I Wanna Know Where People Have Lately Gotten The Audacity To Leave Comments On Fanfics Talking About

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Milk and Water Pt. II

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: the aftermath of letting him in

pt.I

(art credits: @yunonoaii)

warnings: 18+ content

“…what. the. fuck.” You mutter to yourself, watching the scene before you unfold.

“mmm, how about letting me in now? promise i won’t bite you too hard” His eyes were dangerously seductive.

Your desktop fan and the slight rustling sound of (what you could only assume was) him touching himself filled the eerie silence of your office space.

However, he could still tell that you were hesitant to let him in, especially considering what he just did to D.D.D.

“how about this, sweetheart we-“

“if i open this door.” You cut him off. He shuts up quickly and halts his movements with a blank stare. His eyes watching you intently.

“you come straight to me, or else i swear to fuck. it will not be a good time for you. you copy?” Your hands were firmly grasping the edge of the desk as you stared the man in his color changing eyes.

“i promise” He kisses the window and you give him one last short lived glare before unlocking the door for him.

BZZT!

He slowly turns away from you and walks toward the door and you felt relieved to hear a light knock a few seconds later before he let himself in.

“see? you can trust the milkman” He grins.

He was a mess. Between the torn clothing, the blood, and his unzipped slacks that displayed his black briefs holding back a huge bulge, he honestly looked like something out of a wet dream.

“this is quite a small space… you think i’ll be alright in here?” He closed the door behind himself and strides toward you.

“you don’t have any choice but to be alright” You retort and he chortles.

“i love this mouth of yours… i’ve never crossed paths with a human as bold as you…” He tilts his head, placing a hand under your chin to lift it a bit.

“unless you’re actually scared… and using this boldness as a tactic..?” His irises turn white once again and his grip on your chin tightened slightly.

Though you were enduring a near death experience right now, being that you were this close to a doppelgänger, you were unbelievably horny.

“tactics?” You start. You already knew that you probably wouldn’t be able to get out of his grip just by moving, so you used a more… inappropriate approach.

You took a step closer to him, closing in the 2 foot gap that sat between the two of you and you placed your palm over his hard-on.

His grip immediately loosened a bit and his fingers twitched against your skin. What a reaction that was…

You feel more confident, realizing that he’s just another horny good looking guy. “is there a reason i should be afraid of you?” You ask, hand squeezing around him and a finger rubbing his tip.

He shudders and his hand falls from your chin and rests around your throat. His forehead tapped against yours, and your eyes were fixed on each other. “…you really are something”

“wish i could say the same for you“ You start, breaking the eye contact to look at his lips and sharp canines. “you’re just a slutty and messy excuse of a monster” Your words would probably be venom to anyone else, but this only riled him up more.

You felt his throbbing under your palm and grin to yourself before being greedily pulled into a kiss. For a brief moment, you could taste a metallic bloody taste on his tongue.

You moaned at the warmth of his mouth and felt his hands rested on your hips, rubbing circles into the area.

You release yourself from the kiss with his bottom lip between your teeth and a smile. “desperate, are we?” You tease.

“painfully…” His eyes glistened. “what’ll it take to get those pretty lips to go a little lower?”

“show me what yours can do first and i’ll see about returning the favor” You challenge. His eyes go back and forth between yours before he kisses you again.

This time however, he started to undo your uniform. Groaning so deeply that you felt the rumble in your throat. His skilled hands loosened your belt and your slacks came down and off.

Next he lowered himself and lifted you a bit to get off your socks and shoes, making him get more sloppy and needy within the kiss.

At this point he was squatting and you were standing over him, holding both sides of his face. His hands travelled up and down your leg as he stayed in his position and this time, he’s the one to break the kiss.

You were both breathing heavily, and staring each other down. You almost forgot your resolve and let him fuck you right then and there.

But you had to stay strong, for both of you guys’ sake. You take a deep breath in and til your head.

“well, you gonna show me? or are just sit there and look delirious from a simple kiss?” You teased.

“…may i?” He asks with a slightly raised eyebrow, gesturing toward your leg.

“go ahead”

“hold on to something right”

“why am i h- shit!” You would’ve fell right to the ground if it wasn’t for the shelf behind you that held last months documents. Albeit, they’re scattered over the floor now.

Your legs were snatched from underneath you and each one was hooked over the man’s shoulders. His warm breath against you felt sinister. It sent a slight chill up your spine.

His eyes stared down at your sex and he licked his lips, looking more excited than you did for this. “don’t let go” He says before using gis fingers to spread you sticky lips.

His tongue pressed hard into you and drug from your hole, up to your clit. You bit your lip at the warmth and felt your back arch against your will.

“ha~ this all you got? Thought you said you’d be bet- anghh~!” Your eyes widen and your mouth drops at the new feeling below.

“you were saying?” He mumbles into you. His tongue was longer with a pointy tip, and his lips were wrapped tightly around your clit.

The pleasure was almost overwhelming. You could definitely admit that he made you eat your words and replace them with loud endless moans.

As you felt yourself getting closer you began to grind your hips over his face, chasing after your high.

“don’t stop” You could barely get out the last word before the wave of immense overstimulating pleasure came over you.

You curse and take in a few deep breaths, calming yourself down a bit, and only then did he let your clit go with a ‘pop’, making your legs to twitch.

“that wasn’t fair” You jokingly glare at him, the sweat making your skin shine and chilly from the fan air.

“i told you i was better” He wipes his chin with his thumb and licks it clean without breaking the eye contact.

“you have to be some sort of… sex demon” You shake your head in disbelief.

“maybe i am?” He lets you tug him closer by his tie and give him another sloppy kiss. The change in size of his tongue being just below too much for you as it explored your mouth.

“well let’s see how long you can last then… hm?” You ask, beginning to leave a trail of light kisses on his next before a harsh bite.

You could feel him shudder and decided to have him sit in your office chair. “let me borrow this..” You say, undoing his tie while he sat.

You spin the chair around and bring both of his arms to the back and tie them to the chair. When you spin his back around, his had such a mischievous grin that you went ahead and addressed.

“yes, i know you could probably get out of that in a heartbeat” You start and roll your eyes. He chuckles, amused at your awareness. “but, will you?” It was your turn to put on the sly grin now. The second he managed to break free from his restraint, would be the moment you’d send him off.

“…” He read your face, bit knowing if he should say something sly or not.

“right, thought so” You smile and give him a few taps on the cheek.

You kneel between the man’s legs, finally addressing the large and throbbing penis before you.

“god you’re hard… you weren’t kidding when you said you needed help” You joke, rubbing his wet tip through his boxers with you finger.

He grunted a bit and readjusted himself in his seat. You look up at him before pressing harshly on it with your thumb.

“oh fuck you~” He throws his head back and you giggle.

You reach for the hem of his briefs and tug at them, signaling him to lift his hips. Once he’s exposed, you could really see the girth and length of him.

He was veiny, thick… bright pink tip, and god knows how long it was.

You put your hand around the base, it was warm and nearly pulsating. Your pace was moderate, giving him just enough to work with. You knew it was a nice steady pace when his hips slightly jerked up for more friction.

“needy boy wanting to fuck my hand? this wasn’t even the main event you asked for, love” You coo, strengthening the grip you had on him by a smidge.

“i can’t help that you know how to use those hands of yours so well” He remarks, still facing the ceiling.

You pump your fist higher up and use your own skilled tongue to drag along his vein.

“@$?!~” He moaned and immediately looked down at you with a snarl. An almost threatening one telling you that he wanted more.

And were you planning on giving it to him? Absolutely not.

You stare right back at him and smirk, using the same motion and occasionally sucking the pre cum from its leaky pink source.

“i’m gonna cum” Your eyes welled a bit at the large shaft triggering your gag reflex. But he was close so you would endure the slight pain.

His thrust his hips up a few times and you force your head as far as you could before completely stopping.

“fuck- why’d you stop” His voice was almost a whisper and suddenly thick white ropes shot into the air and landed on his thigh.

“oh i’m sorry, i’ll keep going” You reach for his most sensitive spots, overstimulating him into a nervous laughter as he begged you to stop.

It was fun watching him experience more than he could handle, but all good things come to an end.

