraces one arm beside my head, the other hand gripping my hip with trembling restraint.
“I won’t break,” I say against his mouth.
“I know,” he mutters. “But I might.”
And then his cock invades my hungry, dripping wet pussy. This is it. After so much longing and yearning, he’s finallyinside me.
I cry out—sharp, unfiltered, not because of pain, but because it’s too much. All of it. The tension, the longing, the weeks of running and bleeding and almost dying. The fear I’ve shoved into a corner for too long.
His huge, claw like hand grasps my throat--not enough to choke me, but enough that I can feel his strength. He pins me beneath him as my hips buck and roll like the sea at storm. His cock is just perfect inside of me.
We find a rhythm—not gentle, not rough, butright. Like music. Like poetry. Like war and peace colliding in the space between heartbeats.
I arch under him, gasping, hands tangling in the rough ridges of his scales. He holds me like I’m precious. Kisses me like I’m air.
At some point, I forget how words work. I only know sound. His growls. My moans. The low rasp of skin on skin and the creak of a bed that hasn’t seen this kind of use in decades.
Time breaks.
Space folds.
We fall into each other, again and again, until the edge shatters and I scream his name like it’s the only word that ever mattered.
He follows—roaring into the crook of my neck, trembling with the force of it—and I feel him lock around me like he never wants to let go.
We stay tangled, gasping.
He lowers us to the bed like he’s setting down treasure. His heartbeat hammers against mine. His breath fans over my face in hot, shaking waves.
I press my forehead to his. “That was... wow.”
His eyes are closed. “You are dangerous.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m aware.”
His hand brushes my cheek. There’s something in his gaze I haven’t seen before. Not worship. Not hunger.
Hope.
He pulls me into the curve of his body, one arm draped over my waist like a barrier against the galaxy. I nestle there, fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm.
There are no words now.
No stream. No chat counters. No filters or lighting cues. Just me.
Just him.
And for the first time in a long, long time—I don’t want to be anywhere else.
The war, the ship, my whole glittering, carefully constructed life—it all fades. Distant echoes in a dream that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Maybe… maybethisis the story I was supposed to tell.
Maybe I’ve found it.
Then Reflector buzzes.
Not softly. Not like a sleepy afterglow interruption.
