Act 2: Improvise
I'm not sure when I drifted to sleep, but when I woke up, it was already dark outside. Only the faint glow of the moon sliced through the window, laying silver beams across Drake’s chest.
His shirt was cold and damp.
I winced, realizing I'd drooled all over him—a humiliating little puddle soaking into his red tank where my mouth had been.
Grimacing, I tried scrubbing it with the blanket, dragging the cotton edge over the dark patch—but Drake was so deep asleep he didn't even twitch.
Damn, he looked...peaceful. Handsome, even. Moonlight smoothed the harsh lines of his jaw, softened the brutal set of his shoulders. His breathing stayed steady, slow—like a mountain sleeping.
“Sorry,” I whispered, brushing my fingers along his cheeks. “For… failing at my whole fucking purpose.”
The rough stubble scraped but felt warm. Solid. Real.
“Sorry I’m broken.”
Drake didn't stir. Not a muscle. Not even a deeper breath—just that steady thunder under his ribs.
Improvise.
His word echoed through my skull as I stared at the faint scar above his brow—the one he earned when he smashed some Zevar prick’s face through a windshield, defending me a year back.
Easy for him to say.
How the fuck was I supposed to improvise? Sex-ed for Uvars consisted of "don't get raped" pamphlets and terrifying diagrams about Zevar knots locking inside you during bonding.
Zero instruction on how to please a cock big enough to rearrange your guts—especially when your own plumbing was drier than bleached driftwood.
The birds and the bees? Fucking joke. Bees sting. Flowers wilt. And Uvars bleed if they’re unlucky.
"Hhh..." I hissed quietly, pressing my cheek back against his chest. The rhythm hadn't changed. Slow. Deep. Still asleep. Good.
My gaze drifted down to where his camo shorts were bulging—not hard, just that persistent outline where he was thick even when soft.
Improvise.
The word echoed again, useless as a prayer in a hurricane.
Still, my damn hand drifted—like it had a will of its own—hovering over the ridge tenting the fabric of his shorts. The beams traced the outline, casting shadows where the seam strained taut.
Fuck, even in that state, he was...something. My knuckles brushed against it—barely a whisper—and the whole thing twitched beneath the fabric. It was heavy, and pretty much alive.
I froze—sucking in a sharp breath—but Drake’s chest kept rising and falling steady. Still out cold.
What the hell am I doing?
My brain screamed abort, but my stupid fingers stayed frozen mid-air, itching to stroke that impossible thickness.
Was touching him without permission—while he slept—some kind of violation? Or just... desperate improvisation?
Screw school and their terrified whispers. If we’re gonna get split open by these things someday, shouldn't I at least know how to... appreciate it? Prepare for it? Make it less like surgery?
But no—they opted for traumatizing pictures that looked less like pleasure and more like alien autopsy sketches.
I should stop.
But ooohhh my curiosity—that traitorous little bitch clawing its way up my spine—wasn’t listening.
Drake belongs to me. The thought slithered through my panic. His cock belongs to me too. Hadn’t he earned… something? A stupid little thank you For waiting? For not snapping my pretty neck in frustration?
I mean—
"You can touch it if you're so curious."
Drake’s voice rasped out of nowhere.
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!"
My shriek ripped through the cottage—embarrassingly high-pitched—as I scrambled backward like a startled cat. My knees caught in the tangled sheets, and I nearly stumbled over the bed’s edge.
Drake’s hand shot out—ridiculously fast—catching my forearm before I could tumble ass-over-elbow onto the travertine.
"Easy," he growled, sounding asleep but somehow steady enough to haul me back in one effortless tug.
My heart doing Olympic-grade somersaults, I gaped at him—wide-eyed, like a deer-caught-in-headlights terror.
"You... you were asleep!" I wheezed, still half-panting... "I heard your heartbeat—deep, steady!"
Drake just chuckled—low and hoarse—son of a bitch. "Zevar instinct, princess." His grip tightened around my forearm. "We sleep shallow as hell when scenting trouble."
His thumb rubbed lazy circles on my racing pulse. "Or when our beautiful boy's plotting jailbreak on our shorts."
My face went nuclear. "Wasn't plotting!" I glared, trying to wrench my arm free. Which was useless. His grip was iron wrapped in velvet. "Just... scientific curiosity! Like poking roadkill!"
Drake laughed outright. "Roadkill? Princess, that's my dick you're insulting." He let go of my arm. "But if you wanna poke it... go ahead."
