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Ohohoho I'm really chewin' on this selkie stuff

SO I'm thinking, actually, you live on a fictional island off the coast of California. The town's small, everyone knows each other, but the island is big enough to offer seclusion and you live on the far end, right on the beach. You inherited the home from your parents (ironically passed in a boating accident) and you WERE going to sell it.

But Something Happened and the island was cheap compared to anywhere else you'd go. You live off a combination of your smartly-invested liquid inheritance and a part time job maintaining the ferry since you're pretty handy with boats. You scrape barnacles, do quality checks on ropes, make sure fuel and everything is A Go. You do Friday-Monday shifts on the docks, the least popular shift so you get more money, and are PRETTY comfy.

You prefer to keep to yourself and don't really like the attention the ferry captain gives you. Like you're friendly! You chat with people, you do care about your neighbors. But due to Reasons you want a quiet life. At least for a while. Leland is a perfectly good man, very nice, but you're just not interested (yes, he's going to be pissy about Herman lmao)

I'm ALSO thinking that all Selkies are descendants of a fantastically talented group of humans that cracked the code of literal magic. This is why Selkies of different seal species exist: it depends where the ancestors lived. The very first took enchanted pelts and achieved an incredible advantage over humans that used boats to get from shore to shore. But, over time, they became their own branch species. The skins became necessary; they could not just leave them lying around.

It was part of them now, not just a magic cloak that allowed them to change forms. Their human bodies even changed, albeit slightly, and dozens and dozens of subcultures popped up. The Sea Lions are extremely social people, for example, but Herman's group -- the Sea Leopards -- are largely solitary. The human aspect still strong within them, they form loose familial groups. They can go months without seeing each other, but always convene for rituals that are important to them:

Birthdays, Song Days. Hunts. Just plain catching up. The full moon is significant to them as the celestial body commands the tides; they pay tribute to her once a month. But also, they convene to choose mates. "Brother" and "Sister" are not quite literal in his culture, it just means "one of my own". There are blood relatives, of course, but it is taboo -- another human aspect that remained. And while Sea Leopards do not mate for life, Selkies do tend to prefer to reunite with the same mate they chose the first time. If they're serious about this, they will make it official by claiming each other -- usually a bite that's deep enough to scar. But they don't remain in pairs, if that makes sense.

It's more like an orgy with a reception party afterwards, and then everyone goes back to their little space when it's over. This is why his kind fears humans so much: the tales from other tribes, telling of humans taking their skins, forcing them to be their wives for the rest of their natural lives -- the idea of being tethered like that sounds like torture to them.

They meet, achieve their "pure" form; which is an in-between state, a blend of human and animal, and they sing, pair up, pass their genes, then go about their lives.

Sea Leopard Selkies are matriarchal. In their animal and pure forms, females are larger, more powerful. Even still, the only issue of equality in their culture is related to whether or not a Selkie has learned their song. It's still worth noting because the males are used to having to really pull out the stops to impress a female. It's more than just a song. It's about how, or if he can take control. THIS particular aspect of their sex habits is a determining factor on whether or not a pair will claim each other. If he can't showboat, she's not going to commit.

Herman has a secret. A secret his grandmother swore him to, under grave consequences, which he took very seriously. His mother is, or was, somewhere on land. Happy with his father; a human. It was not that bad, she said. Human-Selkie unions do not always produce a Selkie. When his fur started coming in, she knew he needed to be raised in the sea or he would never have a chance.

He suspects this is why he has no song. He's not even sure if he can take that form. Half-Selkies are almost always sterile, too: only able to reproduce with other half-Selkies, so Herman is destroyed by this knowledge. A mate would not stay with him for long if he couldn't give them a pup. And, God, what if he could but it was born human?

His grandmother raised him as a found orphan, keeping this knowledge from everyone. Because if they knew he was half-human, they'd kill him.

Though, we all know that genetics isn't a perfect half and half for anything, and Herman is pretty much "close enough": equipped with the spare vocal chords, the strength, the speed, and...the exceptional sense of smell. So exceptional it can detect hormonal changes.

And he has a lot to prove, considering his knowledge, and the insecurities it brings.