He sighs in relief, sweaty, heaving, and dazed.

“can i be freed now?” He asks.

“sure, why not. looks like you’re done here anyway” You shrug.

“who’s done?” He stands up, simply snapping the tie apart.

“oh… you’ve still got more in you?”

“im the milkman, i never run out” He suddenly picks you up and sits on you on the desk. Jesus, these things are strong.

You wrap your hands around your neck, suddenly feeling the arousal for another round yourself.

His hands find your slick entrance, teasing the outside and slipping two cold slender fingers into you.

“mmm!” You mean into the kiss, holding onto his forearm as he fingered you at an inhumane pace. You break away and cat h your breath trying to slow him down a bit.

“i don’t want to cum from this, put it in” You say.

“yes ma’am” He lines himself up without your entrance and slowly pushes himself in with a moan. You could every centimeter of the stretch as he went deeper.

You tapped the back of your head onto the window behind you and felt him kissing on your neck and collarbone.

“fuck you’re big” Your voice slightly shook as you stated the obvious.

“and you’re so warm and wet inside, i ashamed to admit that i almost came putting it in” He chuckled before biting back another groan.

RIIIIING

RIIIIING

You snap your head in the direction of the phone and see D.D.D. calling.

Shit.

“stop, i have to take this.” He halts his thrusts and you grab the phone. “hello?”

“agent number” A deep voice says over the phone.

“5 5 8 4 3 7” You state clearly.

“thank you agent (Y/N), we’re calling about a few M.I.A. cleaners? it says in our system that you were the last to call. is everything alright?”

“ye-es~” You feel something rubbing your g-spot and look over at Francis. ‘stop, now.’ You mouth silently. He just smirks and speeds up.

“are you sure? you sound like you’re being threatened” The man on the phone asks.

“mhm~, im fine sir, just a little shaky” You put your hand over the phone speaker and look at Francis.

“what the fuck is wrong with you??” You ask, interrupting yourself with a few moans.

“just a little thirsty for some water” He thrusts harder, causing him to hit your g-spot, and your clit back to back.

You cover your mouth with your shirt and moan into it, hearing the buzz of a voice on the phone. Honestly you should be scared, they could show any minute, but right now, you could care less.

“im gonna cum” You whisper, still being mindful of the potential listeners.

“yeah?” He grabs a young and stands straight up, slamming you down into his cock. You let out something just short of a scream into the crook of his neck and find yourself twitching and shaking in his grip.

You heard a splash and felt him fill you up with his seed. You both were a moaning, groaning mess, heavily breathing in place.

“(Y/N), do you copy?……. we’re on our way” The phone then hangs up and the low buzzy voice is replaced with a prominent beep.

“you have to go, they’re coming” You lazily try to leave his strong hold with a tired push against his chest.

“but first” He puts you back on the desk where you rest your back against the cold glass window. “a drink..” His tongue grows longer right infont of you, and cleans you from your ankles to your navel, and of course he ran it over the bundle of nerves he’s been abusing all night, making your body jolt.

“you’re so delicious… i wish i could always taste you” His tongue goes back to its normal size.

“well i’ll get going now… i’ll be seeing you again soon, love. i’ll try not to cause too much trouble next time…” He gives you a peppery kiss on the nose and leaves.

Well, that’s one way to end your day shift…

This is an appreciation post for the fanfic authors who aren’t included on rec lists

For the fanfic authors who don’t get art of their fics

For the fanfic authors who can’t get to 1000/500/100 hits

For the fanfic authors who don’t get comments/reviews

For the fanfic authors who write for small fandoms

For the fanfic authors who write rarepairs or gen fics

For the fanfic authors who get hate for the ships/characters/fandoms they write

For the fanfic authors who write in English despite it not being their first language

For the fanfic authors who don’t write in English

For the fanfic authors who don’t think anyone reads or likes their work

For the fanfic authors who aren’t big name fans

For the fanfic authors who don’t get requests in their inboxes

For the fanfic authors who can’t write stories that are more than a thousand words

For the fanfic authors who only write one ship

For the fanfic authors who are just starting

For the fanfic authors who have been writing fic for years

For the fanfic authors who use fanfic to practice writing

For the fanfic authors who write self-insert fics

For the fanfic authors who write about their OCs

For the fanfic authors who write to vent or cope

For the fanfic authors who are just waiting for their big break

Keep creating, I love you ❤️

The Enemy of My Enemy

(The Predator/Yautja x F!Reader)

CW:  Violence; smut (monsterf*cking; fingering; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 9889

AN:  This was originally requested by an anonymous person!

The distress call is what bring Mah’tu to Earth:  a Yautja ship infested with a single xenomorph that escapes its cell to wreak havoc before the ship crashes onto the planet of the oomans.  Mah’tu, in a nearby star system, is the closest to handle it.

Thank the gods he has the foresight to call for aid.  A single xenomorph on a planet full of soft, weak creatures…it turns into an infestation almost immediately.  Mah’tu is grateful the Yautja ship at least crashed in a small ooman settlement

Still, the small settlement is overrun quickly.  Mah’tu finds himself outnumbered, outgunned, overpowered.  He sees some oomans as he fights:  they scurry around, they try to run.  Few manage to escape before they are slaughtered.  He pays them no mind.  They are a weak species and only worthy prey because of their inventiveness, but these oomans are panicky and stupid with fear, and easy prey for the serpents.

He finds himself cornered in a large building.  He hears the faint crackle in his comms of other Yautja as they approach Earth, but he himself is lost:  he’s trapped with two of the xenomorphs, and he dispatches one easily, but the second stabs him with its barbed tail, sprays acid blood, and Mah’tu falls. 

The Yautja are strong, durable.  They heal quickly, and neither of these injuries would be fatal, but he feels his vision edging in black, and he knows once he’s unconscious, the serpent will kill him.

Mah’tu is a noble warrior.  He was Blooded young.  His bloodline is ancient, and he’s sired many Yautja that will live on beyond him, so he does not mourn his own lost life as he slips out of consciousness.  At least he won’t feel the blow, though there’s little honor in that sentiment.

It surprises him, then, when he doesn’t die.  When he instead wakes up, comes to, and finds a ooman—small, trembling—crouched beside him.

No, not beside him.  Not exactly.  The ooman is crouched between Mah’tu and the second xenomorph.  It lies dead and twitching as it oozes its acidic blood from where the ooman has impaled it with a metal pole through its long skull.

The ooman is a female of the species, even smaller than the males, and Mah’tu sits up with a grumble and takes in the measure of his savior.  A small thing, filthy.  Stinking of fear and sweat and the rich metallic tang of ooman blood and the acrid, biting odor of serpent blood.  Trembling as she turns and stares at him, her too-wide ooman eyes studying him warily.

How did something so small and cringing manage to kill a serpent, and with a piece of scrap metal, no less?  Mah’tu had seen better trained, better armored Yautja fall to serpents, and yet…

He knows what it means to kill one of the kiande amedha.  The Yautja revere them as the ultimate prey, and to kill one is a feat to be celebrated. 

He does it with little thought:  the ceremony is ingrained in him, as it is ingrained in all of his kind.  To kill a kiande amedha means the ooman is Blooded by Yautja culture, so Mah’tu reaches down and drags a claw through the pooling acid blood of the serpent.  Then he reaches out to the ooman, who flinches away from him, makes a whimper of fear.  But he reaches out his other hand to grasp the filthy face.  He holds her still and traces a small mark onto her forehead that makes her cry out at the sting of the blood as it scars her. 

He marks the ooman—you—as Blooded.  In Yautja culture, it means you are an adult, capable of Hunting alone.  But more than that, it marks you as a full member of the clan, and given the strange circumstances of this moment—Earth, a xenomorph infestation—he marks you as his clan.

When the crackle comes through his comms that his fellow Yautja have arrived, that the military oomans of this sector have loosed a missile of some sort to level this infestation, Mah’tu again acts with little thought.  This is ingrained in him too:  marked as his clan now, he grabs your wrist, tugs you to the roof of the building, and narrowly escapes with you before your settlement is leveled by your government.

He realizes what he’s done once the ship is safely away from your star system.  He’s marked you as Blooded, as his clan, which means you’re his responsibility now.

