Archive of Our Own

Warm.

Pursuer wakes up warm.

That should have been a good thing. It was cold, these days. The warmer the better, right?

It would’ve been fine if it was the good kind of warmth, like how the insides of those weird square structures sometimes felt. The toasty kind of warmth that enveloped, that embraced. Yes, Pursuer liked that type of warmth very much. It kept everything functional. It was very nice, especially on days like today. Very essential.

This, however, was not that kind of warmth. This was an insufferable, sticky kind of feeling that refused to leave Pursuer alone. It was annoying, unfairly so, and there was no end in sight. It just kept clinging and clinging, until everything felt like walking uphill through mud.

It takes Pursuer a while to figure out what must be happening. As far as it knows, this thing has something to do with instincts. There’s a pit in its gut, one that whispers at it to hunt and chase and drag its prizes back, to hoard zealously and stay holed up for ages. That’s fine, albeit a bit strange. What really draws its attention, though, is the other impulse.

Tilting its head, Pursuer tries to hone in on the string of thought for a bit—

—breedbreedbreedbreedbreedbreedbreedbreedbreedbreedBREED—

—and promptly realizes that was a terrible idea when it finally manages to wrest control back from its instincts and finds itself a long, long way from its cave, looming halfway over a civilian, hands poised to grab their shoulders and a foreign heat piercing its abdomen.

It promptly disengages, very relieved it had not exited stalk before coming back to its senses, and finds a good spot in the surrounding woods to conceal itself and investigate this new bodily quirk.

There’s been a line in a particular area below its abdomen for as long as it can remember. Well, less a line and more a slit, but they’re probably the same thing, and even if they’re not, it’s not like it matters anyways. What does matter is that now, there’s something protruding from the slit.

Pursuer has never touched the odd slit or the area around it. There was no instinct or reason to believe anything could be gained from doing so, and it was always too busy with survival or sleeping to waste time on trivial matters like curiosity and self-discovery. The last time it had allowed such a distraction, it practically starved half to death with nothing to show for it but the ability to blow on a weirdly shaped thing and make funny noises. So it learned its lesson and never tried anything funny with the irrelevant part of its body.

It’s starting to think it should have maybe messed around just once. Because now it was in unknown territory at a critical time. Its senses were going into overdrive, that same impulse as before threatening to overtake its rationale again. Hurriedly, Pursuer leans against a tree and grabs the strange protrusion, and the feeling abates a bit.

Now that it has the thing in hand, it makes a point of studying it. It’s practically shaped, a reasonably sized base tapering to a thin point, but there are strange attachments to it along the way, little symmetrical bumps and spikes that seem good for holding onto textured material. Maybe this was meant to catch on something, like teeth with meat? It seemed like a safe guess, especially considering it was the same bright color as its teeth. The thing is a bit tiresome to handle, and while it’s not incredibly lengthy, it is long enough to make Pursuer shake its head in confusion. Where was this meant to go? Surely not into prey, it was floppy and not to mention extremely impractical in terms of both position and sharpness, but where else?

Perhaps this serves a use for when encountering kindreds? If civilians could coexist, then it stands to reason that it would have something to help it get along with others of its kind. Yes, that sounded right. With this conclusion in mind, Pursuer decides to try and put the flesh stick back into the slit. It was, again, unwieldly, not to mention it would mess up its running significantly, and it didn’t need such a tool right now.

Unfortunately, nothing it did worked, and it was starting to get frustrated. Growling, it grabbed the tip of the thing and tried to push it back in, but instead only served to drag its grip down the entire length. Even more annoyed, it tried it again but faster, so it was sure something would happen—

—BREED—

—oh.

That… that felt strange. And was also incredibly distracting. It should stop now, while the day was still light, and head back.

Its hand, disobedient for once, moved to do it again.

Oh.

And again.

And aga—

—BRE—

—Pursuer manages to rip its hand away and rend back, allowing the pain from the sudden shifting of its internal structure to clear its mind. Hurriedly, it follows what scarce tracks it had left in its earlier absentmindedness back to its cave.

Once there, back in home territory and safe from outside interference, it struggles to stay its hand from straying again. The attachment seems to have stiffened from its earlier actions, and is now standing up on its own. Pursuer still doesn’t know what the thing does, but it’s clear it poses a threat, giving such overpowering sensations that its body would betray its will. By all means, it shouldn’t give in to whatever that feeling was.