SO ALL THIS CONSIDERED. Yet another idea: (There's sex this time. Huehuehuehueh)

PiV sex, creampie, definitely a breeding kink, size difference kink, monsterfucking

The thing about Herman, now that you've been stashing him in your house for about three weeks as he heals up, is that he isn't this dumb creature that can just happen to take human form.

He is naive, yes. He's in a world he's never experienced before, yes. But there's nothing childlike about him. You wager his human form is in its late twenties, early thirties -- or he just ages like Paul Rudd, who knows -- but he's a grown man.

He knows things. He just isn't an expert on humans, yet. And God is he insatiable. You graduated from films to documentaries because he wants to know about you. You, individually, but also "you" as in humanity. With some sorrow, you do explain to him that human beings can be absolutely monstrous to each other.

Selkies are not the only ones to have violent run-ins with your kind.

"The natural predator of humans are other humans," you tell him with a sigh. "It's not for food. Though...sometimes there are people who eat people and that's...we'll get to that eventually. But it's usually hate. Fear, sometimes. With the bad ones: like serial killers? They're..."

"M-monsters?" he makes an attempt to finish your sentence, this did I do good? kind of look in his eyes, and sinks just a little bit when you shake your head.

"Lots of people think so. I don't. I think people like to say someone like, oh." You snap your fingers, suddenly forgetting every single serial killer you've ever learned about. "Well, he wasn't a serial killer per se, but take Charles Manson. Monster. According to many. But, Herm, the really scary thing about humans is how easy it is to screw us up, real bad, in here." You point to your head. "He had a horrific childhood. Most serial killers did. Most violent people did. Not a coincidence."

He takes a moment to digest this, then nods. You fully believe he understands this. All creatures need to reach certain milestones in their youth, or they aren't going to be equipped for adulthood. This, you feel, is universal. "I think people like to call them monsters, soulless, or whatever, because it's too scary to face that they're just people. Human. That anyone can be that way, if hurt badly enough, pushed far enough. It's better to other them, than to accept a human being is capable of something so bad."

"Other? Them?" He tilts his head.

"It's something we do, to justify...it's like what happened to you. Because of your song." You say it so gently, because you know it hurts him. "You weren't a part of them. They treated you like you're not a Selkie at all. That's othering. It's unfair, hurtful, and it's also a really toxic coping mechanism. So we're faced with someone that murders for fun, or does terrible things to women in the dead of night because they think the devil is talking to them, and we just can't deal with the fact they're one of us. So we tell ourselves they're not. But they are. I think we'd be better off if we accepted that. Because you know, we do it automatically for the worst of the worst, right?"

Herman is enthralled. Hanging on every word. You can't help but smile.

"By doing that, we give ourselves permission to do it on lower stakes, you know? Like...I'm sorry, I just want you to be able to relate to this, but again: like you. You're a Selkie. Song or not. The stakes aren't that high. You didn't kill anyone, you didn't hurt anyone, you're just a little bit different and they act like you're not your own flesh and blood. Humans do that too. We start at the bottom and work our way up. We let it be acceptable and keep taking more ground, and before you know it, we've got huge groups of people that believe skin color is a problem. Isn't it all so stupid?"

You can tell he's never challenged his cultural beliefs before. Herman frowns as he thinks, mulls this over in his head. The only difference between him and his ilk is the fact he's a late bloomer. That's it. You're confident he'll figure it out because it's in his very DNA to have this song.

"Y-yeah, ac...actually it's. Not fair. They're...it's not fair. L-look at me, I, I've had to learn all this from a, a human, be at r-risk, b-because they wouldn't teach me. Themselves. I c-could. Be dead."

"Exactly." You're proud of him. You wish it was this easy to make other humans understand this shit. "You're at a disadvantage because they arbitrarily value you less. Shit, it even happens to me. Just because I'm me. We've been around forever, building societies, making progress, and I still get talked to like I'm a kid. Women are less than in my world. It's better than it used to be, but still there."

His frown deepens and, as you've come to accept, he needs to touch you now. You're pulled into his frame, slowly, gently, hands innocently seeking entry beneath the hem of your shirt. Touch is important to him, and a little awkward for you, but you feel safe. You know he's not going to go further than he should. He just wants the warmth, the softness. Skin-to-skin; it's how Selkies bond.

He's never felt like he wasn't a Selkie.

Never.

