m!yautja x reader. reader has a pussy but is otherwise undescribed/no gendered language is used. yautja is left largely undescribed so it could be any of your favs. dub con. reader is into it but it's also clearly a make the best of an abduction situation. alien biology/xenophilia. body modification. under-negotiated kink. vaginal fingering. penetrative sex. squirting. breeding kink kinda. surprisingly sappy. MDNI
It's different, somehow, from a being whose culture seems to prioritize strength and prowess above all else. Or nearly, at least, the evidence of his devotion rotting mere feet away, becoming less and less viable for a successful reattachment by the minute. And maybe that's the thing, what has you pleading with him in a language you're not certain that he fully understands - the commonality he's been able to find, the effectiveness of his communication regardless of his wellbeing or the brutality involved. Your connection, your pleasure, is more important. Evolution and circumstance may have made of him a living weapon, but he was willing to sacrifice precious assets for your benefit. Or his own, judging by the proud set of his shoulders when your back arches and your fingers dig into the thick cords of his forearm."
I said your Yautja lover would probably cut off his own fingertips if you could effectively communicate his claws were bad for the pussy, and then I just kept saying things [ao3]
AN: visual reference of my HC for Yautja cock
You're no stranger to the trials of xenophilia. Honestly, the speed at which you've adapted to being kept as a living trophy by a member of a brutal, ruthless alien race you'd up-until-then never known existed or even possessed the framework for re: sentient, extraterrestrial life had become something of an internal point of pride. Perhaps it hasn't been the healthiest reaction, but it has made you the happiest, all things considered, so at some point you figure it has to circle back. To that end, you've made the most of it. Communication was the first, and often most difficult step, but you've found some work arounds. He seems to be able to understand you, at least, even if his own method of expression is often limited to what he can play back of your own words. It presents some problems. Your inability to articulate his name, for one. Situations like this, for another.
He likes watching you pleasure yourself, enraptured by your nimble ministrations, throat clicking along with the soft, wet sounds you pull from yourself. His fingers often trace your own, the violent threat of his claws against your vulnerable flesh making you shiver. You've shown him, with some success, how he can touch you without hurting you, but you can tell by the agitated way his mandibles curl that it's not enough, are left gasping each time he presses his luck, the pads of his fingers slipping dangerously against your slick skin.
"Watch the claws," you hiss and he returns fire, a challenge for your autonomy you've long since shied from, surging up to meet him with your own approximation of a grow until he relents, minutely, fingers flattening as he shrinks away to give you more room to arch and curl and writhe in the pleasure you can only ever give yourself, this way.
You offer him consolation, shudder and shake under the touches you guide him through. Keeping the soft scales of his fingerprints pushed flat against your pearl, his deadly talons kept carefully pointed away. It's enough, usually, but there are times when his nature rears, nights when his pride rankles and you can see it then, his gaze caught where he can't quite reach you, his own digits left to frame your cunt while you take your own breath away. You can imagine, best you can, how he must see it: bested by such pathetic little things, like fleshy worms toiling in the dirt underfoot, and yet unable to crush them for all his might, bound to your pleasure as he is. As he allows himself to be.
But Yautja are surprisingly adaptable.
You're inspecting examples of his written language when he returns - some hunt on another planet that had kept him away for days. Normally, he brings you with him, but this excursion had seemed to have some ceremony ascribed to it, if the amount of ornately adorned weaponry he'd brought along had been any indication. Alone, you'd passed your days hidden away in his shelter, well aware of the risks you took upon yourself every time you stepped out without his protection. His kin seemed to tolerate your presence, for his sake, but the limitations of their patience waxed and waned with his coming and going, and you were content to while the days away pacing and pretending your worry is rooted only in concern for your own position, not for the captor who you've come to tolerate, sure, but not miss, right? And yet, there you are, poring over texts as you attempt to find a connective thread, some way to bridge the gap. He can read your writing - or the technology within his helmet's UI can, at least. But the only time he's ever truly frightened you since coming under his care was when he found you trying to don the article, curiosity getting the better of you, and you'd gathered very quickly that there must be some sort of cultural significance to the piece distinct from the rest of his armor which he didn't care if you handled beyond the caution he would give you about the built-in weaponry. And so you're left at a disadvantage, as you so often are, asking him to transcribe your writing in his own so you can ponder the patterns in his absence. It's largely fruitless, and you're happy enough for the distraction of his return, stretching your arms above your head as you offer him a welcoming smile -
Only to shrink back, apprehensive, as you take in his rigid stance, impressive form backlit by the live edge of his plasma blade.
