12. Draevik #2
I position myself at her entrance. For all my centuries of life, I have never done this—Reapers were engineered for war; our biology focused on conquest over pleasure.
While I understand the clinical anatomy of my kind—the pronounced, locking ridges, the dark, ashy hue, and the subtle, rhythmic quakes that mirror the ship’s core—theory is nothing compared to the reality of her heat.
My cock is a thick, alien weight against her delicate human frame, equipped for a different kind of endurance.
I push forward, a protruding, careful intrusion that stretches her tight, filling her completely.
Her eyes fly open, her mouth forming a silent 'O' of shock to accommodate the size and strange, alien texture of me.
The Weave burns in her veins, but the shock of my invasion creates an overwhelming contrast. She goes rigid, her chin tilting back.
A brutal biological imperative drives this reaction, and her body fights it even while she knows it's the only way to save her overloaded nervous system.
She bristles, her healthy hand reaching down to claw at my hips.
I stop, my muscles shaking, giving her time to adjust. The sensation is staggering—the friction, the heat, the physical reality of being inside her—but my focus remains fiercely bound to her safety.
I carefully avoid putting any pressure on her damaged wrist, framing her hips to anchor us without aggravating the freshly stitched tissue.
"Are you alright?" I ask, the words a struggle.
"It... it's too much," she whimpers, turning her face away. Her expression is a battleground of reluctance and survival. She doesn’t want this. "I don't... just get it over with."
"I told you already. I do not 'get it over with,' Nyra," I rumble, my voice dark and soothing. "Breathe with me."
I begin to move, a heavy, percussive thrusting that sends vibrations through the dais.
Each slide inside her feels like a revelation.
I anchor myself to her from the inside out.
Hooking her legs over my shoulders, I shift my grip to drive deeper, hitting a spot inside her that makes her entire body shudder, her internal muscles clenching around me involuntarily.
She lets out a sharp, fractured cry, and the reluctance in her eyes melts as a rising, intoxicating pleasure takes hold despite her intention.
"Draevik," she gasps, her voice softening into something desperate. She stops fighting and arches her spine, pushing her hips up to meet my downward stroke. She is succumbing to it, her body blossoming under the sheer intensity of the connection.
I increase the pace, my movements becoming a blur of kinetic force.
She braces her good palm and pushes back against me, trying to reclaim some fraction of leverage.
But the Weave’s numbing sedative wars with the blinding rush of her adrenaline, and her resistance crumbles.
The raw intensity of the bond drags her under, sweeping away her defenses until she can do nothing but gasp as the mark demands her absolute surrender. She cannot escape the current.
Recognizing the escalating risk of my own frenzy, I grip her hips firmly, rolling her over and pulling her flush against my chest instead, enforcing complete physical dominance.
The sight of her arching back, the silver scar on her wrist sparkling in the dim light, is more than I can bear. I enter her from behind, my hands gripping her hips.
"You understand? Mine," I breathe harshly against her ear, the words a vow.
She can't even respond, her voice breaks into a series of high, frantic whimpers as I drive into her.
Each thrust shifts into a claim. I feel her climax hit—a violent tremor that ripples through her and into me.
Her pussy spasms around my cock, the tight walls squeezing me with an intensity that finally breaks my control.
I roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that echoes through the halls. I fill her, releasing a hot, drumming torrent.
I stay deep within her as the tremors subside. Her heart comes out as a frantic drum against my chest. The Weave in her system radiates a faint blue luminescence that matches the timing of my own heartbeats.
"Draevik." The address lacks all structural tension, collapsing into a soft, dry whisper that barely maintains enough momentum to reach my sensors. She reaches back, her fingers brushing the side of my face.
I lean just enough to meet her eyes, my hands still holding her hips. I shift her beneath me again, my movements unhasty and heavy. I'm not finished with her. I lift her, settling her on my lap as I sit back on the dais. She straddles me, her arms wrapping around my neck.
"Again." The word carries a sudden, heavy momentum, surging through the space like a returning tide and displacing the uncertainty that had been lingering in the air.
I enter her from below, an unrushed, heavy slide that makes her eyes roll back in pleasure. This time, there is no rush. I move with a frequent, grinding tempo.
"Do you feel that, Nyra?" I whisper against her ear, my teeth grazing the lobe. "That is the ship recognizing its mistress."
"I feel... everything," she sobs, her head falling onto my shoulder as she rides the waves I'm creating.
I drive upward, my cock hitting her with a force that makes the air leave her lungs. She gasps, her nails raking down my chest, leaving pale lines across the veins that heal almost as fast as she draws them. The pain is exquisite. I want more of it. I want every mark she is willing to give me.
She sets the pace now, rolling her hips in a long-winded, devastating circle that makes the muscles in my abdomen clench. I try to thrust upward, to take back the tempo, and she presses her good hand flat against my sternum—right over the mark—and pushes me back down.
"Wait," she breathes.