Herman doesn't know for sure, though. Would his body feel different to him if he was borne of two Selkies? Would he be able to hear the tides shift better, feel the earth turn with more intensity? Everything you said, the confidence you have in him -- he wonders. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it is an arbitrary unfairness used to other him.

Maybe though, the others can sense it, they know he's different but they don't know why.

He's inclined to believe you more. There are no monsters, no less-than people. There's just people in power saying there are so they can have someone to kick around. No. Herman is a Selkie. He will find his song. He will be able to balance his shift and mate, and he will be accepted at last, although...

You're so soft under his fingers, his palms.

Is this what drew his mother away?

He shakes his head like the motion could erase the thought from his mind, but he doesn't step away. He buries his face in your neck, pulling you up against him to make up for the height difference, nose brushing skin. When he breathes in, his eyes widen, and he stills.

You smell good. He doesn't know why you do. Far be it from him to be rude, but, humans kind of smell funny to him. Ever since that day you helped him play it cool on a grocery trip, he knew it wasn't just you. So many humans, you explained, wear perfumes, colognes, but even those that don't use nice-smelling body washes, hair products, and so on.

You've always smelled, to him, a little bit sweet.

Something's different now, though.

"You...you okay?" Your arms folded into his chest, body a little tense, you drag him back to his other senses and he realizes he's been caging you in his arms, breathing deep against your skin.

The strongest urge imaginable grips him.

"Y-yeah, uh, s-sorry. I--you. Have you. Y-you smell. D-different."

He wants to drag his tongue up your neck. For some reason he is certain that will tell him what's going on. Herman reminds himself you are not a Selkie. He should let you go. Humans are not as casually affectionate. He actually knows you let him do this for his benefit, and not because you necessarily like it -- but you still never tense or wriggle away.

It's almost a promise you would if he gave in, but, every fiber of his being is screaming it.

"Is it like. Bad?"

His stomach twists. He doesn't know what it is. It's heat, it's panic, it's like he'd kill someone for getting too close to you--

"UH--"

The assumption was correct: you're wriggling to get away now. He whimpers, angry at his body for doing things he didn't tell it to, but your skin is deliciously salty, savory, full of so much information. He stops at your jaw, closing his lips around the edge with an apologetic whine, pulling away with a soft wet pop.

"S-sor--I don't--that was--accident! I--oh no."

In a flash, he is gone. He drops you on your feet and bullies his way through doors until he's tucked away in your master bathroom, mortified, hiding in the bathtub.

Hard as a rock.

He doesn't know why he knows. Doesn't know why that smell, the taste, is what it is; why it registers in his brain and lights up all his nerves, but it does, and he knows.

You're ready. He stares at the shape in his pants, begging it to go away under his breath, watching in horror as the skin hanging on the towel rack seems to beckon him. Something primal tells him: if he shrugs that on, he will become something he's never been before.

He cannot stay here anymore. Herman wonders if his dad's even alive. Would a human even survive how Selkies mate?

The knock on the door shakes him to the core, and he can't even find words anymore.

Okay. That was unusual. But you don't want him thinking he's some kind of super creep for that, and even though you'd absolutely slap the hell out a human man for doing that to you unexpectedly...Herman gets far more leeway. He's learning how to navigate boundaries of a species with millions of different cultures, standards, and customs. You can cut him some slack.

So he licked you like it kept his soul at peace. Very odd. But. Not the end of the world.

Blushing still, you rap your knuckles on the bathroom door. "Herm? It's, hah, hey it's okay. Please don't panic."

All you hear is breathing. More astutely: hyperventilating.

You crack the door. He's hunched over his knees in the bathtub behind frosted glass, half-sobbing, half-panicking. He doesn't respond. You approach carefully, gently sliding the doors open, to see this mess of a man. Face red, eyes puffy with the threat of tears, rubbing his legs together and squirming around like the clothes he's wearing no longer have a texture he can bear.

He jerks away when you try to put a hand on his knee.

"Herman..." your voice dripping with sympathy, you sit down and lean on the edge, holding our your hand. "It's okay."

He's buried up to his nose in his arms, hugging his knees, steely eyes full of despair. "It's--no. Not. N-not. Y-you're--I c-can't. You'll. G-get hurt."

"Can't what?" you laugh, letting your hand hang. He can take it if he wants to.