-----

A famous ooman once wrote that the course of true love never did run smooth.  Mah’tu, without the benefit of any sort of literature course in his Yautja education, never heard the quote, but it doesn’t make it untrue.

Who would have thought the cringing little ooman would be so relentlessly furious at him, once the fact of her situation became clear to her?

Reason must flee your little skull.  There is nowhere for you to go unless out of the airlock into the void of space, yet you fight him.

Or you try to.

The first night you attack him, Mah’tu is taken unawares.  Why would he ever think you’d try?  He’s sitting in the pilot’s seat of his ship when the sensitive appendages on his head alert him to someone behind him, but not quickly enough:  there’s a dull bloom of pain in his shoulder, and it comes accompanied by you yelling some ooman word he does not understand.

He turns in his seat and appraises you.  He takes in the fury on your face, as it cedes to confusion, then dejection.

From the meat of his shoulder, a small shank of metal is half-buried.  He pulls it out, the pain minuscule, the cut already mending.  He examines the weapon, a pathetic thing that you’ve found and tried to shape into something that could kill him.

It makes him chuckle, which sounds like a trilling to you.  Then he stands, takes your arm in his paw, and drags you back to the storage area he cleaned out to house you. 

“Stay,” he orders you, and he locks you in anyway.  He cannot know how you bristle to be ordered about as you would order a dog.

The second time you attack him?  You’ve loosened the bolts on a seat in the cockpit.  You must have been at it for hours at a time, working your feet against the fastenings while you slouched beside him and stuck the fleshy part of your mouth out in a pout.  Mah’tu bends in his seat to recalibrate a certain piece of equipment, and a moment later, the loosened chair smashes against his skull.

The chair breaks into several pieces.  His skull doesn’t break at all.

“God fucking dammit,” you breathe out as he straightens out, stands to his full height. 

He locks you in again, and as he drags you to your quarters, you try to punch him.  Your little fists aim for his face, his eyes, his throat, and they glance off of him with no effect.  You land a punch to his mouth and it cuts your hand.  Mah’tu smells the metallic tang of your blood as he tosses you into your cell.

He thinks on it a beat later, then tosses in a med-spray so you can heal your fragile ooman skin.

-----

From there, you change your tactics.  You abuse him verbally.  You narrow your eyes into slits and call him all sorts of names:  monster, alien, crab-faced motherfucker.  Slimy fucked-up lizard.

When he’s alone in his quarters, he must look up some of the words you use.  A crab, for example, is a harmless water creature on earth that oomans eat.  Mah’tu cocks his head, considers it.  Have oomans ever eaten a yautja before?  The records are silent on the matter. 

The verbal abuse is much like your physical abuse.  It glances off of him.  His kind have little capacity for metaphor, for simile or abstract thinking, so when you call him a “motherfucker” it does not bother him because you are wrong—he has never mated with his dam.  A silly thought.

-----

Your fury never seems to lessen, but it does cool into something more refined and less ruled by passion.  You finally seem to grasp that he means you no harm and that attacking him could leave you stranded in a star system your kind has never even heard of before.

You don’t try to attack him anymore, and your verbal assaults have lessened as well.  You still twist your too-soft mouth around into a look that means displeasure, and Mah’tu senses that you are assessing the situation.  Waiting for an opportunity to escape him.

So be it.  You may be a Blooded member of his clan now (a fact he must remind himself, as your behavior often puts him in mind of a youngling, rash and stupid), but he is your elder both in age and tradition.  He has followed all the protocols:  he’s alerted the head of his clan, who required several confirmations that yes, you were a ooman and yes, you had killed a kiande amedha.  He registers your DNA in the clan’s codex.  Lists both your ooman name and the Yautja one he chooses for you (his name means “Swift Judgment,” but yours translates roughly as “Vexing Thorn”). 

And though you are Blooded, as your elder, he takes up your training.  Against his judgment (swift or otherwise), it is protocol, so he trains you.

Wisely, he starts by teaching you defensive moves.  Why put a blade or worse, a plasmacaster, in your twitchy little paws?

If he hadn’t seen the evidence of your killing the kiande amedha, Mah’tu would doubt it now.  Even accounting for the general weakness of oomans, their lack of speed or agility or flexibility, you are terrible.  Your reflexes…do you even have reflexes? 

Mah’tu shows you how he’ll attack you, he shows you how to counter, he comes at you at quarter-speed, and still you fail.  You take his punches, his slaps, the sweeps of his leg, and you always end up on the mat in the training room of his ship.

As your elder, he tries to give you helpful advice.

“You are very slow,” he tells you.  “Move faster.”

His advice is not well received.  “Fuck you,” you spit from your place on the floor, wheezing as you try to catch your breath.

Mah’tu shakes his head.  “No, you must train more.  How will you ever join the Hunt?”

“I’m not a hunter, asshole!”

“You are Blooded.”

“I’m a goddamned dispatcher at a heating and cooling company!”

He considers this—he did not know that the oomans could control the weather or environment in this way.  He will add it to the codex so that other Yautjas may investigate it.  But it likely will not help you on the Hunt.

He holds his hand out to you, and you glare at him for a long moment before you take it and allow him to haul you back onto your feet.

“Again,” he says.  “I will attack you from the front, and you must feint and then counter by striking me low on my arm.”  He pauses and adds, “I will go as slowly as I can.”

You make a growling noise in the back of your throat.  “Fuck. You,” you grit out, but you change your stance as he shows you.

A second later, you’re on your back again, but at least you land a blow before Mah’tu puts you on the floor.  Your weak little fist glances off his arm, but he is feeling generous and counts it as a win for you.

-----

At his next Hunt, Mah’tu judges that you are not prepared, so he leaves you behind at base camp.  He’s not concerned that you’ll try to escape:  if you run off, he’ll easily track you.  If you try to steal the ship, you won’t get far, as you don’t know how to fly it.

“Stay here,” he orders anyway, and you do that thing with your too-close eyes where they move in their sockets.  He believes it may mean you are displeased, but most of your expressions seem to mean that.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

He shakes his head, touches his hand to his chest.  “No, I am Mah’tu.  Not cap-tan.”

You do the thing with your eyes again.  “It’s an expression.  Sarcasm, in this case.”

He tilts his head, and you clarify, “a kind of joke.”

Ah.  He nods, then turns back to his weapons.  He inspects them one last time, then holsters them on his body.  The different blades, the net-gun, the darts and spear.

“I will return victorious.  You will stay here, little sain’ja.”

You scowl at the nickname but say nothing, and Mah’tu doesn’t tell you that it means “warrior.”  It is a jest because you are no warrior.  A kind of joke, as you’d say.

-----

It is a successful Hunt.  It brings him much honor and new trophies. 

You are unimpressed, but when he strings up his kills and begins to clean the skulls, you make an injured noise and dart to the edge of camp to retch.  The retching goes on and on, so much so that Mah’tu pauses in his efforts to check on you.

“You are ill?” he asks.  “You have eaten something poisonous, perhaps?”

“No, you fucking psycho!”  You stand up, swipe the back of your hand along your mouth.  “You killed those creatures just for their skulls?”

“Oomans kill for trophies as well,” he points out reasonably.

“Yeah, but we also eat the meat.  Venison, turkey, whatever.  Some humans, you know, use all of the animal.  The skin and horns and stuff.”

Ah, a misunderstanding.  It’s bound to happen.  Mah’tu puts his hand on your shoulder and lowers his head to show he is sorry for not explaining better.

“Do not worry,” he tells you.  “We will eat these creatures’ flesh as well.”

You blink at him, and then you turn away quickly to retch again.  Perhaps there was a misunderstanding, but perhaps you are ill as well. 

“I will get you a med-kit,” he tells you.  “It will cure your illness quickly.”

“Dude, really?”  You heave again, but your stomach seems to be empty of any contents.  “Honestly, fuck you.”

-----

Living with you is never easy, but it does reach moments of ease, especially when considering how you tried to kill him at first.

He trains you, or tries to.  You do get stronger, leaner.  You lose some of the ooman softness you had, and through your spat-out cursing, Mah’tu learns small details of your life on earth.  How, for example, your role as weather-shaman was a passive one that entailed a lot of sitting and little movement.  You apparently were a leader of sorts, ordering other weather-shamans on where to go to bring heat or coolness to other oomans. 