He spread his thighs slightly, making the bulge in his shorts even more...unignorable. "Touch whatever you want. It's yours."
"Ummm..." I stalled. Shit, where to start?
Drake tilted his head, studying me like some exotic bug pinned under glass.
"Wait. Hold up." His brow furrowed in genuine confusion, not mockery. "Are you... You telling me you've literally never seen one? In person? Ever?"
"The hell kind of question is that?" I snapped, suddenly defensive. "Who the fuck was I gonna see? Random Zevars whipping it out on street corners? 'Scuse me, sir, mind showing me your dick? For educational purposes?'"
My tone shot up an octave. "My dad sure as shit wasn't volunteering for show-and-tell! Only diagrams, okay? Awful, terrifying diagrams!"
Drake’s expression softened. It wasn't pity, but understanding. "Ah, shit," he mumbled. "No wonder you're nervous."
He pushed himself up on an elbow, the mattress springs groaning under his shifting weight. "Alright. Lesson one." He hooked a thumb under the waistband of his camo shorts. "Wanna peel it back yourself? Or you want me to?"
My throat clicked dry. "J-just..." I waved a hand. "You do it."
Crap, even my response seemed strangled. Less like a bond-mate, more like a terrified hostage negotiating terms.
Drake shrugged, like it was nothing, and tugged the waistband down his hips. The camo fabric slid over thighs, revealing coarse dark hair and then…
Gods.
It sprang free, thick and heavy against his stomach, the tip flushed dark purple where a bead of slick glistened.
My breath hitched. Diagrams failed. This wasn’t anatomy; this was a weapon. Veins snaked along the shaft, pulsing under the moonlight, and the sheer size—thicker than my wrist—made me clench in primal terror.
"See?" Drake rasped, knuckles grazing his own erection casually. "No teeth."
And it kept growing—gods be damned, it was like some alien creature unfurling right there between his thighs.
"No teeth?" I choked out, staring at that impossible girth. "How... How the hell is that supposed to get in me?" My voice cracked, revealing the panic I desperately tried to suppress.
Diagrams never show scale. Never show the intimidating reality of flesh and muscle throbbing against his belly. Never show the sheer fucking physics-defying width where it curved slightly upward, crowned by that swollen, glistening head.
Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit but screw me sideways.
"We won't," Drake assured, shifting slightly to prop himself higher against the pillows. "Not until you slick."
My gaze stayed glued to that veined thing resting against his stomach.
"Still," I whispered, "even if I slick... how?" I pointed weakly at it, disbelief warring with fascination. "That thing's bigger than my goddamn wrist, Drake. My slick's supposed to be... what? Magic lube? Erase physics?"
To know that eventually it would try to breach my practically sealed entrance? I shuddered.
Drake just grinned and ruffled my hair. "We'll cross that bridge when we're there, princess."
He parted a rogue curl from my forehead. "Stop panicking. Focus on what's in front of you." He nudged his hips, making his cock bob heavy and inviting against his abdomen. "Explore."
I echoed it softly. "Explore."
Then silence. It had stopped growing now, mercifully—seemed to have reached its maximum size.
Shit, it looked—I lost words. Instead, I observed it more...thoroughly. There were swollen sacs the size of small plums tucked tight up against his thigh.
"What... what're those?" I pointed vaguely downward, confusion wrinkling my nose. "Those wrinkly... walnut things? Uvars don't have those."
Diagrams skipped the messy details—just arrows pointing at random shapes labeled "reproduction sack" or some clinical garbage. Uvars didn't carry spare parts down there.
"That’s Zevar only, princess," Drake explained, shifting so the light caught the heavy swell. "Our baby batter factory." He tapped one taut sac lightly with his index finger—it bounced slightly. "Where I brew your future belly-stretchers."
Belly-stretchers. The thought alone sent a bizarre flutter through my guts—some mix of dread and… pride? That someday, his legacy would swell inside me? That this terrifying, magnificent Zevar chose me to carry whatever brutal little monsters he’d plant?
Shit.
"Okay. Okay." I swallowed hard. "Soo... what can I do... to... to do something for you?" The words jumbled and unsure, betraying every nerve screaming inside me. "I mean... you waited... and I'm... I wanna..."
Drake patted the mattress beside him. "C'mere. Sit next to me." He was still a little bit sleepy, but calm and clear. "Relax."
