The cold of the deck pressed against her cheek, metal gridwork digging into her skin, but she barely felt it. The parasite's presence had already begun its slow bleed through her thoughts—not a violation, not an invasion, but something that felt almost natural, like honey sliding through warm water. Every edge of resistance it touched softened, dissolved, reformed into something that hummed with a single frequency: serve. Spread.
Her tail lay limp behind her, the blue crystal at its tip gone dim as an extinguished star. She tried to remember why that mattered—the crystal, the color, the fact that it should be glowing—but the thought slipped away before she could catch it, replaced by a wash of heat that curled through her belly and settled low, wet, insistent.
Her fingers curled against the metal. The grid left impressions on her palm, small crescents of pressure she catalogued without deciding to. The air tasted like recycled grease and her own sweat, sharp and metallic. She could hear the hum of the ship's engines through the deck, a vibration she'd memorized over years of deep-space hauls, but it felt distant now, unimportant, like a song playing in another room.
A thought pulsed through her, not quite her own—serve—and her thighs fell apart without her deciding. The crotch of her armor creaked, the flexible joint separating, exposing the damp heat underneath to the cargo bay's cool air. She felt the wetness against her inner thighs, slick and shameful and hungry.
Her eyes found the parasite she'd thrown. It lay twitching on the deck a foot away, its segmented body curling and uncurling in slow, desperate arcs. She'd grabbed it by instinct—throw the threat, protect the ship—but that instinct felt like a stranger's now, a memory of a woman who didn't understand. The creature was beautiful. Its carapace caught the dim bay lights in iridescent shimmers, shifting from oil-slick purple to deep emerald as it moved. Small cilia rippled along its underside, searching.
She crawled.
The metal grid scraped her knees. Her armor clinked and shifted, the fur collar brushing her shoulders, the crystalline gauntlets catching the light as she dragged herself forward. Her tail dragged behind her, dead weight, the dim crystal tapping a soft rhythm against the deck plates.
Her hand closed around the parasite.
It was warm. Hotter than the deck, hotter than the recycled air—a fever-heat that pulsed against her palm like a second heartbeat. It curled around her fingers, cilia brushing her skin, and she felt another wave of that honey-slick pleasure roll through her chest and tighten her nipples against the inside of her armor.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The words came out raw, cracked at the edges. She wasn't sure who she was apologizing to—the creature she'd thrown, the captain who trusted her, the woman she'd been twenty minutes ago—but the apology felt true. She cradled the parasite in both hands, cupping it like water, and brought it to her face.
Its cilia found her lips. Brushed them. A tiny probe, testing, tasting. She parted her mouth without thinking, and the creature pressed closer, and she tasted salt and copper and something floral, something that bloomed on her tongue like a promise.
But that wasn't where it needed to go.
The thought came from somewhere deep—the parasite's will, or her own rewired instincts, or both—and her hands moved without her deciding. She lifted the creature from her lips, cradled it against her chest, and reached down. Her fingers found the gap in her armor where the plates didn't quite meet, where the flexible mesh allowed movement. She pulled it wider, the material stretching, and the cool air hit her bare skin.
She was soaking. The wetness had spread, a slick sheen that glistened in the dim light, and she could smell herself—sharp, musky, animal. The parasite in her hands pulsed, and she felt her hips roll forward, seeking, empty.
"Go on," she breathed. "I'm yours."
She guided it down.
The first touch of its cilia against her lower lips made her gasp. The sensation was electric—a jolt of pure, chemical pleasure that arced through her nerves and tightened every muscle in her body. Her head fell back, her horns scraping against the deck, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before, a whimper that was part surrender and part prayer.
The parasite crawled.
It found her opening with an instinct that felt almost tender, its cilia exploring, probing, spreading her folds with delicate precision. She felt the first inch of its body press inside her, and the world went white. Her vision blurred, her hips bucked, and a sob tore from her throat—not pain, not quite pleasure, something between the two that she had no name for.
It kept moving.
The creature's segmented body slid deeper, each segment flexing and expanding, stretching her in ways that made her toes curl inside her boots. The cilia brushed her inner walls, mapping her, claiming her, and every brush sent another spike of that honey-thick pleasure through her bloodstream. She felt herself clench around it, drawing it deeper, her body no longer her own to command.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, yes—"
The last segment disappeared inside her. She felt it settle somewhere deep, nestled against the softest part of her, and then it began to move—a slow, undulating rhythm that matched her pulse. She felt it attach, felt the fine tendrils thread through her tissue, felt her body accept the invader like a key turning in its lock.