"C-claim you." He looks away. Face red.

It takes a few beats before you connect the dots, but then you're fumbling into your pocket to check a specific app in your phone. A numbness sweeps through you as you stare at the screen.

Period Starts in 15 Days. Likely ovulating.

It's suddenly so very hot in here.

In addition to a Selkie, there's also been an elephant in every room of your house since this whole thing started. Herman is beautiful. You've been trying not to sink into all of his affections, trying not to let him know you really like it, because you know there is absolutely no way he's going to stay once he can leave. The bruises along his ribs are fading as you sit there, in fact.

You're not a Selkie. You didn't even think he viewed you in anything close to a romantic light. But there he is, admitting that he can't give in. "W-well, I. I get it. It's okay. Shacking up with humans is probably really taboo, I bet. Don't want to get you in trouble." It's your best attempt to make light of the awkward situation, but he just looks to you with such a forlorn expression, finally reaching for you.

Offering your hand with a smile, you try to keep it together when he smashes your palm to his face and nuzzles into it. Lips trembling like he's trying not to utterly devour it. And for a split second you wonder if you're in danger.

"I w-want to," he mutters. "D-don't care. Always in trouble. Just. W-want you--you need to n-not be...I d-don't want to hurt you." He is lost in it now, eyes closed, sobbing out the last of his explanation before he buries himself in your palm.

There was a somewhat brief, awkward conversation last week in which he was very curious about how humans fuck. How your family structure works. He purely just wanted to know in the same way he always sought answers: a scientific, studious approach. So, you told him. In exchange, he, excited about the crazy differences and similarities, told you about how and why Selkies get together.

They didn't do relationships. Which was another reason why you were determined to help him not do anything stupid. He was so close to being able to swim at full speed, and as such track down his grandmother.

"If it helps," you start, shaky, because it almost seems like this is extremely sexual for him: he's nuzzling, breathing in your scent, quietly and softly whimpering, nearly kissing your skin for a while and then, finally graduating to that. "I, uh, the way...hmm." It's hard to focus when the most gorgeous man you've ever seen is practically making out with your hand.

"I don't want to offend you," you settle on -- and that makes him stop. He gives you his full attention with this dread in his eyes. "But, I don't really. I don't work the way, um. I don't want to only meet up with a guy when he's looking to...raising a kid by yourself really sucks for humans, Herm. And it's a lot harder on the body to, uh. Like even if I wanted to only see you once a mating season, a baby a year is a lot. Expensive and, hurts your health every time. So, it's okay if you don't want to. I don't think we'd match well."

You've never seen a heart break in real time before. Immediate regret floods you. You were hoping this would help him make the decision he already knew he needed to make. "I...I d-don't know if. I. M-my. My mother. Sh-she was. She d-did it the. Human way. My d-dad wasn't. He was like you." He shifts, moving to pull you into the cramped space with him, whining under his breath. "I d-don't want to l-leave," he admits. "N-not for--I just. Want to tell her I'm o-okay. And I w-want to. C-come back."

He's so strong, insistent in his motions, you know if you told him no he wouldn't press it but you let him maneuver you. He leans back and plants you into his chest, and you settle down enough to finally realize what he's been hiding, face burning. He grunts and shudders when you brush against his length, gripping you tight with an involuntary grind.

Is this why he's worried about hurting you? Because...he has a point.

"I d-don't know how. W-we claim each other, we, change and leave--our teeth, all unique, we leave a m-mark and that's h-how we. Solidify the, uh. The b-bond. I." He swallows. "I d-don't know if. That wouldn't kill you."

"We just buy each other jewelry," you deadpan. He actually laughs.

Still holding you so tight. Like he's worried someone's going to take you.

"It's. I-it's an instinct. I k-know I don't. Have to. B-but it's just. So strong. I--you shouldn't--I should not have. You should go--or. I should."

"You'd really come back to me?"

Arms wind tighter. He clutches the back of you head, pushes your hips, desperately seeking the contact he's trying not to want. "I-if I didn't. Assume I'm d-dead."

"I would never get over that. Don't joke."

"I'm n-not. I'd never--only d-death could stop me."

If he's trying not to fuck you today, he's doing a terrible job. Between the erection pushing against you and his incredibly, probably unintentionally romantic words, you can't help yourself.