He didn't reach for me—just waited.
I shuffled closer, my knees sinking into the plush duvet until our thighs brushed.
"Okay," I breathed, staring at the dick. "So... touching?"
"Start wherever feels safest," Drake guided my timid hand toward his thigh instead of the intimidating shaft. "Touch what doesn't scare you."
My fingertips brushed the coarse hair dusting his hipbone—rough, so unlike mine. Slowly, cautiously, I traced upward along the ridge of muscle flanking his groin, avoiding the swollen centerpiece. Drake stayed perfectly still, though his breaths deepened slightly when my knuckles grazed the hot skin beneath his navel.
Then I touched it—just the side of the shaft, feather-light—and the whole thing twitched against my fingers.
It was... hot. So damn hot—like touching sun-warmed leather stretched over iron.
His veins pulsed under my fingertips, in-sync with Drake’s heartbeat. My breath froze. "Does... does that hurt?"
He grinned, a spark lighting his eyes.
I narrowed mine at him. "You think this is funny?" My voice came out tight. "My hand's shaking like I'm holding a fucking grenade, and you're smirking?"
"Nah, princess." He stretched slightly, his shaft sliding against my palm still hovering beside it. "Just enjoying your focus."
A beat. Then, softer—"Keep goin’. Explore."
I tried to grip it… My fingers curled tentatively around his dick—warm, impossibly firm. My full grip wouldn’t encircle him.
My thumb slid higher, aiming for the slick-wet tip, and I squeezed—harder, clumsier than I intended.
Drake jolted, a sharp hiss tearing from his throat. "Fuck—easy, princess!" His hips bucked involuntarily, and that head pulsed against my palm—clear liquid oozed, dripping in sticky trails down the shaft. "That's not a fucking stress ball."
I jerked my hand back like I’d grabbed a live wire.
"Shit! Sorry!" Panic flooded me—I hadn’t meant to hurt him. My fingers trembled, coated now with that oddly scented fluid. "Did I break it?"
Oh God, oh God, I fucked up! I hurt him!
Drake caught my wrist before I could retreat entirely. "You don’t break a Zevar steel that easy, princess."
His grip was firm, pulling my hand back toward his cock.
"Just... gentler." He wrapped my fingers loosely around the base, guiding my touch. "Any harder and you’ll crack my damn knot."
His thumb pressed over mine, forcing my grip to soften against that pulsing warmth. "There. Like holding a bird, not choking a snake."
"Uhhh... okayyy..." I breathed, trying to loosen my fingers. "Yeah yeah..." I mumbled. "Bird. Got it."
Drake huffed before letting go of my wrist. "There ya go."
"Now what?"
Drake nudged my knuckles. "Up," he guided my hand slowly along the shaft toward the swollen crown.
The vein beneath my fingertips throbbed faintly as I slid upward, gathering more sticky warmth pooling at the tip. It should’ve felt filthy... but fuck, the slick slid like silk between my fingers.
"And... Down," Drake nudged my knuckles back toward his hips. My palm slid easily down, dragging a trail of wetness with it.
I frowned. "How do you know how to do this?" The question slipped out—curiosity cutting through my stupidity.
"Did... did the Coalition teach you?" My thumb circled the vein pulsing near the base. "Or did you practice with... others?"
Drake snorted and shifted his hips to press deeper into my clumsy grip. "Fuck no," he proclaimed. "Zevar don't share cocks, princess."
The moon caught that twisting of his mouth. "We do it ourselves. That's how I survived all these years without an Uvar." His palm brushed my knuckles as he guided my fist tighter. "Just me. My hand. And a whole lotta imagination."
My palm slid slowly over the hot crown—but my frown deepened. Imagination? Imagining what? Fucking who? Some phantom Uvar?
My grip hardened. A strange, sharp anger flared hot in my gut, unexpected and sour. "What imagination?" I lashed. "You picturing some faceless Uvar doing this to you?"
"Just whatever Uvar was on the cover of that month's mags." He mussed my hair lazily. "Or someone from the TV dramas." His grin widened. "You were fuckin' two when I first started needing to handle this."
Oh. My grip loosened instantly.
The sour feeling evaporated—replaced by sheer, stupid disbelief. "You fantasized about... celebs?" I continued sliding my fist slowly. "Just... random celebrities?" My nose wrinkled. "That sounds depressing."
He just shrugged. "It worked."