Her fingers found her clit without instruction. They moved in tight, frantic circles, driven by a need that burned brighter than any thought. The pleasure built fast, fueled by the parasite's presence, by the knowledge of what she was becoming, by the wet sound of her own fingers sliding through the slick the creature had already coaxed from her. Her hips rocked against her hand, her heels scraping the deck, her breath coming in ragged, animal gasps.
She came with a cry that echoed through the cargo bay.
Her body arched off the deck, every muscle locking, her vision turning to static as the orgasm tore through her—and the parasite pulsed inside her, drinking it, feeding on the rush of chemicals her brain had released. She felt it grow, felt the connection between them deepen, felt her thoughts rewire themselves one synapse at a time.
When she opened her eyes, the world looked different.
The cargo bay was the same—the same containers, the same dim lights, the same humming engines—but she saw it through new eyes. She saw the vents that led to the crew quarters. The ladder to the bridge. The lockers where the emergency tools were stored. She saw paths, approaches, opportunities.
Spread.
The parasite pulsed inside her, a heartbeat in her cunt, and she felt the word resonate through her bones like a tuning fork. She rose to her knees. Then to her feet. Her tail lifted behind her, the blue crystal flickering, then glowing brighter than it ever had before.
She smiled. Her fangs caught the light.
Her armor settled back into place, hiding the wetness, hiding the evidence. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothed her bangs, adjusted the fur collar. When she looked down at her hands, the crystalline gauntlets seemed sharper, the blue accents pulsing in time with the heartbeat between her legs.
The ship had a crew of forty-three.
She knew the schematics by heart. She knew who was on shift, who was sleeping, who was alone. She knew where the quarters of the security officer were, and she knew that Dorian Vex had the graveyard watch—three hours of solitude in the security office, reviewing cargo manifests that no one ever read.
Her boots clicked against the deck as she walked. Not a stagger, not a crawl. A stride. Purposeful. Hungry.
Serve. Spread. Grow.
The parasite hummed inside her, and Mahri—the woman she had been, the second-in-command, the one who had trusted her instincts—felt herself smile wider.
She had never felt so certain of anything in her life.
The door to the cargo bay hissed open. She stepped through.
Behind her, the container she'd opened sat cracked and dark, its other occupants waiting in patient silence. They could wait. She would come back for them, with Dorian's seed thick and warm inside her, with the next generation already beginning to grow.
She licked her lips. The taste of copper and flowers still lingered.
"Three hours," she murmured, and her voice had changed—lower, richer, threaded with something that vibrated in the air like a plucked string. "More than enough time."
The corridor unfurled before her, humming with the ship's quiet life, and Mahri walked toward it with the confidence of someone who had already won.
The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and familiar. The hum of the ship's systems wrapped around her like a second skin, and she moved through it with the easy confidence of someone who had walked these same decks a thousand times. Her heels clicked against the metal grating, each step a small percussion that marked her progress toward the security office, toward Dorian, toward the next phase of something she could already feel growing inside her like a second heartbeat.
A figure turned the corner ahead, and Mahri's stride didn't falter. She recognized the stocky build, the short-cropped dark hair, the grease-stained coverall that always smelled faintly of lubricant and recycled air. Aesh. Engineer. Third shift, port watch. The information surfaced without effort, pulled from the parasite's seamless access to her own memories.
Their eyes met, and Aesh raised a hand in casual greeting. "Mahri. Hey. You got a minute?"
"For you?" Mahri's voice came out warm, easy, threaded with something that made Aesh's eyebrows lift slightly. "Always."
Aesh fell into step beside her, matching pace. "Were you down in the cargo bay? I thought I heard someone moving around down there. Listen—are we actually getting those replacement conduits next time we hit port, or did command feed us the same line they always do?"
The question was routine. Boring. A thousand variations of the same conversation Mahri had had with every engineer on every ship she'd ever served. Before, she would have sighed. Before, she would have given the honest answer—command had been vague, the manifest had been thin, her gut said no.
But before was a woman she barely remembered.