But Pursuer is already back at its cave, and having taken so long to retreat after opting to do so this early in its day, there’s no point in going out anymore. What is there to do but mess around and sleep? Sleeping is always good, but it has found that if it sleeps too often it can’t sleep at all when it most needs to, and it would always rather sleep away the consistently boring or dangerous parts of a day instead of giving that up to skip a slightly less dubious one time event. It’s already been caught off-guard once today, so what’s to say similar incidents wouldn’t happen in the future? Better to get it over with now.

Grab, cup, drag down—

—BREED—

—oh—

—do it again.

And again.

And again.

After spending some time hunched over and performing the motion, relief is still nowhere in sight. Sometime along the way Pursuer’s hips had begun to snap forward in tandem with its weird rhythm, and even now when it grows frustrated with the futility of the action, its body still involuntarily ruts forward into its hand.

The warmth is unbearable now, more like a roaring fire than the stifling annoyance it was before. The pit in its gut has grown, the same impulse residing inside it now threatening to take over its brain. Every motion brings out strings of that same pleasurable feeling, burning friction searing down its length, but the sensations never build to a peak, never culminate in something useful, just drag on and on, leaving it confused and ever more desperate for something it cannot put a name to.

In the midst of the pleasure and the disorientation, anger finds its way to the surface. Why now? Why this? Why? What’s the point? Where’s the resolution?

Pursuer has never liked going through pointless things for the sake of more pointless things, and this whole endeavor seems exceedingly pointless. It’s never met another of its kind, so why was this strange function being activated? Why was the consequence of not sating its arbitrary urges torturous sensations? What was so urgent about this that it needed such incentive? Too many questions, not enough answers — pointless, pointless, pointless. It was enough to make it gnash its teeth.

Well, Pursuer also can never be forced to do something it doesn’t like. So it just won’t give in to this too. Easy.

The first few days are the most difficult. The heat burns, and its attachment is always aching for attention. A strange type of liquid leaks out of the tip, something sticky and slick, obviously meant to be a lubricant. It makes further stroking of the attachment easy, tempting. While giving in does yield momentary relief, in the long run the more Puruser touches itself the more sensitive it becomes, and the pleasure quickly turns overwhelming. Pushing on doesn’t even create a breakthrough, only exacerbates the issue, so it’s forced to leave its attachment alone despite the insistent need to do something about it.

The days after that are about the same, except it finally finds a sufficient distraction, albeit one that only works sometimes. As its attachment remains in the strange, stiff, leaking state, it quickly realizes dehydration will become as issue as the tip continues to emit the strange fluid. The occasional times it ventures out of its cave for water are the only moments it can clear its mind and focus on something other than its current state. The water is cold, so that’s nice too. Cold water tastes better, and it always wakes Pursuer up, makes it more alert and helps it feel normal for a second. It’d put some on itself if it thought that could help, but something told it this was an ailment water could not cool.

The days after those are the best. The hunger pains finally make themselves known, the familiar agony of starvation settling into its bones like an old friend. The heavy stomachaches that spread until it feels like its ribs are tearing apart too, the weakness in its limbs and the slow fog drifting over its sluggish thoughts, these are all close companions that it knows intimately. Underneath the deluge of physical sensations and haywire instincts that scream hungryeatnowhungryyouaredying at it, the extremely annoying affliction that had been plaguing it recently was all but drowned out. Finally, peace and quiet descended.

Of course, Pursuer was careful not to actually die. But keeping itself always just hungry enough to muffle nonessential signals without damaging anything was a challenge, and even if it wasn’t under so much pressure it would still struggle with such a task. So there were times where it strayed too close to dangerous conditions and blacked out, unable to withstand the sheer force of its self-preservation instincts, before waking at the center of a bloody wreck with some mangled corpses and a half-sated appetite. These episodes were always unpleasant to experience, but rather easy to brush off after it came back to its senses, so it wasn’t too worried.

That turned out to be a mistake.

Hungry. That’s Pursuer’s first thought upon waking.

Hungry. Too hungry. Need to eat or die.

Seems like it didn’t eat enough again. Reluctantly, it surrenders to its instincts, and the world fades.

Need to leave. Get up. Can’t stalk, not strong enough. Too fragile, too hungry. Walk. Run. Mountain. Go where prey usually is. Run. Woods. Blood. Prey is near. Hungry. Eat or die. Blood. Prey. Hungry. Blood. Prey—

—wait.