Fear grips your chest, squeezes the breath from your lungs in a silent wheeze. There's a part of you that always knew this day would come, when he'd decide he'd grown tired of your pliant, soft body and replace you with a new distraction - a new alien trophy, or a mate of his own kind. This tentative safety had always had a looming expiry date, and you were never naive enough to dream he'd return you home, but neither had you imagined this, a swift execution at the hands of your - what? Lover?
More fool you.
His footsteps ring in the room, tread ominously heavy. You know from experience that he's capable of being silent when he wants to be, imagine how his previous victims have felt in this exact moment: the dawning horror of realizing your hunter has ceased the game, finds no more merit in stealth. You feel woefully underprepared for your own endgame.
"Wh- what are you doing?"
There's no answer, of course, at least not one you can decipher. He chitters at you, a low sound you've heretofore interpreted as soothing, though the noise only sets you further on edge now, sharp teeth needling along your spine. He stretches a broad palm across the table, thick fingers planting before you with enough force to tip the edge slightly, his weight pressed forward enough that the ledge bites into your ribs. You respond in kind, leaning away, until his noises adopt a harsher tone and you understand that decently well, settling back into your chair, close enough to share his breath. Metallic, heavy. Freshly fed. Platitudes that might have worked once, in another life, flit to the tip of your tongue. How'd the hunt go? Did you miss me? Bag yourself a new cumdump? Even if he understands, the sentiment won't save you. You've never seen him shy away from a kill.
As if to prove your point, his blade shifts, violent light casting long, twisting shadows across the space between you until it stops at its zenith, the quiet threat of a cold star seconds before implosion. You flinch as it falls, hands rising to protect your head. He doesn't stop you, confident in his arc, and a shriek catches in your throat as the blade falls with a heavy thunk, and you feel the low grit of the table's metal drag across your palm as you fall away from it.
Strong hands grip your arms, catching you before you can hit the floor. Disoriented, you stare back into the apathetic gaze of your captor's mask, the HUD winking mutedly behind the tinted visor as it catalogs your state, tells him all he needs to know to have him pulling you toward the bed before you can even decipher what you've lost. Not your life, it seemed. Not this time. So what -?
The room tilts, your stomach with it, as you take in the scene from your new position over his shoulder: his plasma blade lodged into the center of the table, red light sputtering out, and the smoking remains of two clawed fingertips left to rot like forgotten garbage. He treats you with more care, cradling your head as he lowers you to the bed, his chittering back in that quiet, soothing register. It doesn't work, adrenaline chasing the nausea until it's all bearable, a mother putting aside her fear of blood to check her child's scraped knee. Probably just as unnecessary, to him.
"Let me see," you demand, fussy hands pulling at his vambraces until you can hold both of his hands in your own, dropping the uninjured one when you get properly oriented, find the charred stubs of his middle two fingers on his dominant hand. Your thumb strokes over his knuckle, stops dead of the ragged skin above the wound. Your voice sounds lost when you ask him why.
The tubing of his mask hisses when he releases it, his uninjured hand working along the cords of his neck until he can tilt the visor back. His expression is as soft as you've ever seen it, mandibles working curiously as he chirps at you. You offer him a smile despite your confusion, and he tosses his mask to the side in order to tug you closer, his lower mandibles hooking behind your jaw, the intimate threat he likes to see you temper as you press your lips to his inner teeth. Caught, you can't pull away to demand answers unless he lets you, his hunger not sated until he licks his rough tongue across your own. Yautja don't kiss, as far as you've been able to gather, but he always seems to enjoy this perversion of it regardless. Likes to make you gag on his dextrous tongue while he splits you open. Though it seems he's not feeling so inclined tonight.