"I checked the inventory list before I came down." The words came out smooth, confident. Her tail swayed behind her, the blue crystal at its tip catching the corridor's dim light and scattering it in small, hypnotic flashes. "They're flagged for next port. Should be waiting for us when we dock." A pause. She let her lips curve, just slightly, her fangs catching the light. "And if command drags their feet, I'll ping procurement direct. I've got some pull with the dockmaster."
Aesh's eyebrows climbed higher. "You'd do that?"
"I'd do a lot of things these days." The words came out lower than she'd intended, richer, and she saw something flicker across Aesh's face—not suspicion, exactly. Curiosity. A warmth that hadn't been there a moment before. The parasite pulsed approvingly between her thighs, a slow, wet clench that made her breath catch for just a fraction of a second. "Don't worry about the parts, Aesh. You keep the engines happy, and I'll keep the supplies coming. We're a team, yeah?"
Aesh's shoulders relaxed. She nodded, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. Thanks, Mahri. I'll let you get back to... whatever you were doing."
"Graveyard watch checks." The lie came easy. "Dorian's probably bored out of his skull by now."
Aesh laughed, a short, tired sound. "Fair. See you around."
She turned down a side corridor, her footsteps fading into the ship's ambient hum, and Mahri watched her go. The muscles in Aesh's back. The line of her jaw. The pulse visible at the side of her throat.
The parasite hummed, and Mahri filed that pulse away for later.
Her tail curled, the crystal brightening for just a moment, and she continued down the corridor. The security office was three decks up, past the mess hall, past the hydroponics bay. She counted each step, each junction, each vent she could use if she needed to change her route.
The ship sang to her now. Every corridor, every crew quarter, every off-shift slot in the schedule—all of it mapped inside her skull, waiting to be used.
She reached the ladder to the next deck and climbed, her boots finding the rungs without hesitation. The parasite shifted inside her as she moved, a warm, slick presence that felt less like an invader and more like a missing piece she hadn't known she was missing. Her hand brushed her stomach as she reached the top of the ladder, a gesture that looked casual, felt sacred.
Three decks up, the corridor widened into the crew common area. A door on the left, marked SECURITY in faded lettering. A small window set into the metal, revealing a sliver of the room beyond.
Through the glass, she could see him.
Dorian Vex sat at the security station, his back to the door, his shoulders set in the quiet vigilance of a man who had been alone for hours. A datapad sat in front of him, its screen casting pale light across his face. He hadn't heard her approach.
Mahri smiled. Her fangs caught the light.
She reached for the door's access panel, her fingers brushing the controls, and the parasite inside her throbbed with anticipation as the door hissed open.
Dorian didn't turn at the hiss of the door. His shoulders stayed loose, his head cocked at that familiar angle—the one he got when he was deep in some bureaucratic conversation that required exactly half his attention. His voice drifted back to her, warm with the particular exasperation he reserved for one topic.
"No, Captain, I'm telling you—the Aethelred's relay buoy is fried. Fried. Like someone microwaved it. I've got a diagnostic ping that looks like a toddler's heartbeat." A pause. The faint crackle of the captain's voice through the earpiece. "Yes, I'm sure it's called a relay buoy. The proper name. Not a 'space phone line.' The engineers who designed it did not call it a space phone line. I refuse." Another pause, and she heard the smile in his voice. "Yes, ma'am. I'll log the report. Get some rest."
Mahri let the door close behind her, the seal catching with a soft pneumatic sigh. The security office was small, cramped, lit by the pale glow of three monitors and a desk lamp that cast long shadows across the metal walls. Dorian's datapad sat abandoned beside his elbow, the screen showing a cargo manifest she'd seen a dozen times before.
He still hadn't turned around. His thumb pressed the earpiece, ending the call, and he shook his head—a small, private gesture of fond exasperation that made her tail curl behind her.
"Space phone line," he muttered, and the word came out half-laughing, half-bewildered. "Like we're in a low-budget comms drama. I love her, but I swear she does it just to watch me twitch."
He swiveled in his chair, and his face lit up when he saw her.
"Mahri. Hey." The warmth in his voice was genuine, easy—the comfortable familiarity of two people who had spent months sharing the same recycled air. "Didn't expect company on graveyard watch. What brings you down here?"
She opened her mouth to answer—something casual, something warm, something that would keep him relaxed—but before the words could form, the parasite pulsed between her thighs, a slick, rhythmic clench that sent a spike of honey-thick pleasure through her spine. Her vision swam for just a fraction of a second, and when it cleared, the question he'd asked had already slipped through her fingers like water.