My fist kept moving—up, down—easily gliding until his cock felt less like forged steel and more like velvet-wrapped heat. I squeezed gently around the crown each time I reached the top, collecting more of that slippery fluid.
"Is it okay?" I asked. "Too hard?"
Was I even doing this right?
A slight wince etched at the corner of Drake's eye—there and gone in a blink.
"You can go faster now," Drake encouraged me, his voice starting to change—still rough, but with a huskiness that hadn't been there before.
I hesitated, my fist pausing mid-stroke. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Won't it hurt?"
"Can't hurt when it's slicked like this, princess," Drake assured me, tilting his hips toward my grip. "It's okay."
I obeyed, sliding faster—still tentative, but firmer—up, down, up again. The rhythm became mechanical, hypnotic.
Schlick… schlick… schlick…
The sound filled the quiet cottage—obscene. I pumped even faster now, almost frantic; the glide felt even more effortless.
I kept my eyes glued to Drake’s face—his jaw clenched tight. His breathing strained—sharper, ragged—no longer that steady tide.
Fuck, fuck, does it hurt? Am I hurting him?
I slowed my frantic pace. Those low grunts escaping his gritted teeth sounded way too close to pain. Sweat plastered dark strands across his forehead, tendons standing stark in his neck—he looked like he was riding out a gut-punch.
"Drake?" I was worried. "Should I stop? Does it—?"
"Keep going," he gasped, his hips lifting sharply off the mattress to meet my fist. "I'm not in pain, princess. Feels fucking good."
His fingers knotted tight in the sheets, knuckles white. "Don't stop."
So I didn't. I squeezed just enough to feel the pulse-points beneath my touch. Drake's hips bucked with each downward stroke—wild, uncontrolled thrusts that sent fresh beads of slick spraying across my knuckles.
He was grunting—deep, ragged noises. Eyes squeezed shut, face contorted into something fierce, almost pained, sweat beading his temples. Shit, it looked brutal. Terrifying. Like I was torturing him.
He said it felt good, I reminded myself desperately. He said keep going. But the fear coiled in my belly anyway—was I breaking him?
Then Drake gasped—eyes snapping open wild and dark. "Princess," he choked out, his hips pistoning upward uncontrollably.
"I'm about to burst... Don't stop—no matter what happens—don't fucking stop. You hear me?" His voice sounded shredded—raw, commanding. Terrifying.
I nodded frantically, my hand slipping faster—up, down, relentless—not understanding what 'burst' meant but clinging to his order. Was he bleeding?
I couldn't breathe.
Then a few things happened at once. Twin lumps bulged suddenly at the base of his cock—red, angry swollen flesh pushing outward like fists beneath his skin.
Drake snarled, teeth bared, his face contorting into a mask of agony—brow knitted tight, tendons screaming in his neck—as his entire body locked rigid.
The shaft turned iron-hard in my palm, veins pulsed, while the bulbous head swelled purple-black, stretching impossibly taut.
What the fuck is going on?!
Drake’s head slammed backward into the headboard—a brutal thud that made me flinch—as his hips arched off the mattress.
"GGGAAHHHHHH!!!" He roared.
Not a groan—not a whimper. This was a fucking nightmare noise ripped from the bottom of his lungs—an animalistic roar.
Then came the explosion—the 'burst' he’d warned me about.
His cock pulsed violently in my grip, and a hot jet of white shot high overhead—thick as paint, catching the moonlight—before splattering onto the blankets between us with a wet plop.
Before I could gasp, another rope jumped upward—striking my hairline, dripping onto my forehead. A third spray hit my still-stroking hand, coating my knuckles in thick streaks, while a fourth slammed against the headboard with a sharp splat, leaving a viscous smear dripping down the wood.
"Fucking hell!" I choked, flinching but keeping my hand moving as ordered—terrified to stop while Drake roared again, his body shuddering violently like a seizure.
Every pulse ripped another snarl from Drake’s throat, primal and raw, like a wounded beast tearing free of a trap.
Then, finally—mercifully—the violent spurting slowed to trickles. Warm drops dripped from my shaking fingers onto his still-throbbing shaft. Drake collapsed back against the pillows with a ragged groan, chest heaving, every muscle surrendered in exhaustion.
Sweat coated him—across the powerful biceps and heaving torso like he’d just run ten miles uphill. The room stank—iron tang, and something sweetly musky that clung to the back of my throat.