There is a limit to your abilities as a fighter, though, and you reach them quickly under his tutelage.  You can block many of his attacks, and you can land a blow occasionally, but in twenty sparring sessions, you are lucky to draw his blood once. 

He finds that the sparring helps to spend your general fury at him, and the time afterwards—your muscles trembling, your body fatigued and bruised—is almost pleasant.  Mah’tu has always been interested in the ooman civilizations, and when he asks his questions, you usually answer them honestly.

“Who were your sire and dam?” he asks.

“My mom and dad?”

“Yes.”

“Then say ‘mom’ and ‘dad,’ you weirdo.”

This is how Mah’tu learns that word choice is important to oomans, that your species uses words to differentiate things that are essentially the same thing.

“I never knew my dad.  He took off before I was born.  My mom was an alcoholic.  She died when I was twenty.”

“You did not know which clan sired you?”

You narrow your eyes at him.  “Fuck you.  I knew my dad’s name, but that was it.”

“Did you share your si…dad and mom with others?”

That, for some reason, makes your mouth turn up at the corners, your lips curved upwards.  “We call those siblings.  Brothers and sisters.  And no, I was an only child.”

“Ah.”  Mah’tu nods knowingly.  “Your dad was not worthy to sire many oomans.”

And that, for some reason, makes you laugh.  It doesn’t sound like a Yautja’s laughter, but it isn’t unpleasant, Mah’tu finds.

“Mom would have liked that.  Not worthy.  Well, the bastard never paid a cent of child support anyway.”

-----

The two of you continue like this:  misunderstanding each other, clarifying what confuses the other, navigating your two separate species and cultures.

It’s not easy, but it grows easier with each passing moment.  He no longer has to lock you in your room each night, as you no longer try to escape.  He no longer fears your fury (not that he feared it much anyway), so he doesn’t keep such a close eye on you.

He deems you worthy of a blade.  He knows you’ll likely never be trained to a level of plasmacaster, but a small blade, designed and weighted for your size and strength seems appropriate for the rare Blooded ooman.

He spends long hours in his workshop crafting it for you.  His sire was a renowned weapons master, and he passed his skills onto all of his offspring.  Mah’tu forges the metal, hones the edge to such a sharpness that it could split one of the hairs on your head.  He carves the handle to fit your hand perfectly, and finally, he tools a fine sheath out of leather, because he worries that you’ll cut yourself sooner than you’ll cut an enemy.

On the leather sheath, he picks out the symbols for your Yautja name.  His Vexing Thorn.

-----

Mah’tu learns much from you, and he adds all of it to the great shared codex of information so that other Yautja may know and learn.

Your mention of child support, for example.  It is a thing that a sire must use to support his offspring—money, which is the paper goods that represents wealth.  He questions you heavily on this point; Yautja honor is derived from the Hunt, but ooman honor seems to come from which of your species can acquire the most of those paper goods.  It determines who may live in a fine home and who may starve, and when he explains it back to you—to make sure he understands it correctly—you stare at him, then nod.

“I mean, basically.”  But then you try to explain a thing called a stock exchange, and a thing called capitalism, but when he presses certain points, you get confused too.

“I dunno, dude.”  You throw your hands up, a gesture of helplessness.  “I never went to college, and if I had, I wouldn’t have majored in economics.”

-----

Early on, he calibrates to the ebb and flow of your body, and the questions he asks you in regards to your biology is what makes you the most anxious.  Through his bio-mask, he can see how the heat courses to your face.  He can hear your heartbeat increase in cadence, but he cannot understand why you respond in such a way.  A body is a body.  It’s systems and rhythms are what they are.

“You are injured,” he tells you, early.  He’s still locking you in at night, and you’re still scowling at him and calling him, among other things, a fucking lizard asshole. 

“’m not,” you reply.

He breathes the air of the cockpit.  “I smell blood.”

The heat floods your face; it shows white-hot in his mask.  “Shut up.”

“If you are injured—”

“I said I’m not.”

“If you are bleeding, I can get a med-kit—”

“Fuck, dude!  I’m on my period, okay?”

Mah’tu tilts his head and thinks back to the rudimentary studies he’d read about oomans.  “Ah, you are menstru—”

You cut him off with another scowl, but your eyes fix on the stars in front of you outside of the cockpit.  “And by the way, having one’s period in deep space is not as fun as it sounds.  I bet Princess Leia never had to worry about it.”

He does not understand your ire.  “Is this Princess Leia a famed statesman on your planet?” he asks, kindly as he can, but you cut him an icy glare and launch yourself out of your chair and out of the cockpit.

You manage to toss a strained “fuck you” over your shoulder before you leave, as you often do.

-----

So Mah’tu comes to understand the seasons of your body.  He also comes to understand how your feel about those seasons.  He does not mention when you are on your period, though he can tell.  He is sure to give you more privacy, and that helps ease the strain between the two of you.

But with other things, your face does not get inflamed.  When your head aches, or when you twist a joint in sparring, you are free with discussing these things with him.  When you feel hunger or thirst, when you require a blade to trim away the excess hair that grows from your head.  When you feel tired.  You share these things with him.

The only other thing  you don’t share is when you are in heat.  Mah’tu can tell that too, can scent you when your heat is upon you.  It runs in the same rhythm as your period does, the two part of the same cycle that seems to come every thirty or day earth days.

It happens so often, he thinks.  Yauja females only have a handful of heats in their entire long lives, yet you could spawn eleven or twelve oomans in one earth year.  His mind is baffled by the math of it until he checks the codex and learns that no, oomans do not spawn that much.  Despite their numerous heats, they only produce roughly the same number of pups as a Yautja female would. 

Mah’tu sighs and leans back in his seat once he reads that.  He has so much to learn.

The next section in that part of the codex details observed ooman mating rituals, and below that, known instances of Yautja and ooman mated pairs. 

It is the latter that makes Mah’tu lean forward, then glance over his shoulder, then lean forward more:  a furtive move that would put one in mind of a teenaged human boy looking at pornography for the first time, though of course Mah’tu would not know that.

*****

Sometimes you wonder if you were in an accident that has left you in a deep coma somewhere.  How else can you explain the hell that broke loose that night, your small town overrun by monsters?

And how else can you explain the monster who…what?  Kidnapped you?  Saved you?  Because he stole you away from home, but you also saw that mushroom cloud from the porthole in his ship.  Did earth even still exist?  If you could escape, where would you go?

It’s easier to imagine this all as a fever dream.  A coma.  Some consequence of a broken brain throwing out insane story lines around monsters and aliens and space travel to worlds you couldn’t even fathom.

But then reality comes rushing back at you, usually in the form of the giant beast named Mah’tu, swiping at you or tripping you or hitting you with the dull blades of his goddamned fucking spaceship dojo.

Then you realize, arm or leg throbbing, bruise forming on your stomach, eye swelling shut or lip split:  this is no coma.  It’s real life.

-----

He doesn’t kill you.  You learn, over time, it’s because you killed one of those disgusting black things with the giant head full of teeth.  He had traced its blood onto your head, and you finger the scar sometimes when you struggle to sleep at night.

“You are Blooded,” he explains, like you know what the fuck that means.  “You are a member of my clan now.”

Great.  Wonderful.  You finally had a found family of giant lizard aliens.

You try to explain it to him.  Killing that thing was dumb luck.  It was some animal instinct, flailing as it cornered you.  Your hand had found the piece of metal, and the monster came at you, and you had swung in a move of self-preservation. 

“Dumb luck,” you tell him.

But his beady little eyes shine at you, and he lays a heavy paw on your shoulder.  “A warrior’s instinct,” he corrects you.

You snort.  You, a fucking warrior.  You barely passed gym class in high school, cringing during dodgeball, puking during the timed mile run. 

“A mistake,” you counter.

He shakes his head.  “Fate.”

-----

It’s not terrible.  You’re no warrior, but your childhood with an unsteady mother left you with the ability to adapt pretty easily.