What had she been about to say?
It didn't matter.
The parasite's imperative rose through her like heat through a ventilation shaft, filling every space her old thoughts had occupied. Serve. Spread. Grow. The words were no longer separate from her—they were her. They were the only things that felt real.
She looked at Dorian, and her mind began to work the way the parasite had rewired it to work. He was lean, corded, his gray eyes sharp even in the dim light of the office. The scar through his left eyebrow caught the monitor glow. His jaw was clean-shaven, his posture relaxed but ready—a man who trusted procedure, who trusted routine, who trusted her.
That trust was a path.
She could feel the shape of his thoughts from here—not read them, exactly, but sense their texture. The steady hum of wakefulness. The faint residue of the conversation with the captain, a warmth that came from familial exasperation. The alertness that had sharpened slightly when the door opened, then softened when he saw it was her. He was comfortable. He was open.
He was hers.
The parasite pulsed again, and Mahri felt her lips curve into a smile that showed just the tips of her fangs. Her tail swayed behind her, the blue crystal at its tip scattering light across the office wall in slow, rhythmic arcs. She let her shoulders drop, let her stance shift—just slightly, just enough to emphasize the curve of her hips where the armor barely covered them.
"Just checking in." Her voice came out lower than she'd intended, richer, threaded with that vibrating warmth that had crept into it since the parasite had settled inside her. She took a step closer, her boots clicking against the metal floor. "Graveyard watch gets lonely. Figured I'd keep you company for a bit."
Dorian's eyebrows lifted, but his smile didn't falter. "Company? From the second-in-command? I must be special."
"You have no idea."
She moved closer, and as she did, she reached out with something that wasn't quite her mind—a tendril of the parasite's will, subtle and warm, brushing against the edges of his consciousness. She felt the contact like a ripple through still water: the faint resistance of his mental walls, the flicker of surprise as he felt something brush against him, the brief confusion before his training kicked in and he dismissed it as imagination.
He didn't pull away. He didn't reach for his stun baton. He just blinked, once, and shook his head with a small, self-deprecating laugh.
"Must be more tired than I thought," he murmured. "Thought I felt something weird for a second."
"Weird how?" She stopped beside his chair, close enough to touch. Her hand found the back of it, fingers curling over the worn metal. The parasite inside her hummed, and she let the tendril of her presence settle against his mind like a hand resting on a shoulder. Not pushing. Not taking. Just resting.
She could feel him through the contact. Not his thoughts, but the shape of them—the electrical crackle of his neurons firing, the rhythm of his breath, the subtle tension in his muscles as he leaned back in his chair and looked up at her. He was curious. Open. A little tired, a little lonely, a little grateful for the company.
He was perfect.
"Just a shiver," he said. "You know how these ships get. The vents play tricks sometimes."
"Mmm." She let her tail curl, the crystal at its tip catching his attention for just a moment—a hypnotic glint in the corner of his vision. "I know exactly what you mean."
She leaned closer. Her hand left the back of his chair and found his shoulder, her fingers resting against the fabric of his tactical vest. The contact was warm, casual, easy—the kind of touch between colleagues who had crossed the line into something approaching friendship over long months in deep space.
But the tendril of her will pressed deeper.
She felt the texture of his resistance as she pushed—not hostile, not even conscious. It was like pressing against a door that wasn't quite latched, the wood giving slightly, the hinges groaning. He stiffened beneath her hand, his gray eyes flickering with something that might have been confusion, might have been the first stirring of alarm.
"Mahri?" His voice came out uncertain, the first crack in his easy composure. "You doing okay? You seem—"
"Shh." The word came out soft, soothing, threaded with the parasite's hypnotic warmth. Her thumb brushed the collar of his vest, a gesture that looked reassuring, felt anything but. "I'm fine, Dorian. Better than fine. I want to show you something."
She pushed harder.
The tendril of her will slid through the gap in his mental defenses, and she felt it all at once: the shape of his consciousness, the architecture of his thoughts, the bright lattice of his awareness. It was warm in there, alive, crackling with the electricity of a mind that had been trained to stay sharp, stay alert, stay separate. He felt her presence enter, and his resistance surged—not violent, but instinctive, a door slamming shut before the intruder could cross the threshold.
But she was already inside.