His breath hitches into a whine when you grind into it, and now you've really done it.

Herman doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He's never done this before. In any form. He's clumsy, shaky, and he can barely keep the breath in his lungs. There's already a bruise forming on his cheek from when he fell out of the tub.

You're still laughing, pulling him to the much more comfortable bed, everything blurring together. You reciprocated his want and he lost his head, pawing at your clothes, crying from pure frustration when he couldn't get a handle on it all. He only learned buttons existed recently, so you of course cut him some slack as you say, but getting him un-stuffed from that bathtub was an ordeal.

He's sore, still painfully aroused, and coursing with nervous adrenaline.

"These aren't expired yet," you huff, pulling a box of something from the back of your nightstand drawer. "I don't know if they'll fit you, though..."

"W-what is that?"

You blush. "It's um, a condom. We use them so we don't have kids until we want to. But you may actually need the magnums...like. Damn, man."

Oddly self conscious about his penis now, Herman swallows.

"W-was. One of your parents, a, like me?"

"No...why?"

"Th-then. It. Won't--you don't. Have to worry. Mhm." He sags. "If th-that changes things I. It's a pr-problem with, my people too so, I, it's no. No hard feelings."

He moves to slide off the bed, but you grab his wrist.

"I don't care at all. Come here."

The moon ceremonies are always rife with stories. Herman's heard countless tales of fate, of tied souls. Selkies may not stay together in proximity, but they still love. Bonds that stretch fathoms are romanticized, held on pedestals, and every little moment between a Selkie's birth and the meeting of their claimed mate is considered to be determined by the tides.

Maybe he was always supposed to find you. Maybe he's different because She commanded it. If fate is real, then there are no mistakes. He hesitates, because he wants to do this right. He's not looking to live as a Selkie, nor a human. Herman wants to live as himself, do what his gut tells him, and right now, he needs his skin.

"D-don't. I h-have to do this, this way, th-the firs time; p-please don't be. Afraid."

He doesn't even know if he can do this. But there must be a reason he can't take another step without it. It's calling, no, screaming to him. Reunite. Be whole. Be pure.

So, he does.

When he steps out of the bathroom, two feet taller, covered in silky spotted fur, you sit up straighter in bed. He's looking himself over with huge, rounded eyes, and you get the impression he's never achieved this before. The best way you could ever describe this is what if a werewolf was a leopard seal.

Long jaws curving into a natural smile. Webbed hands that look more like paws than anything: something between fins and arms, elongated fingers tipped with short claws, a crest that ascends to his elbows. You imagine they'd aid in swimming, though you're certain he can tear through the waves much better in his sea leopard form. His neck's longer, and it looks like he could stretch it even further if he had to.

He studies you intently, like he's ready to give up on this the moment he sees any single twitch of uncertainty.

You are questioning things. He said the first time. It must be significant, necessary to him: but now you realize why he's worried about you getting hurt. You slip out of bed, approaching him, craning your neck more than usual to meet his gaze. Heat radiates off him; he smells like the ocean, like sand. Black spots interrupt the silver sheen, and a shock of white stretches from his chin to his legs, tapering into the insides of his thighs.

Even slouching as he is, he's towering. Herman is tall anyway, but...yes. You see now. He's right to worry.

If he can't do this by the book, will he not stay?

You smooth your hand through his soft fur and he trills deep in his chest, bowing his head, burying his snout in the crook of your neck. A long, forked tongue slips out, trailing warmth. He groans and hazards a grasp -- shockingly gentle, tethered digits wrapping your hip, his thumb pressing into your stomach.

There is a distinct lack of a certain appendage, at least for a moment. His arousal reappears through an unnoticeable slit near his groin, thick, flushed pink, and somewhere in the realm of "human", but there's something different all the same. Without his skin, Herman has a gentle curve, a thick head sitting atop an only slightly less thick shaft.

Like this, the curve's still there, but on the top side, the structure bulges, tapering towards his glans, which is set more flush with the rest of his length.

It's still him. Still your Herm. Gentle, curious, loving. But does he know what strength he has? If he's never ever had sex before...

You grip him softly, and his jaws splay open, swallowing your entire shoulder. Teeth settle into the plush of your skin, delicate, like he can feel what you're feeling. You're thankful for his restraint and work hard not to falter. He asked you not to be afraid. This is important to him. You aren't uncomfortable with this, you just want to survive it.