"What..." I stared at the splatters—splotches of white scattered everywhere. I lifted a hand—pearly ropes smeared across my knuckles like war paint. "What is this?"
Drake’s chest heaved. "That..." he was breathless, pointing a shaking finger at the mess coating my hand. "...Is..." A rough cough escaped him. "...My cum." His lips curled into a tired, filthy grin. "My baby batter."
"It’s... everywhere," I stated the fact, horrified.
Drake chuckled weakly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah," he rasped. "And it’s supposed to be inside you." His knuckle brushed my thigh. "Deep inside. Not sprayed across the goddamn wall."
That whole fucking explosion was supposed to fill me? The sheer physics of it—Drake’s impossible thickness plus that volcanic eruption—made my knees wobble. How could anything survive that battering ram followed by a cement mixer unloading in your womb?
"Is that," I whispered, "what you meant by... improvising?"
Drake’s eyes—glazed and heavy-lidded—drifted toward the explosion site decorating his chest and the headboard. "Yeah. It’s a start."
So I was doing something right. He seemed wrecked but satisfied... Yeah, okay, that counted as progress. Maybe I wasn’t a complete disaster.
Then I stared at the mess coating my hand. Curiosity prickling, I lifted it tentatively to my nose. Sniffed. Huh. Surprisingly sweet—like warm honey mixed with something musky.
Before my brain could scream STOP, my tongue darted out—just a quick swipe across my knuckle. The taste exploded—rich, cloying sweetness, almost floral.
"Holy shit," I mumbled, licking my lips. "It’s like… nectar?"
Drake froze mid-stretch, his eyes snapping to mine. Confusion carved deep lines beside his mouth.
"Nectar?" His brow furrowed. "Bullshit. Zevar cum’s supposed to taste like salt and bitter." He stared hard, like I was pulling some elaborate prank.
"Huh?" I blinked. "No, seriously." I lifted my sticky knuckles again. "It's... sweet."
To prove it—and because fuck, I was morbidly fascinated—I dragged my tongue slowly along the slick mess coating my thumb, gathering every drop. Floral sweetness exploded on my tongue again, rich and cloying.
"See?" I mumbled, licking my lips clean. "Like honey."
Drake just stared—raised a brow, lips slightly parted—like I'd grown a second head.
"That... makes no fucking sense," he shook his head. He sagged back against the pillows, muscles slack.
My gaze snagged back on those twin lumps at the base of his cock—swollen, flushed dark crimson, still pulsing faintly like twin hearts beneath bruised skin.
"Drake," I whispered, my finger hovering above the angry bulge. "What’s wrong with... these?" I wanted to poke it. "They look infected."
"That’s normal, princess." He patted the skin gently. "That’s my knot." His thumb traced the skin where the thickest lump met the shaft.
"It’ll deflate on its own. Give it ten minutes. Zevar biology—holds tight when it needs to." He slumped deeper into the pillows. "Means I’m done. For now."
Oh… So that’s the thing Coalition teachers said will lock us. They’d shoved grainy holoscreens at us—Zevar knots would swell thick inside phantom Uvar—while they droned about "binding mechanics" and "biological inevitability."
Horror stories whispered in dorm halls: Once he knots you, you’re stuck. Takes hours sometimes. Can’t pull out. Can’t move. Just gotta ride it out while he pumps you full.
Questions bubbled—How long exactly did this knot last? Could I accidentally touch it wrong and make it swell again? But Drake’s breaths had gone soft and rhythmic, eyelids heavy.
Asleep? Already? Mid-conversation? Seriously?
I opened my mouth—then closed it. I mean, look at him—utterly spent, slack-jawed, cum still drying in streaks across his tanks.
He looked… peaceful. Weirdly vulnerable. Exhaustion radiated off him in waves. Asking felt cruel. Like kicking a guard dog after he’d just fought off a bear.
So I sighed—just a soft puff of breath—and leaned back against his chest. Solid. Warm. His heartbeat drummed steady beneath my cheek
thud-thud thud-thud
My nose pressed against sweat-damp skin where his collarbone met his throat—Fuck, it reeked—something distinctly Drake.
Unpleasant? Yeah. But discomfort? Nah.
Somehow, curled against Drake like this, I felt safer than I ever had in my entire life.
Maybe, just maybe, I didn't need to be so goddamn anxious all the time. Drake seemed to know what he was doing, and I was beginning to trust that he would lead me through this.
For now, that trust was enough.
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