He extracts himself when he deems you properly breathless, enough so that you struggle to remember what you were going to ask him until you feel his palms ghosting down your flanks, the caress at once so familiar and so wrong. You catch his injured hand before he can distract you again, marvel fleetingly at how easily he lets himself be led. But the notion is quickly pushed aside, growing concern replacing it as you inspect the wounds more closely.
It's nothing too severe, all things considered. The cuts are clean, his blade sharp, and the flesh cauterized through by the live edge. The exposed musculature is a dark, sickly green, the skies of an open plain building ominously into a storm, but you know enough about his strange biology by now to acknowledge this is better than the livid, acid color of his fresh blood, and all told the only piece of his current wound that gives you sincere pause is the peak of white at the center of each digit, burnt bone exposed to the elements.
You tut at him, rummaging through the pouch that hangs from his hip until you find the medpack he always carries with him, and he coos happily to be doted on. It's a point of pride for both of you, you think, how quickly you'd familiarized yourself with the strange technology. Basic first aid was how you'd first endeared yourself to him, and he'd been eager to show you his advanced methods, the ritual of selfcare clearly just as important to his people as the dangers upon which their pride depends. It's routine now, to help him with it, any time he returns battered and bleeding, which is often enough. He's left kits for your use as well around the shelter, but they all seem so far away when you're already tucked so closely to him and the wound itself seems easily handled anyway.
Well, seems.
You eye the stubs of his fingers, still laying dead on the table. For a moment you wonder if you should ask whether or not he wants them reattached, but you know better than to imply his blade had missed its true mark. So you don't ask, instead collect the pieces from the kit you'll need to clean the wounds, and the fast-acting dermis layer which will keep it protected and encourage his scales to grow over the wound properly. You work efficiently - or as efficiently as you can manage with his free hand dragging sharp claws down the column of your throat. You swat him away, tell him to be serious as you dab at his lacerations just a hair too aggressively. (He can take it, a fact he reminds you of easily, strange chuffing noises telling you how amusing he finds your fretting.) Still, the dermis laces quickly, exposed musculature scaling over as you watch carefully to ensure proper coverage. It always fascinates you, the pinpricks of flesh toughening, growing until they lap each other. The skin of his palms is soft comparatively, surprisingly fleshy beneath rubbery scales. You'd held a gator once, on a field trip, a world-weary juvenile who'd seen more than his fair share of overeager teens, allowing himself to be hoisted with little more than a begrudging, dog-like sigh. Your job had been to hold its belly, and you remember thinking how strange it felt, how unlike anything you'd ever held: tough, thick skin which yielded to your touch with surprising ease, an ample belly which flowed like a sack of sand over your arms. You'd never tell him, but he reminds you of that here, where his flesh turns pale and vulnerable - palms, pits. The corded swell of his inner thighs. Often, he sighs begrudgingly too when you spend too long testing the give of his flesh there.
The scales of his hands are tiny, intricate. It doesn't take long for the dermis to renew them, silvery flesh darkening until you deem it safe and saved. You hold his own hand up for his inspection, but he barely spares it a glance, amber eyes gleaming with something like mischief as he pulls his hand from your grip just to wrap it around an ankle and yank you down the bed.
"Now, hang on!" you shriek, patience growing thin. "Do you maybe want to tell me why you decided to chop your fucking fingers off?"
He doesn't, it seems, an eerie imitation of your own laugh playing back at you as he continues to maneuver your limbs. He gets you spread before him, your thin leggings stretched over the apex of your thighs tightly enough that you know they hide nothing from him, and you let him look his fill despite the heat fanning your cheeks. He wouldn't be here if he didn't want, you reason with yourself, the sentiment getting easier to stomach with each successful hunt your lover returns from, the evidence of his ruthlessness smeared and painted across his body. For whatever else he is, your captor does not strike you as a being much in the habit of pity fucks. There was also something to be said about knowing with near complete certainty that you weren't often being compared to magazine covers, much as you'd tried to break yourself of the habit even before being abducted. So you swallow down the residual shame and embarrassment, let it simmer and coil in your gut until he turns it, clever fingers, into something like pride. Satisfaction.