Not prey?

Looks like prey. Feels like prey, fresh and alive, blood pumping through veins. But smell… Does not smell like prey at all. Smells wrong, like metal in tree, sickness in river, rot in flesh.

Not prey? Prey? Unsure. Corpses nearby, many of them. Did this prey kill them? So, not a prey? Leave?

Fear. This one smells of fear.

Smells of fear and wrong. Smells wrong. Do not get close.

But prey. It must be prey: it is afraid. Starving. Must eat or die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t—

Oh.

Not-prey has… made an offering?

Strange thing. Looks like prey. Feels like nothing. Smells like nothing.

Hungry. Hungry. So hungry. Must eat or die. Hungry. Eat. Eat. Eat. Now. Do it. You must.

…

Good. Hungry, but not dying anymore. Hungry. Should eat more. More.

Not-prey cannot offer any more.

Eat it, then.

More.

Eat or you die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t—

…

Heat. Strange. Bad.

Get rid of it. Threat.

Not-prey is getting away. Follow.

Oh. More prey. Fresh meat. Eat. Eat. Eat now.

…

…

…

Good. Full. Safe. Soon it will be okay.

Soon—

No.

Heat again. Stranger than before. Worse. Threat.

Not-prey is still here. Made another offering. Eat. Eat while you can.

Try to eat Not-prey too. Wrong smell may be a defense tactic?

…

NO.

Taste sickening. Never again. Not-prey is not prey.

Not prey… Then what to do? Cannot eat it…

…

Heat. Heat. Heat. Get rid of it.

Heat. Heat. Heat. Burns. Breed.

Breed?

What…

What does that…

How to?

How…

Warm body. Take the attachment and put inside? Correct. Feels correct.

Then who? No more kin…

…

Cannot eat Not-prey… Make use of it another way then.

Breed.

Pursuer is dizzy. Dizzy and overheated and miserable.

In front of it is a strange prey. Or, well, not really. Not-prey is not prey. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Not-prey still has use. Finally, a potential solution to its problem has appeared.

Without hesitation, Pursuer pounces, and tumbles to the ground with Not-prey in a whirl of limbs and movement that leaves it disoriented for a moment. Part of it is ashamed at how feeble it currently was, but the greater portion simply screams at it to hurry up already. Shaking itself off, it looms over Not-prey and quickly tries to locate somewhere to place its strange attachment.

Not-prey is struggling, making noise in an attempt to distract. Puruser eyes him and is momentarily tempted to take the easy route: his maw is red and plush, wet and slick with saliva. His breath emerges in visible puffs, indicating the warmth of his mouth. His lips are healthy and soft looking, although coated in the same powder that sets off warning bells in some deep part of Pursuer’s subconscious, the same powder that seems to be everywhere on him, really. It’s supremely annoying having to endure such a thing, but thankfully the amount present is light enough that it can be ignored with enough exposure.

Then Pursuer’s hands drift a bit too close to that cavern, and Not-prey’s eyes flash with fear, and he’s pulling back his lips in a snarl that reveals all of his teeth. They’re duller than its own, certainly, but there’s a strange intensity about them, some bygone power that it knows will render them dangerous should it make a move against him. A primal magic, one driven by nothing but pure survival instinct. The forlorn force wraps around Not-prey like a snake, curling and looping and endlessly winding. Puruser understands that, if it were to attempt placing its attachment into Not-prey’s mouth, those teeth would come down and probably bite it clean off.

So Not-prey is powerful, then. Fascinating — but that still won’t stop Pursuer.

It paws at him, attempting to locate anything similar to its own anatomy, and quickly moves downwards once it realizes that, because they’re both bipedal, something is likely to be present where its own slit was. Not-prey’s initial wriggling, primarily due to discomfort and confusion with Pursuer’s explorations, quickly becomes thrashing, urgency lacing his movements as Pursuer ventures across his body.

Annoyed, it gives him a few slams against the ground, careful not to be too violent. Just rough enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, hopefully gentle enough to not damage anything. It seems to work, so Pursuer goes back to its search without further pause.

There’s a strange material all over Not-prey’s body, some type of coarse texture that shifts and flexes easily. Puruser gathers some in its hand and digs a finger in, nodding in satisfaction as the material rips easily. It quickly takes this opportunity to cut away most of the material around the area, doing the same with the second, albeit smaller, piece of material underneath. Not-prey makes some more noise, but this time it’s interspersed with enough simple words that Pursuer can make out the gist of what he’s saying.