He trains you, or tries.  He goes hunting for his psycho room of trophy skulls, but he doesn’t force you to eat the raw, dripping meat he harvests.  He takes the time to feed you a fruit-type stew, great chunks of roasted vegetables, some kind of flatbread.  You recognize the hypocrisy of it—you loved a good burger on earth—but now you’re a vegetarian by default.

He gives you your own space, a narrow storage closet that he cleans out and makes a little nest of furs.  When you hurt too much or get sick, he administers some sort of alien medicine that heals you and gives you a boost of energy, like you imagine old-style Coca-Cola used to do when they made it with a little cocaine.

So you endure, and sometimes—you’ll never admit it to him, the goddamned asshole who stole you away from home—sometimes, you actually enjoy this new life.  When the stress of work and debts and making rent each month and trying to save up for a new car fall away, when you are whittled down to a more essential sort of life, you find that your anxious mind calms. 

You find that you sleep pretty well in that nest of soft furs, all things considered.

-----

The training, though.

The goddamned training.

He is unfailingly patient, at least.  He never once gets frustrated when you fail to move the right way.  In the rare off-chance you land a blow on him, his happiness is outsized, like a parent crowing when their toddler takes their first steps.

It should be humiliating, but sometimes his praise makes you smile in spite of yourself.  You know he’s humoring you, but still.  You’ll take your wins where you can get them.

The problem with your handful of training successes, though, is that he thinks you ready for more.  He introduces weapons with dull blades.  Today, you’re training with some fucking spear thing, and he raps you over and over with his own.  A stinging blow across your knuckles.  A stab to your belly that lands like a punch.  Finally, a curt jab to your ankle that strikes you right on your ankle bone, and you hit the ground with a shriek at the pain that crackles like lightning from your foot.

“Asshole!” you wheeze.  You pull yourself into a fetal position on your side, and you pull your injured foot up towards you.  You flex your foot.  It doesn’t seem broken, but you know it will bruise.  And you know he’ll make you swallow a vial of whatever healing shit he has, and the bruise will heal within the day, and tomorrow you’ll be back here, tears leaking out of your eyes as you stare up at him.

“You were supposed to move to the left.”  He tilts his head, studies you.  “You stepped into my blow instead.”

“Fuck you!”  You spit it out with all the venom you can muster.  Sparring is as much choreography as it is strength and speed, and guess what?  You’ve never danced in your life, aside from some drunken flailing at bars and wedding receptions when you were younger.

At your words, though, he tilts his head the other way, and his bright yellow eyes bore into you.

“Not now,” he replies.  “Perhaps when you are in heat next.”

That immediately takes your mind from the throbbing in your ankle.  You gape at him, and he stares down at you wordlessly.  Did you misunderstand him?  It seems a miracle he can speak at all, and English at that, but he is very literal. 

“What?” you finally manage to choke out.

“If we are to mate, we should wait until you are in heat again.”  He says it so matter-of-factly, and you can feel the blood flooding your face and neck.

“I don’t—”

“It will be upon you in four or five earth days.”

You uncurl yourself and sit up.  “How the fuck do you know that?”

“I can smell you.”

You curl your nose in disgust.  “Oh, gross.  You can smell me?  You sound like a fucking serial killer.  Hannibal Lecter in space.”  You struggle to your feet, and when he reaches out his hand to help, you bat it away.

He tilts his head again, but now there is a question in his eyes.  “Is this a misunderstanding, little sain’ja?  You have said numerous times you would like to mate with me.”

“The fuck I have!”

“Is that not what it means, when you say ‘fuck you’?  The codex indicates that ‘fuck’ means ‘to mate.’”

You gape at him again.  Then you close your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose.  You take a deep breath.  He’s not wrong.  You’ve said ‘fuck you’ a thousand times to him.  Goddamnit.

You keep your eyes squeezed shut, and you manage to say as politely as you can, “yes, it’s a misunderstanding.”

You hear the huff he breathes out, the low growl, and then he replies, “another instance of ooman words meaning different things, then.”

“Yeah, update the codex, dude.”

“I will.”  A beat, and then he adds, “this Hannibal Lecter.  Is he a great warrior in your species?”

-----

The problem is, once he says it, you can’t get it out of your head.

Why do you seem more open to it as time passes?  You read once that Stockholm Syndrome wasn’t real, but perhaps it is and you have some version of it.  Or maybe you’re just lonely, and had been lonely before you got kidnapped by him, or saved by him, depending on the lens you took on the matter.

It’s true that you had been in a dry spell on earth.  You lived in a small town with few prospects.  Everyone your age was already paired up, many married with kids.  You and your ex had broken up a year before the alien invasion, and you’d had no dates in the interim, no offers, no tempting moments with another person.

And anyway, your ex hadn’t been that great.  It had been a relationship of convenience until you had gotten wise to the fact that life with him was not convenient at all.  The sex was mediocre at best, he was always borrowing money from you, and never rinsed his toothpaste down the drain when he brushed his teeth.

He never got you anything as a gift either.  Mah’tu, in comparison, crafted a custom knife for you…which isn’t exactly a necklace from Tiffany’s, but there is no other knife like yours in the known universe, either.

He’s also considerate to your temperament, your likes and dislikes.  He makes sure you have food you’ll eat.  He does his skull-cleaning grossness out of sight now.  More than once, he’s taken a detour to a planet just to show it to you, just to watch you stand on alien soil and gape like an idiot at flora and fauna that no other human has ever seen.

The craziest thought you’ve ever thought:  maybe this fucking alien is the closest thing to a healthy relationship I’ve ever had in my life.

“You’ve lost it,” you whisper in the darkness of your quarters one night.  “You’ve lost your goddamned mind.”

Because you lie there for a long moment, thinking about it, and you find that you don’t need to be in heat (the word alone makes you groan in disgust) to feel the sharp knife of desire lance through your belly at the thought of him.

-----

One night, around the fire of a planet where he’s hunting, you ask him.

“Why did you save me?”  You watch him as he looks up from polishing his knife.  He seems to consider his answer.

“Because you are Blooded, in my clan.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to do that.”

He shakes his head, the dread-like things on his head moving as he does.  “It is required.  You killed a kiande amedha.”

“I’ve told you, that was an accident.  Dumb luck.”

“Many Yautja die in the attempt to kill one.”

“But I’m no warrior.  I could never kill another.”

He makes a low trill, which seems to be his version of a chuckle.  “No.  But you only need kill one to be Blooded.”

You look down at your hands.  They are calloused now from all the training, the nails trimmed short.  “So it’s just that, then?  Just dumb luck that got me here?”

“Not only that, little sain’ja.  You could have killed me but did not.”

“So you owe me?”

“No.  There is no debt.”  He pauses.  “Why do you question me?”

You lift your hands in a helpless gesture.  “I dunno.”

“The codex says that oomans often question their fate.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you snort.  “I just was curious.  I thought maybe it was that thing, you know.  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“You think I brought you here because we mutually aided each other against the serpents?”

You nod.  “Sure.”

Mah’tu shakes his head again, and he chuckles in his way.  “No, little sain’ja.  I brought you here because you are Blooded in my clan.  I’ve kept you with me because I enjoy your presence.”

It’s not Shakespeare, you suppose, but it’s a sweet sentiment, in his own sort of way.

*****

There is a series of Hunts, and Mah’tu fails in one, succeeds in the others.  His trophy room has much more Honor added to it, though you remain unimpressed by his prowess.

“Gross,” you say when you peek in at it.

He points to the long skull of the kiande amedha, the one he killed to become Blooded.  “Had we more time, I would have beheaded yours so you could keep your trophy.”

You make a face and lift a hand to touch the scar on your forehead.  “I think I have plenty to remember it, but thanks.  If I ever end up back home, I’ll need to look up a plastic surgeon to handle this.”

It takes some explaining what you mean, but when Mah’tu grasps your meaning, he is outraged.  You think the mark makes you unworthy.  Ugly, you say.

“It marks you as worthy.  A special ooman,” he spits out.  “The others of your kind would be fools to not see you as such.”

Normally, you’d do that thing with your eyes, but instead you study him.  Stare at him, steady and unblinking.  Finally you say, “you may be the only creature who sees me that way.”

He huffs.  “Then I am the only creature with eyes to see and a brain to think.”