There are no monsters.

It's kind of tacky. You don't think you could pleasure him without a measure of lube, which you're happy to have on hand, though right now you're just sizing him up, as it were. It you were to squeeze him, you could touch your fingertips together around it. They're just brushing, as it is.

You let out a breath.

You could probably handle this.

"Over...over here."

The bed sags and creaks under his new weight, and he watches you with quiet anticipation as you fill your palm with a generous amount of hopefully-not-expired-lube (does it expire? well, you'll know soon).

You start by making sure he is slathered in the stuff.

His jaws snap shut when you twist your grip down his cock, a low hiss that turns into a squeaking whine escaping between his bared teeth. Massive hips jump into your motions, and you're trying to hide how nervous you are. Are you doing this? Is this bestiality? No, no. He's half-human. Consenting. He wants you. This is just...a custom you've never had to deal with until now, that's all.

"Can you still hear me?"

You sit beside him, pumping slow while he squirms and whimpers. Shakily, he nods, butting his head into your collarbone. His claws bite your skin but don't break it, pulling you, dragging you. Begging without words. You hastily remove your clothes, but stop him when he tries to take control.

"Herm, it -- we have to be careful. Let me?"

You can tell he wishes he could speak, but something's keeping him from removing his skin to give you a crash course. He just solemnly shakes his head, takes your face in massive hands, and chitters softly in your ear. He moves like water. You barely feel jostled. The bed protests. He is huge, powerful, rippling with muscle beneath soft fur, but Herman trembles above you.

Because he sees your point now, lined up, pressed against your heat, he sees the size difference and pauses significantly. He adjusts a little so he's mostly on his knees, holding your waist in one hand, supporting your neck with the other, lifting you. He studies the angle, head tilting here and there, a soft sound rumbling in his throat when he fits himself between your folds.

Resting there. Hesitating at the door. He's breathing deep, hard, tremors in his hands, and he inches his hips against yours. Brief resistance gives way to mutual bliss; he groans loudly, eclipsing the moan you release, and he slowly eases you onto your back. Inching deeper, deeper. Watching you.

It is a very tight fit, but he's nearly to the root, and all you feel is good.

He twitches inside you, a baleful expression haunts his animalistic features, and then he shudders with an ear-rattling cry.

No, no, no. This is not the best start. He can't do this now.

But it's happening.

His hips jolt, you yelp, and he buries himself fully, blinding pleasure ripping his mind apart. With a snarl he traps his jaws shut, fighting the instinct to clamp down on your shoulder, stuffing his untrustworthy muzzle between the nape of your neck and the mattress instead.

Herman growls and trills, filling you as deep as he can reach, satisfying some primal need in his soul and maybe yours, too, because you lock your legs around his waist and arch into him. He feels nothing but shame and failure for this, and yet...you're strangely aroused by it. He can smell it.

"H-Herm, move," you mumble.

Do you want him off? Away? Or--oh.

Impatient, you pull back, then take him again. The sensation of that threatens another release, but he kind of thinks that's what you want. He's shamefully, secretly spied the mating rituals from afar, longing for his time to come, and he knows what to do. Roughly. He just doesn't know if he can keep his mind from spinning. This form offers something humans don't have: a bone to support prolonged sessions for maximum chances.

Considering this likely won't result in any kind of offspring, Herman realizes with growing arousal that he can just enjoy you for as long as you'd want him to, not having to stop and recover.

He moves. The noise you make is something he could easily worship. He's careful, easy, smooth. A steady motion at a steady speed, his first release spilling out of you and dampening the sheets. He can't kiss you like this, but he enjoys your taste, dragging his tongue everywhere: lapping the sweat from your chest and neck, doting on your breasts, gently tending to your peaked nipples, all while you rake your fingers through his fur.

He takes a moment to watch you, and it nearly activates a prey drive. Eyes rolled back, face flushed, jaw slack; you're moaning, panting his name, touching him everywhere you can reach. Your smell, your sounds, the way you smooth your hands all over him, it's a sensory overload of the best kind. He doesn't know why Selkies don't want this daily. He doesn't know why mates part for so long, only reuniting to mutually teach pups their various skills.