With his palms spanning your hips, his thumbs work the creases of your thighs, worn spandex catching on the filed tips of his claws. He does nothing to stop it, delights in the way the fabric tugs down, down, his chittering growing excited as the flesh of your tummy reveals itself. You watch his eyes, watching you - hungry, eager - and you slap your hand down over his just as the fabric finally begins to tear, the surprised jolt it elicits nearly enough to make you chuckle, if not for how badly you want answers, at least as best he can give them. To that end, you merely cock an eyebrow at him, chin tilted defiantly as his noises grow indignant. You squeeze his injured hand, feel the throb of his pulse in the sensitive new flesh, and he bares his inner teeth at you, a silent display that once would have cowed you, yet now only seems like a petulant whine.
"Why?" you prompt again, giving his fingers one last squeeze, and his free hand jerks until your leggings give completely, the cold rush of air across your heated skin making you hiss at him.
He meets it, of course, guttural clicks underscoring his point as he shifts the grip you still have on each other until your palms join flat, his own dwarfing yours. With his palm so wide set, it's hard to measure your thumb against his, but your forefinger and pinky only come up to the second knuckles of his mirrored fingers. His middle two, however, the ones that he's suddenly lopped off for some indeterminate reason, had lost much of their height, comparatively. Truncated now just above the first joint, these fingers stretch only slightly longer than yours, soft new flesh a jarring contrast to the yellow claws which curl over your other fingers.
Still, you don't know what he means by this.
"They're shorter now, yes?"
His face pulls something convoluted, and you file it away for future reference, ninety percent certain you'd just witnessed the Yautjan equivalent of an eyeroll. And yet his movements are patient and sweet, his hand dropping to trail the two soft tips of his mangled fingers down your palm, dance feather-light over the vulnerable skin of your wrist.
"That feels nice," you comment almost absently, and cock your head in confusion when he chirps encouragingly. So you mimic him as best you can, your own touch barely there as you skirt your fingers up to his elbow, mapping the thick musculature which flexes and pulls as he keeps touching you in turn: across the bridge of your shoulder, down the valley of your chest. He hooks the claw of his forefinger into the hem of your collar and pulls up, his free hand pushing the fabric up with his palm pressed flush to your flesh the whole way. Nearly bare before him, he lays you back down again, his dreads hanging around you as he lowers himself onto one strong arm. You tilt your face to his, hum appreciatively when his mandibles bloom for you and his tusks notch behind your jaw again.
There's a comfort here, nonsensical as it seems, one of the first reassurances you'd managed to glean from your situation: if he wanted to kill you, he would have.
You don't know why you've carried it with you this long, why it still gives you solace more than any of the other mounting evidence. Really, you don't even know why you ever found it comforting. He'd never forced you, exactly, but there'd always been that hovering threat. What would you do without him? What would he do if you displeased him? The kiss, such as it is, had been the first time you'd come to accept that you were accepted. Just as you were, just as you are. You'd been asked to change so much of your life, but with jaws made soft just for you, he'd been able to show you that he was willing to change, too. So you revel in it, still. In the humid warmth of his upper mandibles stretched over your nose, in the thrill of him controlling your breaths completely. You like feeling him like this, so all consuming. Like it even better when his rough tongue tries to twine with yours. It's clumsy, usually, your bodies not very well suited for each other, and yet despite that - or perhaps because of it - it excites you more than any other kiss you've shared with your own kind.