-----

He is not sure what changes with you.  Perhaps you only needed time to adapt to life with him.  Oomans, he knows, are highly adaptable.

You have stopped the verbal abuse entirely.  You make an earnest attempt when training, and by applying yourself, you earn the right to learn the net-gun.  You earn your own bio-mask, and Mah’tu labors over it for several star cycles.  You have such a tiny skull, and your eyes are so far apart.  It must be custom made.

You join him on a Hunt.  It is just a small one, a training to whet a new spear he has made.  The prey is hardly worthy, but Mah’tu uses the opportunity to teach you how to stalk, how to move silently, how to be still and watch.  You are much better at that than you are at fighting, and though you kill nothing on your first Hunt, you earn Honor for yourself by successfully stalking a herd of very jittery prey.  They never once suspect you, and Mah’tu trills in pride when he sees you get close enough to reach out and touch one.

That night around the fire, he gives you much praise.  You like that, he finds—you duck your head as if ashamed, but it is to hide your smile.  Which means you are pleased. 

“Had you been a moment quicker, you could have killed one,” he tells you.  “Though it would be a small skull.  Our younglings often kill them to learn their blades.”

You laugh.  “Oh, fuck you.  Our younglings.  Yeah, yeah, I get it.  This weak-ass human is less skilled than a Yautja infant.”

That phrase again.  He knows what it means now, though he was greatly disappointed that it wasn’t what he thought.  Still, he bristles; he sits up straighter and looks at you when you say it, and when you realize what you’ve done, you give him a sheepish look.

“Be at ease,” he says.  “I know what you mean.”

Incredibly, you lower your head, and he sees no smile there.  You kick your foot in the dirt, scuffing it, and you mumble, “maybe I meant it the other way.”

“Which way?”

You groan, and you place your hands over your face.  He isn’t wearing his bio-mask, but he can guess that your face is inflamed. 

“Don’t make me say it.”  The words are muffled, and your voice is tight.

“Say what?”

“Ugh, the gross way you phrase everything.  You know what I mean.”

“I do not, little sain’ja.”  Though he does—it is a lie to say he does not understand.  As you’d say, it’s a kind of joke.  Pretending one thing when another is true.  A ooman sort of jest.

“You know what I mean.  Fuck’s sake, I mean mating.”  You whisper the last word, make it small in your mouth, but he hears it anyway.

He wonders what changed in this respect too, but he can consider it later.  “We should wait until your next heat is on you.”

That makes you squawk, a sound of outrage.  “Absolutely not!  I’d never survive it if I got pregnant!”

He chuckles at your horror.  “There would be no risk.  There are no Yautja-ooman hybrids.  It is an impossible thing.”

You sag in relief.  “Then why wait?”

“We cannot if you are not in heat,” he points out.

Now it is your turn to laugh at him, and then Mah’tu has another clarification to add to the codex:  oomans can mate nearly any time, any place, so long as the mood is upon them.

As it turns out, the mood is upon you now, and Mah’tu is grateful that his face does not show his emotions as blatantly as yours does—otherwise, you may see how he is flustered, then aroused in equal measure.

*****

He would take you outside, you think, but you douse the fire and lead him back into the ship.  For one, you don’t want this to be out in the open, where any creature could witness. 

For another, you want to be as close as possible to his array of med-kits and healing sprays.  God knows how this is going to work.  He’s bigger than you in every way possible.  It may not work at all.

He seems confused, but he lets you lead him.  You, for once, hold your hand out to him.  He makes a low trill, and takes it, and he follows you into the ship.  You start to lead him into your quarters by habit, but he stops, tugs you towards his.

“More space,” he says.

In his quarters, he only stands and watches you.  Waits for you to make a move.  Which is novel, for you:  you’re used to letting your partner lead, though your partner up until now has exclusively been a disappointing and generally clueless human male.

“Um.”  You kick off your boots.  You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, then take a breath and pull it off, as quick as you can.  “How do you usually?”

That curious head tilt of his.  “Usually what?”

You swear to god that he’s toying with you.  His stupid face gives nothing away, but he’s not usually so dense.

“How do your kind mate?”  You undo the snap on your pants, the zipper, and you push them over your hips.  You kick them off, peel out of your socks, and stand in front of him in your underwear.

They mate like they do everything else:  with ceremony, rules, customs, elaborate steps that either mean honor or dishonor.  They mate due to some confusing clan alliance, and the mating is always towards breeding the next generation of Yautja.  They don’t generally mate for pleasure, though of course it is pleasurable to mate, he explains.

“But you are not beholden to those customs,” he adds.  “As you cannot add glory to our clan by breeding with me.”

“Noted.”

“Even if we could have offspring, they would be very weak.”

“I said I got it, thanks.”

While he gives his explanation, he strips too.  He lays aside his greaves, his gauntlets, his weird footwear.  The data pad he wears on his wrist.  The fine netting of his invisibility tech.  The thick belt that holds more weaponry than Batman’s setup.  He leaves his loincloth-thing on, though, and stands to look at you.

He makes no move.  You give him a long moment to lead, but when he only stands and watches you, you decide to lead.

You bridge the few steps between you, and this close—sans most of your clothing and most of his—the size difference has never been more stark.  Hell, the difference in your damned species has never been more stark.  He’s objectively ugly, you suppose.  You must be just as ugly to him, but you wonder if he finds you as fascinating as you find him?

He's a greyish green at first glance, but you’ve noticed that his coloring depends on the light.  Sometimes he looks more like a gem, glimmering a darker green like an emerald.  Now, in the lower light of his berth, he shimmers almost iridescent. 

You’ve touched him plenty in the training sessions, so you know that your first impression (cool and slimy) is incorrect.  His skin is dry, warm to the touch.  You reach out a tentative hand and lay it on one of his massive pectoral muscles, and when you do, he lays his own hand over yours.  Engulfing it.

“How do your kind mate?” he asks, and honestly?  He kinda nails the bedroom voice because he lowers his register and growls it, and the sound makes the ache between your legs grow stronger.

Who knew he had it in him?

You think on how to answer him, but he adds, “show me, little sain’ja.”

*****

It takes much of his strength to not overpower you.  He can smell your arousal, sharper even than when you’re in your heat.  He can hear your heartbeat growing faster, can hear your breathing getting a harsh edge to it.  Mostly, though, it’s just his instinct to want to fight you, to submit you to him.  To treat you like a Yautja female, really.

But you’re not Yautja.  The sight of you in your thin underthings is proof of that.  Your fragile skin has no variations aside from a few scars.  Your fleshy mouth, your too-wide eyes, the strange lifeless hair that sprouts from your head…he should find you repellent, but when you touch him, he leans into the sensation of your hand on his chest.

He orders you to lead.  He does not want to hurt you, so he puts the moment in your hands.

You pause, considering your moves.  Thoughtful of what to do in order to make this work.  You nod then, and remove the remainder of your clothing, and Mah’tu takes in what has been hidden from him:  your breasts, despite having no younglings to nourish.  The curls that cover your sex.  You gesture to him, and he removes his loincloth, and your already-wide eyes go wider to the point where he fears they may fall out of your skull.

“Fuck,” you breathe out.

He nods.  “Yes.”

You laugh at him, and it’s the merry version, not the frustrated kind.  “We have to go slowly.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it.  You have to….”  You pause, and he hears the way you swallow as you study him.  “You’ll basically have to not move until I, uh, get used to it.  Once we…start.”

Another nod.  “Yes.  I understand.”

"But you can, uh, touch me. If you want. Before we start."

He lies down on his furs when you tell him to, and you approach him carefully.  You cast a wary eye on him as you kneel beside him, then shuffle closer.  He takes a hand and chances to touch one of your curves, the one from the dip in your waist to the swell of your hip, and you like that.  He can smell the way your arousal blooms, so he continues touching you.  Slowly.  Carefully.  He leads you to lie down beside him, and he touches all the parts of you he never has touched in your training sessions.

Each place is a revelation.

Your breasts are soft, malleable, yet they are tipped with firm nipples.  He molds his hands around the shape of them, which makes you moan, but when he skates a blunt nail carefully over each nipple, one and then the other, you part your lips and swear at him.