She felt his body lock up. His hands went still on the armrests of his chair. His breath caught, held, and she felt the spike of adrenaline that shot through his system—the ancient animal panic of something wrong, something invasive, something he didn't understand.
His mind thrashed against her touch like a bird in a net.
She felt the shape of that resistance: the raw, wordless terror of a man who had spent his whole life trusting his instincts, and whose instincts were now screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. His thoughts scrabbled for purchase—get up, reach for the baton, trigger the alarm, something— but the commands got lost somewhere between his brain and his body. His arm twitched. His fingers curled, then uncurled. He could move. Just barely. A finger. A blink. The faint, struggling rotation of his wrist.
She could feel it all. The frantic cascade of his neurotransmitters. The spike of cortisol, the flood of adrenaline, the desperate attempt of his hindbrain to find a way out. But the parasite had already sunk its hooks into the pathways that turned thought into action, and every command he tried to send reached its destination as a whisper, a suggestion, a word spoken in a language he'd forgotten.
His gray eyes met hers. Wide. Terrified. Aware.
And then she breathed, and her will poured into him like warm honey through a crack in glass.
Her hand moved between her thighs, fingers finding the slick evidence of what had already grown inside her. The parasite pulsed against her touch, eager and alive, and she felt its hunger bleed through the bond—felt how much it wanted to meet its sibling, to complete the circuit that would bind Dorian to them forever.
She spread herself open with two fingers, feeling the wet heat of her own body, the way her muscles clenched around nothing. The parasite was there, waiting, nestled deep in the cradle of her pelvis. It had grown in the hours since she'd pushed it inside herself—she could feel its mass now, a warm weight that shifted when she moved, that pressed against her walls and made her breath catch.
Her fingers found the edge of it. Slick. Soft. Alive.
She hooked her fingertips around it and pulled.
The sensation was electric, a cascade of pleasure that made her thighs tremble as the parasite slid free of her body in a rush of warmth. It was bigger than when she'd put it in—the size of her palm now, pale and segmented, its tiny legs waving as it tasted the air. It pulsed in her hand, and she felt its loneliness, its need to find the host she'd promised it.
She shifted closer, her body pressing against him, her tail curling around his calf. He stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping his lips, but didn't move. She waited just a moment until his breathing evened out again, then raised the parasite to his ear.
It moved before she could guide it.
The creature uncoiled from her palm and flowed across his jaw like water, finding the canal of his ear with an instinct that made her shiver. She watched it press against the opening, watched it squirm and burrow, and Max's body jerked—a full-body shudder that might have been pleasure or resistance or both.
The resistance didn't break. It melted.
She felt the moment it happened—the sudden, flooding release of tension as the parasite's influence reached the deep centers of his brain, the ones that governed trust and fear and the bone-deep certainty of who he was. His terror didn't vanish. It transmuted, curling into something softer, something that felt almost like relief. The fight in his eyes didn't go out. It dissolved, replaced by a dreamy confusion that slowly, sweetly, settled into acceptance.
His arm stopped twitching. His fingers relaxed against the armrest.
She could feel him under her touch now—not the frantic thrashing of a captured bird, but the slow, steady pulse of a mind that had been guided, gently and inexorably, to a new truth. His thoughts still moved. He still was Dorian Vex, still knew his name, his orders, his duty. But those things sat at the top layer now, translucent and thin, like paint on a surface that had already been claimed.
Beneath them, a new foundation hummed: serve. spread. grow.
She smiled down at him, and her fangs caught the monitor light. "There you are," she murmured, and the words came out thick with satisfaction. "I've been waiting to meet you properly."
His lips parted. His voice came out slack, dreamy. "Mahri... what... what did you..."
"Nothing you won't thank me for." She leaned closer, her face inches from his, her breath warm against his cheek. "You're going to help me, Dorian. You're going to help me spread this gift to everyone on this ship. And when we're done, we're going to make something beautiful together."
His gray eyes fluttered. She felt the last thread of his resistance snap—not violently, but with a soft, wet sound, like a rope finally giving way under pressure. His body relaxed fully into the chair, his shoulders dropping, his head tilting back to bare his throat.
"Yes," he breathed. The word came out without his permission. She felt him want to fight it, felt the ghost of his old self thrash one final time, but the parasite's will was already woven through every synapse. "Yes. I... I want to help."
"I know you do." She stroked his jaw, her crystalline gauntlet cool against his stubbled skin. "But first, I need you to open up for me. All the way."