He's decided. Too afraid to mark you, he's decided it doesn't matter. You. Are. His.

He is yours.

He will suffer nobody disrespecting that.

With a low growl, he bends, following nothing but his instincts now, your blazing heat hugging him so good he can't form a thought in any of the languages he knows. You spasm around him, sucking him in, clenching with every thrust, and he's going to empty his very soul into you this night, he just knows it.

The top of his head resting in the middle of your torso, Herman watches with sinful delight. He disappears into you, over and over, spreading slick across your thighs, making a mess of your lower stomach. You smell so good. He wants a taste.

When that warm, wide tongue snakes its way down your stomach, you know what's coming, but you still catch a breath in your throat.

He's not hurting you, but you might die anyway.

A hoarse keen fills your room as Herman rolls his tongue against your sex, exploring around his pistoning cock. He's growling, purring, and making sounds you don't know words for, throbbing hard with every stroke. He trills in this high pitch, warmth flooding you again, and keeps going.

"H--aah--there. Herm, th-there. Right there."

He's found your clit. And by God is he a good listener.

You take a handful of fur along his neck, caressing him with the other, back leaving the bed, begging him not to stop -- as if you have to.

An affirmative growl leads to your complete undoing.

It's the longest, most powerful orgasm you've ever had. You claw blindly at his fur, clenching around him in a way you're certain he wasn't ready for with the roar he looses, followed by something exceptional.

This is when he actually hurts you. You barely feel it, but you know it's going to be sore later. Herman's claws hook you, his muscles lock. His hips surge into yours with sopping wet slaps, hitting you hard, desperate, needy; filling you more than you have room for. A pool forms under you as you both ride it out.

Too sensitive now, you drag his head away, pressing your face to the space between his eyes as you moan and whimper. In the throes of who knows what -- orgasm number four?? -- he loses his restraint. Before you can stop him, he's holding you against his lap, rocking back on his heels, and his teeth make homes in your skin.

Jaws clamped over your right shoulder.

You're not sure what scares you more:

That he could easily tear your entire arm off with how much of you fits in there, or that it almost felt good.

It didn't. But it almost did.

He freezes.

The pain overtakes the ebbing-away pleasure.

You hold back a little cry.

Herman whines. Grief-stricken. Trembling. Blood drips. He's still buried inside you, there's a mess beneath you both, but he cannot move. He won't. You snake a hand up, cup his jaw, and whisper, "Herm. It's...it's okay."

Your tone is not convincing. He hugs you tight and a high-pitched whimper rumbles out of him.

"Just, gentle. Slow. It's okay. Open your mouth."

You fearlessly hook fingers between razor sharp teeth. You feel like it's important he never looks back on this with regret. His jaws loosen, just a little.

"It'll heal. We're durable. You know there's people who've fallen from planes and lived?"

You're going to need stitches and this is so very obviously a sea leopard bite. There's going to be questions. All you're worried about is keeping him safe, right now.

A sad, mournful trill follows his efforts to release you. He eases his teeth out of your skin. Sits back. And the most pitiful noise. Worry in his eyes. If he had ears, they'd be lower than low. He looks like a guilty puppy. An eight-foot tower of muscle, and he looks like a puppy to you. You can't help but smile, even laugh a little, smoothing his bloody jaws with the hand attached to your un-injured shoulder as you try to remain calm.

You know it's deep. He knows it's deep. You don't look. You can feel the blood dripping. That's enough. "I gotta get my first aid kit," you tell him. Moving to dismount him, but he holds you in place. Head tilted to the side.

He sniffs, licks his maw. Focused on your wounds. He sniffs again, like he's fighting an instinct, but for some reason, you're not afraid. "What do you think you need to do, right now?"

An uncertain grumble.

"I trust you."

He looks at you like you put the moon in the sky yourself.

Jaws part, his tongue lolls, and he cleans you. The entire time, the strangest sensation. Itchy. A little painful. A third, uncomfortable thing: like something's moving around inside the wounds. Only then do you let yourself look, and you gasp.

He seems just as surprised as you are, but, they're healing. Instantly.

"Well," you husk, leaning so he can get to the ones on your shoulder blade. "Guess I'm marked now."

An aroused growl is his response, and you giggle, rubbing your face into the soft fur on his neck.

#text