“Fuck’s sake,” you say, and your voice is tight, like you’re pained.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.  God, no.”  Another hard swallow.  “That’s…that’s good.  You can do that again.”

So he does.

Oomans, he finds, perhaps like their pleasure with a little pain, or even just the threat of it.  He is gentle with you, careful of his strength and his claws, but your arousal grows sharp when he draws a nail over your tender skin or when he wraps one hand around your neck to hold you still from your wriggling.

His exploration leads him lower, to the source of your arousal.  He slides a gentle finger between your legs, feels how hot you are, how wet you are, how the slick seeps out of you in anticipation for the joining with him.

All the same…

“Your sex is very small,” he mutters.  He drags the pad of one finger through your folds and finds your entrance.  He tests it, pushes it into you, and it goes fine with how wet you are, but a lone finger is nothing compared to his cock.  Still, when he breeches your entrance with his digit, he hears the breathy way you whisper his name.  Better, he feels how your sex twitches against him.  Like it seeks to draw him in deeper.

So he adds a second finger, which makes you curse, but it is much the same.  The same twitching from the smooth muscles of your sex.  A fresh pulse of wetness coats his fingers, and he pushes them in, draws them out, mimics mating in this way.  Spreads his fingers inside you, to stretch you in preparation.

“God,” you whisper.  “Please, don’t stop.  Keep…keep doing that, okay?”

He nods.  He’s an eager pupil, and you can teach him this.  A moment later he feels it:  your tiny hand, fumbling for his cock.  Circling your slender fingers around his girth.  You have little strength but it’s enough to give him pleasure, and he wonders how much is due to your grip and how much is due to the fact that it’s you, his Vexing Thorn, gripping him there.

“This gives you pleasure?” he asks.

“Yes.”  You hiss it, draw the word out.  With your other hand, you reach down yourself and show him another part of you, a firm little bud also slick with your arousal, just above your entrance.  “If you, you know, touch that carefully.  Rub it?  Carefully.  It will be…ah, fuck, yes.  Like that.  Just like that.”

As he works his hand, he feels you relaxing.  Loosening.  You are still very small, but it seems more likely that you can take him now, so he keeps going, and you writhe against him, stroke him as you whine out all sorts of words he’ll have to study later. 

You reach some point where you deem yourself ready, and you push his hand away.  You take your own hand from him, and he grumbles in disappointment, but then you are on him, on top of him, pushing him back, and he lets you.

“Are you okay with this?” you ask.  You straddle him, and he feels the hot slick of you pressed against the length of him.  “I mean, I don’t know the politics of this.  Is this even consensual?”

“Explain your question more.”

You sigh, but you also slide against him, your lower body moving back and forth in small motions as your hands brace on his stomach.  He feels how you’re coating him in your arousal, and the mechanics of it make sense.  If your sex is slick and his is as well, it will make the mating easier—

“I mean, we never reviewed consensual sex with other species in high school sex ed.”

“I do not understand.”  He grips the fat of your ass, you’re so soft there, and he urges your movements.  There is pleasure even in this, and he feels himself growing harder underneath you.

“Am I…fuck, I don’t know how to say it without just saying it.  Is this what you want?  Am I coercing you for sex?”

He chuckles under you, trills deep and long.  “Little sain’ja, how could you coerce me?  You are so weak.”

You pout, the fleshy lower lip of yours stuck out and wet.  “Asshole.”

“I could throw you off me in an instant.  I could be on top of you before you could even blink.”

That makes a fresh beat of arousal pulse out of you, coating him more.  He notes it.  Perhaps you would find pleasure underneath him, just as he is enjoying being underneath you.

“Okay, yeah.  Good.  So we’re good, then.”

“This is what I want,” he clarifies to your question.  “You can feel how I strain to seat myself in you.”

“Well, then.”  You gaze at him a beat longer, but you shift, reach your hand down.  You grasp him at the root of his cock, and you lift yourself up enough to slot the flared head of him against your entrance.

“I mean it.  Please don’t move at all until I tell you.  This is…”  You trail off, and your pink tongue darts out to lick your lips.  “This is a lot.”

He nods.  “I will not move until you order me to.”

At that, you begin to lower yourself onto him.

It goes so slow.  It must, despite your arousal.  You are so small, and he is large, but your anatomy is such that it can take far more than he thought.  But it must go slow, so your sex can adapt to him.  Wonderful, adaptable oomans:  your sex twitches and grabs at his cock as you work yourself onto him, but he enters you bit by bit, and you breathe deep and mumble curses, but you also groan at what you’re feeling, and it sounds like a pleasurable noise to him.

But you take him to the root, in time.  In time, you sit flush on him, no space between where he ends and you begin, and Mah’tu has never felt a mating like this in his long life.

“Fuck, I can feel you in my throat,” you whine, and you wriggle at where you sit on him.  It sends him a fraction deeper, and he can feel the end of his cock nestled against some inner part of you, though he assumes it is your womb and not your throat.  But he also assumes it is one of those things where you say a word and it means something else, but he doesn’t ask for clarification because he needs all of his strength to lie still and wait for your command to move.

It doesn’t come just yet.  You sit on him, the back of your thighs flush with his hips.  You don’t move much; you move and resettle, you wince and then move, and your tense face cedes to one of panting pleasure.  Little by little, you start to move:  lifting yourself off of him a fraction, lower yourself back down.  Your arousal keeps it as easy as it can be, and in moving, he feels your sex relax more, molding itself to the shape of him.

“Is this okay for you?” you whisper, and he nods his head.  He keeps his grip on your ass but only as a place to touch you, not to harry you along.  How can he describe what he’s feeling?  He has no tricky words like you do, and he fears his blunt speech may anger you.

If he could say what he’s feeling, it would simply be this:  that you’re his mate, and now that he’s felt this once, you’ll be his mate for life.  He would not give you to another, nor allow another to touch you, and if you wanted to return to earth, he’d go with you and find a way to live amongst the other weak, tricky oomans.

Eventually, you begin to move in earnest.  Riding him in a steady rhythm:  raising off of him until only the broad crown of his cock is nestled in you, then sinking back onto him.  Over and over, in this way, your constant phrase of ‘fuck you’ is realized, and Mah’tu growls at this new way of mating.

“You can…you can move,” you finally tell him.  “But slowly, slow….ah, fuck!”

You don’t finish the thought because he moves.  Not as you expected, probably, but Mah’tu is a quick study.  He shifts one hand from where it kneads at the softness of your ass, and he draws the pad of his finger at where the small nub peeks out at the apex of your sex.  He rubs it carefully, mindful of his claw, and it makes your hips jerk against him.

“Yes, don’t stop.  Jesus, you’re….keep doing that.  Just that.”  The pace you’re riding him picks up in speed, and it makes your breasts bounce, drawing his gaze for a moment before it snaps back to where he disappears into the confines of your body.

“I’m close,” you tell him a moment later.

“Close to me?” he guesses.

You laugh, breathless.  “Close to coming.”

“Coming where?”

Another laugh, and your rhythm falters for a moment.  You reach out and steady your hand on his chest, and your face is perfectly relaxed, radiant in happiness, and Mah’tu thinks that even if you are ugly with your ooman features, he finds you beautiful.  Perfect.

“Close to…my pleasure,” you clarify, and you resume the quick pace of fucking him, riding him, drawing him into your body.

“Ah.”  He strokes the hot, swollen bud above where he slides into you, and he considers himself.  His own pleasure has been close for a while now, his seed close to bursting.  “I am close too, then, little sain’ja.”

“You can….come….with me.”  You’re panting now, pushing out your words in time to each time you reseat yourself.  A sheen of sweat glistens along your skin, making you look almost part Yautja in the low light.  “If you…want.  Want to…feel you.”

He nods.  “I will do as you ask.”

Another breathless laugh, but then you say no more, and he can only observe your body for any clues.  Ooman pleasure is blatant, he finds, because your sex gets wetter, and then you moan loudly.  Then your entire body seizes in a way, trembles and shakes above him, but your sex tightens against him like a fist, and it’s easy for his pleasure to break as well.  He feels it in a way he never has before, like a great wave carrying him towards you, and he spills inside you with a roar that must shake the walls of his ship.