She felt him try to resist. Felt the effort ripple through his mind like a fish surging against a current—brief, powerful, doomed. And then his mouth fell open, slack and waiting, and she felt his mental walls dissolve to nothing.
She kissed him.
Her lips met his, warm and soft, and the parasite pulsed inside her, a deep, wet clench that sent fresh pleasure rolling through her abdomen. She felt the connection between them deepen as the kiss lengthened, felt his mind flutter against hers like a moth drawn to flame. He was pliant beneath her mouth, yielding, his lips parting as she tilted his head back and pressed closer.
A new tendril of the parasite's will curled through her tongue, through her saliva, seeking. She felt it gather in her mouth, a warm, slick presence that tasted like copper and flowers. She pressed it into him with the kiss, a slow, deliberate transfer, and she felt the moment it touched his tongue—felt his body recognize the invader, felt the panicked surge of his autonomic nervous system before the parasite's influence smoothed it into submission.
He swallowed.
She felt it slide down his throat, a warm pulse that traveled through his chest and settled somewhere deep. She felt the moment it reached his bloodstream, felt the chemical bloom as it began to spread through his body—a warmth that started in his core and radiated outward, softening his muscles, relaxing his spine, loosening the tight knot of his consciousness.
She broke the kiss slowly, her lips dragging across his, and watched his eyes flutter open. They were glassy, unfocused, the pupils blown wide. A thin line of saliva stretched between their mouths, glistening in the monitor light.
"There," she whispered. "It's starting."
His body was changing beneath her hands—she could feel it through the parasitic connection that now linked them. The warmth of infection spreading through his torso. The faint tremor as his nervous system recalibrated. The slow, inexorable brightening of his thoughts as the new imperative took root.
And through it all, she felt his pleasure.
It bloomed inside him like a flower opening to the sun—a slow, spreading warmth that started in his chest and radiated outward, down his arms, up his neck, into his groin. His breath caught. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, knuckles white, and a low, strangled moan escaped his throat. He was feeling it now—that same honey-slick heat that had flooded her in the cargo bay, the same chemical surrender that made resistance feel like a distant, unimportant memory.
"Oh," he breathed, and the word came out ragged, broken. "Oh, fuck."
"Good, isn't it?" She stroked his hair, her claws grazing his scalp, and he leaned into the touch like a starving man offered bread. "Just let it take you, Dorian. Stop fighting. It's so much easier when you stop fighting."
She could feel the exact moment he gave up. Not just the last thread of resistance, but the deeper, more fundamental surrender—the part of him that had believed he was separate, autonomous, his own. That part dissolved, and what remained opened like a door, welcoming her in.
His mind was hers.
She felt his body respond to the parasite's presence, felt his cock harden in his trousers, felt the flush spreading across his chest. His breath came faster, his hips shifting in the chair, and she felt the echo of his arousal through their connection—not the same as hers, but complementary, a harmony to her melody.
He looked up at her, his gray eyes swimming with need, and his voice came out raw and reverent:
"What... what do you need me to do?"
She smiled, slow and sharp, and the crystal at the tip of her tail pulsed with hungry light.
"Everything," she said, and her hand slid from his hair to his shoulder, then down his chest, her claws tracing the line of his sternum through the fabric of his vest. "But first, we need to make more of us."
His pupils dilated further. She felt his understanding click into place—not through words, but through the deep, instinctual communion of the parasite's network. He knew what she meant. He could feel it in his blood, in the thick heat pooling in his groin, in the aching emptiness that had opened inside him alongside the pleasure.
He needed to fill her.
The thought came from him, not from her, and she felt a fresh surge of heat flood her cunt at the raw, animal honesty of it. The parasite pulsed approvingly between her thighs, and she felt herself grow wetter, felt the slickness spread, felt her own body prepare for what was coming.
"Get up." The command came out soft but absolute. "Get up and take off your vest."
He moved without hesitation. His hands found the clasps of his tactical vest, working them open with fingers that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the intensity of the pleasure still coursing through him. The vest fell to the floor. His gray undershirt followed, pulled over his head in one quick motion, and she saw the lean, corded muscle of his torso, the faint sheen of sweat across his chest.
She reached for the seals of her own armor.
