She is born game. He reminds her. She carries a rabbit in its burrow where a heart should quiver. A soft machine, ligaments and muscle spasms, all the red programming of a mind that presses against the seams in her skull. This body of hers is an exercise in flexibility. Even her ribs do not insist upon themselves when his weight crushes her into the wall.
No one can tell her she didn't try. Her feet pounded the street as she rushed for safety. Her legs screamed like speared animals as she skidded around corners, tried to lose him in the mangled guts of the city, in the filth that accumulates at the bottom. Every glance back was another second lost, every moment's hesitation another yank of the chain. It was so easy to fall into this prey state, a trance so suffused with clarity that she forgot herself. Flight was her sole life's purpose. Escape. And she knew in the genesis of every instinct that drove her, that she was right to run.
He was on her heels the whole time, herding her this way and that. It was a game to him while her pulmonary artery threatened to burst. His talons barely made a sound when he struck the ground, when he shapeshifted into something alien and terrible, breathing down her neck. His deep-set eyes burned holes into her nape, into every soft exposed spot. He is to her that predator that's gone extinct before her fear of it could die. Whatever shape it had, with its bony exoskeleton, its rows of teeth, its mandibles and sickle-curved fingers, it could not have looked at her the way Nihlus looked at her when he pinned her.
Feeble protests melt into the damp air. His tongue is sharp when it stabs into her mouth, scrapes against her dull human teeth, chokes the breath from her. A shove, a push. The Spectre slams her against the alley wall; her small, defenseless body that was designed to be devoured by something like him. He could snap her like a twig. He could be that horrific thing, lapping up her marrow, sucking blood from her broken throat. Instead, his hand cradles the back of her skull and cushions the blow.
All the same, with how he sets her mind to spinning. Artificial fear melts into real hunger, a red-hot glow that turns her cunt into a furnace. She grasps at his collar with the grace of a shipwreck survivor as she goes under, as he buries her, and all that remains is the soft rush of hot air that explodes from her abused mouth. He all but slices her loose, yanks the zipper down that hides her heated climate. It gets her high, methamphetamines straight to the vein, that he wants her. That he wants her to the point of criminality. It didn't use to be this way. She remembers. But only dimly, because now Nihlus is bruising her hips like peach flesh. Ripping her up, ripping her open. And he makes that noise again, a harsh, engine-thick rumbling. Crossbred between a purr and a snarl. It raises the hairs on her arms, electrifies her down to the nerve ends.
"Careful," she licks her plea into the space between his needle-point teeth. Slick heat unfurls against her crotch, pierces upward, heavy and thick. Her voice breaks off into a high-pitched squeak of surprise. He turns her brain into a mire, a lewd and humid place, muddy with lust. She can only think in four letters or less. She thinks hot. She thinks cock. She thinks fuck me raw. 'Careful' has too many syllables.
@spectrien : Nihlus says: β Does he fuck you like this? β
Her toes curl in her work boots as she chafes her tits raw against his chest plating. His body folds over hers, clamps her down as he seats her on the crown of his hips. His cock slides into her with little effort, and luckily he is too impatient not to force his way where their anatomies clash. All Miriam can do is cling on and grow slicker for him, her whole soft body flushing pink against his dark red skin.
His words ring through her like a siren blast; red blaring alarm resulting in a full body flinch that he can feel down to his root. His voice is a grating hoarse groan, metallic where the translator fails her. It drives through her prefrontal cortex and disintegrates all else. Images, conjured to the forefront of her mind, erupt right next to need. Images that pale, that fade, that can't compare.
If he asked Miriam her lover's name right now, she could only have told him his own.
"No," she rasps, a whimper, fluttering skyward. "No, never. Only you, pleaseβ Nihlus." Everything is ache and rake and bloom. Everything is hiss and snarl and his hips snapping with erratic fervor. It never occurred to her that someone might hear them; her prey animal squeaks and his crocodilian droning. He fucks all domestication out of her. His feral rutting will leave her bleeding, covered in cuts and bruises. And she will press her fingers into each wound for days to come, remembering the weight of him.