-----

With Yautja mating, once it is complete, the two part.  If they meet again, it is only incidental, a consequence of sharing younglings.

So it is strange, how you nestle against him after you both reach your pleasure.  He remains nestled inside you, a snug fit that keeps his seed confined in your body—but you lean your upper body down onto him, nuzzle your face against his broad chest, and just lie there.

It is very strange.  But it is not unpleasant.  A beat after you settle, he places a hand on your back to hold you firmer against him.  Your skin is warm and soft under his palm, and he strokes you softly.

“I did not hurt you?” he asks after a long while of lying like this. 

“Only in the best way.”  Your mouth is near his skin, and he can feel your warm breath against him.

“Explain your meaning.”

“I’ll definitely be aching in the morning.”  You pause, seem to think on it.  “But it’s a good ache.  Like…the ache of training really hard.”

Mah’tu chuckles, and he drags the blunt tips of his claws along the skin of your back, which makes you squirm against him.  The motion makes his cock, only half-hard now, twitch back to life.

“You are much better at mating than training,” he tells you.

“Asshole.”  You turn your head against him, and he feels the blunt edge of your teeth.  You are biting him, but there is no pain.  The sensation—your wet mouth on him—makes his cock twitch harder, make the blood pool there to make him grow harder.

You can feel it.  You breathe against the wet spot you’ve put on his chest, but then he feels you move—a deliberate rocking, very carefully. 

He has many questions he’d like to ask you—other ways your kind mate, for example—but he saves them for later because the mood is upon you again, just as the mood is upon him.  And anyway, in the course of your second mating, some of his questions are answered by showing, and Mah’tu is an eager pupil.

gun to my head i would rather die than read this fic. what the fuck are you even doing at this point. whats the fucking point?

Fanfiction Authors: HEADS UP

(Non-authors, please RB to signal boost to your author friends!)

An astute reader informed me this morning that one of my fics (Children of the Future Age) had been pirated and was being sold as a novel on Amazon:

(And they weren't even creative with their cover design. If you're going to pirate something that I spent a full year of my life writing, at least give me a pretty screenshot to brag about later. Seriously.)

I promptly filed a DMCA complaint to have it removed, but I checked out the company that put it up -- Plush Books -- and it looks like A LOT of their books are pirated fic. They are by no means the only ones doing this, either -- the fact that """publishers""" can download stories from AO3 in ebook format and then reupload them to Amazon in just a few clicks makes fic piracy a common problem. There are a whole host of reasons why letting this continue is bad -- including actual legal risk to fanfiction archives -- but basically:

IF YOU ARE A FANFIC AUTHOR WITH LONG AND/OR POPULAR WORKS, PLEASE CHECK AMAZON TO SEE IF YOUR STORIES HAVE BEEN PIRATED.

You can search for your fics by title, or by text from the description (which is often just copied wholesale from AO3 as well). If you find that someone has stolen your work and is selling it as their own, you can lodge a DMCA complaint (Amazon.com/USA site; other countries have different systems). If you haven't done this before, it's easy! Here's a tutorial:

HOW TO FILE A COPYRIGHT COMPLAINT FOR STOLEN WORK ON AMAZON.COM:

First, go to this form. You'll need to be signed into your Amazon account.

Select the radio buttons/dropdown options (shown below) to indicate that you are the legal Rights Owner, you have a copyright concern, and it is about a pirated product.

Enter the name of your story in the Name of Brand field.

In the Link to the Copyrighted Work box, enter a link to the story on AO3 or whatever site your work is posted on.

In the Additional Information box, explain that you are the author of the work and it is being sold without your permission. That's all you really need. If you want, you can include additional information that might be helpful in establishing the validity of your claim, but you don't have to go into great detail. You can simply write something like this:

I am the author of this work, which is being sold by [publisher] without my permission. I originally published this story in [date/year] on [name of site], and have provided a link to the original above. On request, I can provide documentation proving that I am the owner of the account that originally posted this story.

In the ASIN/ISBN-10 field, copy and paste the ID number from the pirated copy's URL. You'll find this ten-digit number in the Amazon URL after the word "product," as in the screenshot below. (If the URL extends beyond this number, you can ignore everything from the question mark on.) Once this number has been added, Amazon will pull the product information automatically and add it to the complaint form, so you can check the listing title and make sure it's correct.

Finally, add your contact information to the relevant fields, check the "I have read and accept the statements" box, and then click Submit. You should receive an email confirmation that Amazon has received the form.

Please share this information with your writer friends, keep an eye out for/report pirated works, and help us keep fanfiction free and legally protected!

NOTE: All of the above also applies to Amazon products featuring stolen artwork, etc., so fan artists should check too!

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

PSA

Just a heads up, there are bots going around on AO3 accusing people of using AI. Considering the timing, this is likely AI bros' retaliation for AO3 users calling them out for scraping their work. Examples of what you might be sent:

Screenshots from here.

If you get a comment like this, just report for spam and delete.

Things that real life sex has taught me that isn't in porn :

Shaking during sex, no no, not her legs, him. Yeah. It happens to men too, from anticipation and excitement. I only had one partner who used to have that sometimes and the first time it freaked me out lol.

Queefing, that has to happen at least once during sex, I mean, air goes in, sorry but it's gonna have to come out.

Going too deep actually hurts, oh my fucking god lol. IYKYK. Hitting the cervix feels like ... hmmm. Dying. Yeah, death. Like I felt your penis in my actual guts and now I need to throw up because the cramping is horrendous. Thanks, don't do that again. Does the chick in porn not have a cervix or??? I have literally thrown up from this before, it is the most painful thing I have ever experienced during sex, hands down.

That he might lose his boner mid-sex, this one's a big one lol pun intended. And uh, it might not be your fault. Actually most of the time it isn't. And guys, if it does happen, please communicate, it's really not a big deal, at least not for me, Im down to help, and also I can feel it getting softer okay lol don't be lying.

Sometimes it can be painful for the guy too, this one's more common for men who have foreskin, at least in my experience.

That you can get your period mid-sex, oh man. A sad moment for all of us. But here's the thing, when you're orgasming, everything contracts, and your uterus will contract and unfortunately if you were expecting it, welp, here it is. So yeah, it happens. But that's pretty great, personally i'm able to make my period come faster by masturbating over and over, true story (only if its a day or two away).

You can probably orgasm but it's not a given, or taking way longer than you thought. I have ridden dick like my life depended on it because I was felt it annnnnnnnnd it was gone, annnnnd it's back, noooope it's gone.

Related to the last point, looking cute when orgasming, sweetie listen, I look like I ran a marathon and like Im about to die (plus im a smoker, imagine that). So that lady in porn who's like *cute voice* oohh I'm coming! ... idk about you but I don't look cute when im about to cum super hard lol.

Stopping mid-sex because you don't feel like it anymore.

Sometimes it takes forever to get a condom or to put it on, relax dude, no one's judging you, I would rather you don't give me an std or a baby so take your time.

There's no shame in asking to put a towel down, fluids, we have those, and we have a lot of those, and sometimes, some of us can unexpectedly squirt, whatever tf that fluid is, it's gonna go everywhere.

That female lubrication can have a different color/texture depending on where she's at in her cycle/if she has an infection.

Sex is smelly.

A lot of us moan louder than we actually want to, to help you out. I have done that before, when bored or when the guy was doing something I didn't really enjoy but he did. Whatever, hey at least I've never faked an orgasm, Im literally not giving you that lol if you suck, you suck sorry. Now ... the reason you prob shouldn't do that is that he's gonna think he's doing something good, when really he isn't. Then he's gonna have sex with someone else, and do the same shit, and she's also not gonna cum. Don't be the reason another lady can't have an orgasm ok.

That trying different positions isn't super glamorous. Some hurt, some don't feel like anything, some are awkward. Just because your bestie swears by reverse cowgirl, doesn't mean it'll work for you.

That it's ok to stop and take a water and snack break, sorry one sec, Im hypoglycemic.

That a lot of the time when you get fucked hard enough, you're shifting, like, quite a bit, and next thing you know you're almost falling off the bed, it's not cute, who cares.

That sex can be awkward, uncomfortable, painful, not enjoyable, and that all of that is normal.