Stop, wait, what. Those were the most prominent themes among the few words it could parse. Fear, hesitation, confusion.

Not-prey needn’t be afraid. Pursuer isn’t going to kill it.

There is indeed a slit where Pursuer’s is too. This one seems to have different things than its own, though. The slit is much fleshier and there’s a hole toward the bottom. The structure around the hole is strange, but Pursuer doesn’t have much time to ponder on it. Not-prey’s struggles have only grown more frantic as he realizes where Pursuer’s attention lays, and the terrible heat is threatening to overwhelm its senses now. Only one thing occupies its mind, and it’s aware that if it doesn’t find a way to satisfy this singleminded instinct, it’ll lose reason again. Coming back to itself took an annoyingly long time, therefore it was most optimal to give in of its own volition.

Without further thought, Pursuer lines its attachment up, adjusts a bit, and then pushes forward—

(“Wait,” Artful practically screams, but it’s no use.)

—and promptly grinds to a halt when it meets a concerning amount of resistance.

Some further investigation after a swift withdrawal reveals that Not-prey’s hole, though too tight to currently prove useful, is made of stretchy flesh; the kind that’ll give way under enough insistence. While it currently rejects Pursuer, there must be some way to open it.

(Relief courses through Artful as he realizes the creature isn’t going to force itself in. That relief, however, quickly turns into dread when he remembers just what it’s planning to do.)

It wants to explore the region, but its claws are too sharp. There must be something else it can use, something at least as long and dexterous as a finger, something that has good sensitivity to scope out weaknesses.

Then, wouldn’t it be okay to use its tongue?

With this thought in mind, Pursuer makes a grab for Not-prey’s thighs, pushes his legs up and apart, and dips down to determine the validity of its chosen action. Not-prey jerks in its grasp, flailing around, but doesn’t put up any real resistance. In the end, Pursuer’s advances go unchecked, so it shrugs off the flinch and proceeds.

(Artful’s heart is pounding, a string of whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell running through his head as the creature makes its next move abudnantly clear. Does he want this? He doesn’t, or rather he shouldn’t, but maybe he does anyways since he’s fucking crazy, because there’s a building anticipation in his gut that’s just on the verge of turning into an all-too familiar heat.)

The hole is clenching and opening in sporadic bursts, and Pursuer regards it in puzzlement for a few seconds, wondering if there was something special it had to do to calm the motions. However, as the cycle seemed to grow more frantic the more it stared, it ultimately discards its contemplations and simply goes ahead with its initial plan.

Its tongue slips in easily, the hole accepting it entirely, which is a promising sign. Not-prey jolts and says something, but the word is unintelligible, so it ignores him. It flicks its tongue once, twice, and confirms the elasticity of the flesh before attempting anything further. It presses against the walls of Not-prey’s hole urgently, eager to just get this strange act over with already, before it discovers something new.

There’s a wad of textured flesh it bumps into, something that sets off an interesting reaction. Not-prey suddenly cries out and shudders, legs descending to lock tight around Pursuer’s head and shoulders, drawing it in tightly against his body. His hole clenches around its tongue frantically, and there seems to be some sort of liquid gushing forward.

This is when Pursuer becomes briefly distracted. Not-prey doesn’t taste half-bad here, compared to the utter vileness which had graced it when it licked his arm. The hole was already an unobtrusive sort of flavor, a subtle iron and smoothness that brought the concept of vitality to mind. Now, with the added lubrication and increased bloodflow, the taste that blooms across Pursuer’s tongue isn’t bothersome at all. It’s strange, but in a slightly good way, and uniquely reminiscent of Not-prey, although it doesn’t know how to explain why it made the connection.

Regardless, the flavor is interesting, and Not-prey seems very receptive to what it’s doing. The struggling has all but died down, which makes things a lot easier, although there’s still some intermittent motions that it determines must be involuntary reactions. The hole stretches easier, too, so it makes sure to pay some attention to that textured bundle every so often. As the time it spends doing this increases, it finds itself more and more reluctant to withdraw. The entire experience so far has been strangly pleasant, and when its instincts finally deem Not-prey stretched enough and it slowly pulls away, it finds itself anticipating the coming moments, odd though such a sentiment might be.