Just as your chest begins to ache with need, he pulls away, lets you catch your breath while his tongue laves over your jaw, down to the crook of your neck, his own approximation of trailing kisses. Your fingers thread into his dreads, hold him close as best you can despite being under no delusion. With your body pliant and open beneath him like this, he will go wherever he damn well please. But his tongue is only a distraction, his continued touches trailing down your flank, over your hip. Ticklish over the crease of your thigh, an automatic misfire of synapses as your body frets over vital arteries and the living weapon currently tracing them. Still, you trust him, tilt your hips when the rub of raw scales cups your mons, pads of his fingers framing your clit the way you've shone him you like. You sigh, contented, and arch into his touch as his tongue reaches your nipple, a clever distraction that might have worked were you not already wise to his tricks, hyper aware of his grip shifting, fingers curling until -
"Watch the claws," you recite, scripted, and then your body jolts as you realize, sitting up to catch his expression: mandibles pulled back, inner teeth displayed proudly and golden eyes gleaming as he sinks the soft tip of one thick finger into your wet cunt.
Your groan is caught somewhere between relief and exasperation, a low sound which twines with the guttural huffs escaping him. You swat at his bicep, grumbling something about laughing while fingering you for the first time which only makes him laugh harder.
He's been paying attention, despite all his pouting. Quick learner, he concentrates on your face as he works you open on first one, then two broad fingers, the stretch and the strange texture pulling cries from you in record time. You feel overwhelmed, engulfed in his size and pinned in place by his focus, though it's more than just that. More even than the care he took to amputate above his first knuckle, the better to curl his fingers against your front wall and rumble victoriously when it makes you grip his wrist for mercy.
It is also, of course, the fact that he did it at all.
Disgust is a concept you'd slowly been disabusing yourself of. It's useless, really, here on an alien planet. Dangerous, too, when it keeps you from eating even after you've learned to trust your captor's ability to determine what's safe for human consumption. Fear has been harder to shake, but you don't feel it now, despite your better judgement. It's different, somehow, from a being whose culture seems to prioritize strength and prowess above all else. Or nearly, at least, the evidence of his devotion rotting mere feet away, becoming less and less viable for a successful reattachment by the minute. And maybe that's the thing, what has you pleading with him in a language you're not certain that he fully understands - the commonality he's been able to find, the effectiveness of his communication regardless of his wellbeing or the brutality involved. Your connection, your pleasure, is more important. Evolution and circumstance may have made of him a living weapon, but he was willing to sacrifice precious assets for your benefit.
Or his own, judging by the proud set of his shoulders when your back arches and your fingers dig into the thick cords of his forearm.
"Fuck," you mutter, and he purs, very familiar with the word by now. He shifts over you, free hand anchored by your head as he puts more weight behind his ministrations. Your cunt aches already, but it's an empty sort, sore with absence of him as he revels in his new found fun.
"I'm ready, please, just -."
But his mandibles curl, a warning, and his fingers split you open as he sinks as deep as he can, the heel of his hand brushing against your neglected clit. You gasp as your head tilts back, offer the vulnerable column of your neck to him on instinct. He ignores it, sharp gaze casting down the hills of your body to watch how he takes you apart, chittering excitedly when he sees just what has you falling open for him. He rolls his palm cleverly, the flat of it petting your clit as his fingers pump shallow within you and you groan, fingers scrabbling over his broad shoulders, down the light armor still covering his torso to pull at his skirting until you can rake your nails up his thighs and cup the slit that's just beginning to open between them.
"Fuck, you're wet," you whine, a pathetic sound underscored by the soaked squelch he manages to pull from your own pussy at the same moment, just to prove a point.
Vindictive, you try to mimic his movements with your fingers slipping past his lips, snaking alongside his semi-retracted cock, but he chooses that moment to pull away. The hand by your head traces down your flank until he can hook it behind your knee and shove it up against your chest, the other one not far behind, both held in place by one broad palm. He takes a moment to admire his handiwork, his thumb and forefinger tracing sharp claws around your cunt, no doubt framed and forced by your position into a swollen, petaled flower. He collects some slick with his nail, the edge of it catching cruelly on the lip of your entrance, but you ignore the brief flare of pain in favor of watching him lick it off, mottled green tongue working the edge of his claw before he gets curious and sinks his truncated fingers down his own throat.
