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The drumming of a heartbeat echoed quietly through the room, though against their head it sounded clear as day.
Rapid and in a rhythm that set their instincts on fire. You sounded like prey. And you felt like it too.
Skimming their hands over your much smaller body, seeming even smaller now without your clothing restricting their access, they felt the unusual softness of your skin.
In this moment they were completely aware of you, of your scent, of your body, the sounds that you make as their claws curiously graze your chest. They could easily pierce your skin. They could easily ruin you.
It was a battle unlike any they had fought before. In their mind it was clear that they would not hurt you, that they could control themselves, that whatever they were feeling was just their hormones running wild.
But their body told a different story. Take, bite, tear—they felt every bit the feral beast they usually prided themselves on being. And they had warned you of it. Told you they were unaccustomed to gentle, to taking things slow. Sex between yautja was neither.
If they treated you like their own, they would press their teeth between your neck and shoulder and claim until the ground beneath your shaking knees was soaked red.
Iron.
What torture that they could smell it on you even without piercing the skin.
They had warned you of this side of them but you hadn't been afraid. Even now, while you tremble under their weight, the flesh of your mouth is lifting to show that strange smile you always wore around them. All teeth and no bite. All theirs.
No protest from you when they part your legs. Nothing but sweet gasps and soft sighs, a back that bent without pressure. You were so easy.
Yautja were born predators. They didn't need to consider their strength to be able to count the ways in which they'd kill you, if things had been different. At home, five human skulls adorn their walls—they don't feel guilty for a single one of them. You're not like them. You're above them.
Above their trophies, above every female they had ever won, every scar they had earned in their long long life. The ways in which they loved you surpassed even honor and pride, developing into one sided devotion that would likely scare you more than death itself.
They were a beast. But even worse, they were in love with you.
And so they wouldn't rut into you like they were an animal. They would make love to you, slow and intimate, entering you with soft clicks they hoped you would understand as apologies.
When your arms fail to hold you up, their hand does the lifting for you. When your breath fails, they guide your mouth open. When you try to hold back, they roar and make it even.
Enjoy yourself, they plead internally, mate me, take me, for once I will go down without a fight.
If you knew what their weakness should mean to you?
How much violence they had dealt to know how hard they could touch without causing you to break?
Their hips press you down, their arms hold you steady. If this was the only way they could allow themselves the sin of mercy, the disgrace of loving something—they would make lust their greatest vice if nights were all they could ever spend with you.
Sleep takes you after you're done, and just for a while the constant need for a chase settles into a sudden, satisfying calm.
Their mandibles graze the edges of lips they could never kiss, not in a way you would understand. The polished skull of a dove lays on their desk, wrapped in cloth.
Staring at the night sky above you, they wish for a vocabulary big enough, for words profound instead of clumsy, so that you may understand the difference between primal and primitive.
So that you may see the life in all the deaths they dedicate to you. The meaning of a body like theirs holding a body like yours. The silent affection your human heart wouldn't know.
They have never wished to be soft, and they wouldn't wish for it now, but they would wrap themselves in cotton if it made them easier for your hands to touch.
If it made them easier for you to hold.