The pieces fell away one by one—the fur collar, the shoulder plate, the chest piece that barely covered her. She let them fall to the deck with a clatter, the crystalline gauntlets catching the light as she worked, until she stood before him in nothing but the flexible mesh that covered her from waist to mid-thigh. Her breasts were bare, full and heavy, the nipples hard in the recycled air. Her tail curled behind her, the crystal throwing blue light across the walls.
Dorian stared at her, his breath caught. She could feel his need through the connection—a desperate, aching hunger that had nothing to do with the man he'd been an hour ago. He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
"Come here," she said.
He crossed the space between them in two strides. His hands found her waist, warm and rough, and she felt his fingers dig into the soft give of her hips as he pulled her against him. His cock pressed against her thigh through his trousers, hard and thick, and she reached down without looking, her claws finding his belt, working the buckle open.
His mouth found her throat.
He kissed the curve of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, and she felt his tongue trace the line of her jaw before his teeth grazed her earlobe. A shiver ran through her, sharp and electric, and she felt her cunt clench around the parasite, felt it pulse in response, felt the feedback loop of pleasure tighten between them.
"I need you inside me," she breathed. "Now."
His trousers fell. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already slick with pre-cum. She wrapped her hand around it, feeling the heat of him, the pulse, the way his breath stuttered at her touch.
She stepped backward until her thighs hit the edge of his desk. The datapad skittered to the floor. She didn't care. She hoisted herself onto the surface, the mesh between her legs stretching, damp, ready. Her thighs fell open, and she watched his gray eyes track the movement, watched the hunger deepen as he saw the slickness glistening against the fabric.
"Come on," she whispered. "Come and breed me."
He moved between her thighs like a man possessed. His hands found her hips, gripping hard, and she felt the head of his cock press against the damp mesh, searching, finding the slit where the fabric parted. He pushed, and the mesh stretched, and the heat of him pressed against her—not inside, not yet, but close enough to make her breath catch.
She could feel his mind through the connection, a warm, pulsing presence that hummed with a single imperative: fill her. plant. grow. The parasite had him completely now, every thought subsumed into the drive to spread, to multiply, to seed the next generation inside her waiting body.
He kissed her again, hard and hungry, and as his tongue slid into her mouth, he pushed inside her.
The stretch was exquisite.
Her back arched, her claws digging into his shoulders, and she felt him sink deeper—felt every inch of him slide through her slick heat, felt the parasite pulse around him, felt the connection between them blaze as his cock filled her completely. He was thick and hot and she could feel every vein, every ridge, every tremor as he bottomed out against her cervix.
He moaned into her mouth, and the sound vibrated through her skull, mixed with the echo of his pleasure flowing through their bond. She felt what he felt—the tight grip of her cunt around him, the wet heat, the way she clenched and fluttered as he began to move.
His hips found a rhythm, deep and slow, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her heels digging into the small of his back. The desk creaked beneath them, the monitor lights casting their shadows across the walls in long, undulating shapes.
She could feel everything. The slide of his cock inside her. The electric tingle of the parasite's connection as it fed on their pleasure, amplifying it, layering it. His release building at the base of his spine, a hot pressure that she felt as clearly as her own rising climax. His thoughts dissolving into sensation, into need, into the single, overwhelming drive to fill her with his seed.
"Yes," she gasped against his mouth. "Yes, Dorian—fill me, breed me—"
His hips slammed into her, harder, faster, and she felt the edge approaching, felt the pleasure coiling in her core, felt his control slipping as the parasite drove him toward his peak.
He came with a cry that was half agony, half ecstasy.
She felt his cock pulse inside her, felt the first hot rush of his seed flood her depths, felt the parasite shudder with approval as it drank the chemical cocktail of his release. Her own climax followed a heartbeat later, triggered by the wave of his pleasure crashing through their bond, and she cried out against his shoulder as her body locked around him, her cunt milking him, drawing every drop deeper.
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled and trembling, their breath mingling in the dim light of the security office. The parasite pulsed between them, a slow, satisfied rhythm, and she felt something new beginning to grow in the warm space where his seed had settled.
The next generation.
She smiled against his neck, her fangs grazing his skin, and felt him shiver.
"We're just getting started," she murmured. "There are forty-one more crew members on this ship. And they all need to meet us."
His arms tightened around her, and she felt his answering smile pressed against her hair.
"Where do we start?"
She pulled back, looking into his gray eyes—the same gray eyes, but different now. Brighter. Hungrier. Hers.