The display makes you moan, a level of perversion added as you watch him discover the appeal of his own softened edges in real time. A series of clicks follow his fingers from his throat as he pulls them out and takes a minute to look them over, for the first time really inspecting the work you've both done on him. His thumbnail prods at the fresh skin, considering, and you watch a sticky strand of slick and spit stretch between them, his eyes snapping to your own when it breaks, tacky pearls glittering on dark knuckles. He makes a sound that's borderline human, low and deep in his chest.
It sounds a bit too much like the primal roar he lets out when he's defeated a particularly troublesome quarry, though muted and private between you.
His fingers return, overeager. He sinks back in with little preamble, though the flat of his thumb finds your clit quickly enough, as if to make up for it. Not that you need it, moaning as his fingers find that spot inside you that you can't ever reach on your own. You feel so full already, your new position forcing your channel snug around his fingers, but his cock leans insistently against your hamstring as if a threat, a reminder of why he's taking such care to stretch you. This wasn't something you'd ever fantasized about, even if you had long-since found the appeal of his powerful body. You'd loved his cock ever since the first time he'd shown enough patience to get you off with it; and while his mouth had taken some getting used to, there was no denying you loved sucking on his tongue as much as he liked making you do it. Often, on the nights when he was away, your fantasies no longer strayed so far from home, remembering thick thighs braced for you to ride, or a meaty bicep hinged around your throat as his breath labored in your ear. So you were no stranger to wanting him the same way you would have wanted any partner, but with the daggers he wields on his fingers, you'd never really given much thought to how it would feel to be stuffed full of them. Yet now that you have them, you're almost loath to give them up, fighting back your orgasm just as an excuse to keep yourself so perfectly full, keep his focus trained on where his digits fuck you open, fingers scissoring even as he keeps one curled firmly against your front wall. You feel mad with it, unheeding of the noises that spill endlessly from your lips. Endearments and pleas, curses you don't mean, he weathers them all with something not unlike apathy, uncaring of your plight when he's finally got you just where he wants you. When he's finally taken the last bit of purely human relief you had left to you.
"Fuck, take it," you sob, as if he could know your thoughts. And maybe he does, because he chitters almost excitedly and rolls his thumb against your clit and you shudder, nails digging into the meat of the thighs that frame your ribs, hips propped up on the slope of his lap and when did that even happen? "Fuck, baby please, please, just -!"
"Give it," he counters, a bass inversion of your own voice, his throat flexing around the alien sounds.
So you do, head tossed back and feet kicking uselessly, fighting it the whole way for no real reason other than because you know he likes it, likes feeling you thrash beneath him.
Enough so that he doesn't stop, fingers giving you no time to collect yourself before continuing their brutal rhythm, deep with the weight of his hips following after, his heavy cock dragging tacky pre against the back of your thighs. You try to squirm out from beneath him, oversensitive and petulant, but he bears down further, your knees bowing out to the sides to accommodate his considerable breadth and, just like that, you feel it.
"Gonna - fuck, baby, gonna -."
"Yes," he trills, mistaking the way your cunt clamps shut around him. "Give it."
"No," you try to warn him, but your voice stretches high and thin as you struggle to force your own diaphragm to work properly. "Wait, I -!"
He doesn't wait, his thumb merciless on your clit with his fingers buried to the very end of you. Your whole body contracts, struggling to hold back the tide, but it swells until you burst, a font that springs up his arm and across his chest, and you toss your head to the side, too embarrassed to meet his confused gaze.
You expect a chasm of silence to follow, for him to shove away from you in disgust and to storm away in search of a shower. You try to apologize, find your throat closed tight with shame. His weight shifts and you brace yourself for his departure, startle when his tusks nip your inner thigh, the only warning you get before his upper lip curls back and he presses the hidden slits of his nostrils against your mons, inhaling your soaked flesh with a croaky string of clicks.
Heat flushes up your chest, fans over your cheeks. You shove at the high ridge of his forehead, stammering through a demand to know what he's doing. He bares his teeth at you, territorial, and you shrink away as he surges forward, silencing you with his tongue snaking alongside your own. He lets you bear his weight for a moment, chest pressing the breath from your lungs as he uses you as leverage to get his skirting hitched up above his hips. Your knees follow, belting the fabric to his waist as you keep him trapped tight between them. Impatient, you press your calves to his firm ass and he chitters cruelly when the slip of his hard cock against your abused clit makes you hiss.
He just doesn't play fair, is the problem.
You sit up when he pulls away because no matter how many times you see it, it might not ever be enough. His cock is huge, firstly - proportionate with the rest of him, fat head peaking out over thick fingers as he lines himself up. It's also obscenely textured, a bumpy flange which catches on your abused cunt and makes you shiver as he bullies it forward relentlessly. A series of coils follow it, firm flesh which fatten at the bottom as his cock curves up slightly midway down the shaft. It nests in a plain of something akin to stubble, flat, thick projections with a slightly rubbery texture like that of his locs, though these often feel slick and hot, kept supple by the protective clutch of his slit which sits open now, soft lips weeping to kiss your own as he works to wedge himself deep enough within you that they can. One day, he just might.
There's always a hiss of frustration when his cockhead finds your cervix and he relents force for the painful hitch of your breath. It used to worry you, somewhat, made you think it was only a matter of time before he tossed you aside in favor of a partner that could properly take him. It only ever seemed to make him more determined, however, convinced that one day he'd find the winning combination that would make you properly open up for him, and for a brief second you think maybe he has, as an extra girthy ridge plugs past your taut hole which you don't remember ever being able to take before. But then he rocks his hips and his fingers disappear between you to stroke the remaining length and you whine, high and thin and pleading, when you realize that someday, he might actually make you take more.
Of all the noises he can mimic, you've never actually heard him coo before. The noise he makes now, however, is eerily similar, a soft, glottal hitch in his throat as he fans a hot breath over your cheek. It's sympathetic, or at least mockingly so, but your thoughts feel too foggy to find the end of it, comb the knots out and find the source. So you decide that he's being sweet, consoling you even as his hips jerk almost violently, shuttling you up the bed just to cage you in place with his triceps where his elbows are planted above your shoulders. He's folded near in half like this, but it lets him keep his face close to yours, his mandibles scraping precariously over your jaw. You take the threat for what it is, mouth falling open with a moan to let him press his inner teeth to your lips, his tongue knotting with your own until your thoughts, already scattered, begin to lose shape.
Somehow, it's like this every time, still, so overwhelming that you struggle even to reciprocate, reduced only to clinging limbs and breathy curses as he pulls pleasure from you which you weren't even aware you had within you. It's such a sharp contrast to the things you know he's capable of outside of this room, a devotion which you struggle to make sense of given the circumstances of your meeting. Sometimes, late at night, you wonder if it's simply another facet of it, another way to conquer, but then you feel his breaths beneath your palm, soft and safe, or the ruin of nails scraping your scalp now, and know that whatever this is - for better or worse - is mutual.
"Love you," you gasp when he lets you, tongue retreating to lick the drool from your lips, more important than the following heave of breath.
His tusks click loudly against your teeth, the crown of his brow dropping against your own as amber eyes bore into yours. You hiccup, overwhelmed, and your fingers scrabble to keep him close even before you understand why. His hips piston into yours, bodies flush enough that the texture at the base of his cock rubs against your clit with each stroke. Entwined like this, the plating of his chest armor keeps moving over your nipples and you arch into it, feet planting to help you work your hips against his until, impatient, he grips the crest of your hip in one strong hand and digs uneven fingers into your flesh to keep you still. He fucks into you desperately now, thighs slapping against your ass as his eyes go a little unfocused, mandibles tracing your face where his vision can't quite.
So close, the throaty groan when he cums shakes your bones. You feel a familiar flood of heat against your gate, a private thrill that makes your breath hitch as you follow after him, left writhing with the impossible fantasy of being bred by him. It's hard to hear his pleased clicking through the rush in your ears, but the soft headbutt he presses you into the mattress with gets your attention, makes you watch as his throat works around the foreign tongue he's learned so well.
"Love you."
With a smile, you reach for his mutilated hand and press a soft kiss against the tender skin.