(“Shit,” Artful hisses as the creature pushes in. Its tongue is very lengthy and possesses an unnatural range of motion. He has to suppress a flinch as it flicks against his walls, but soon has other matters to focus on. The creature is pressing against him from the inside, probably to prepare him for its cock, and while the thought doesn’t exactly bring him great joy, he’s glad he’s at least being prepared beforehand.

However, his contemplations promptly dissapear into thin air when the creature hits his g-spot.

“Ah—” He can’t help but moan, arching his back slightly as the creature’s tongue grinds right up against that sensitive place within him. The creature’s grip on his thighs slackens in surprise, and he’s winding his legs around it before he can get ahold of himself. Years on the run has made for one hell of a dry spell, and his body betrays his intentions, desperately bending to the will of whoever, or rather whatever, would give it the time of day.

He expects it to be a fluke, a one-off. He’s sure an apex predator like the creature wouldn’t have had the time or motivation to dabble in carnal pleasures, much less pursue the act extensively enough to encounter and remember human anatomy. But the creature must have been curious, something he had erroneously neglected to account for, because it goes back to that spot again.

And again.

And again and again and—

“Fuck, please, please,” Artful is only dimly aware of what he’s saying: the sudden, intense pleasure shooting through him is almost too much to bear. The creature is relentless, continually hitting that spot more times than he can count, and he really doesn’t want to think about numbers right now anyway, just wants to let what he’s feeling blank out his mind and take him to climax. The creature’s tongue, though not particularly thick, is so damn long that it fills him just as well, if not better, than a toy, especially when scrunched up and compressed like this as it abuses his spot.

Artful gasps dumbly as the sensations finally abate a little. The creature has gone back to stretching him out, and though the sting of his walls giving way and the occasional brushes against sensitive regions make him twitch, it’s nothing like the mind-numbing assault from before. He’s not sure whether to cry in relief and demand it never do that again or rage at it and beg it to keep going. In the end, he doesn’t get to choose either option, because once the creature seems satisfied with its progress it goes right back to his spot.

Again and again, the cycle repeats. He grows overly sensitive, every small movement inside him making him writhe and clench his legs tighter around the creature as it loosens places he didn’t even know could be reached. It shows no signs of stopping, in fact only seems to grow more comfortable with him as he nears the edge, plunging deeper and deeper into him as he spirals. Artful is just about on the verge of tears, ready to give up and possibly cum hard enough to cure a drought, when it finally pulls out.

Showtime, he can’t help but think deliriously, and it’s this thought that shatters the last vestiges of his reluctance.)

In the end, it’s fairly simple to pick up where Pursuer left off. Just shift them both around a bit, grab Not-prey’s legs again, sling them over its shoulders, bend forward, grab his hips, drag him down onto its length, and—

(“Fuck,” Artful chokes.)

—oh.

Warm. So tight and warm around him, a snug fit to be sure, but utterly comfortable, almost like this channel was made for it. It can feel Not-prey bearing down on it, his hole slicked with its saliva and his mysterious lubricant. It sheathes itself entirely in one motion and jumps a little when its pelvis hits soft flesh. It hadn’t expected such compatibility: Not-prey’s walls flutter around it almost like a welcome, and its whole attachment rests inside without any problems.

The prickling voice initially buried under rationality is now a raging roar at the forefront of Pursuer’s mind, consuming any other thoughts it might’ve had. It screams at it to drive forward, batter relentlessly until it’s staked its claim. It tells it to breed.

Puruser stays still for one heartbeat, two.

Then it gives in, and the world goes black.

“H-hold on, shit,” Artful curses as the creature abruptly begins rocking forward, pressing itself deeper and deeper into him like it’s trying to prove a point. A particularly harsh roll of its hips leaves him momentarily breathless as his body automatically jerks to grab the creature’s shoulders. He can feel the strain in his legs already, long-forgotten muscles unfortunately beginning to ache as they were stretched so suddenly. As the shallow grinding didn’t seem to be doing anything for the creature, Artful decided to spur it on in the interest of not remaining in this position any longer.

(He stubbornly ignores the fact that he isn’t doing this so much out of concern for his own bodily wellness as he is the burning desire to have his cunt wrecked by this being.)

On the next thrust, Artful clenches down hard. The results are immediate, the creature inhaling a bit more sharply than usual before pulling out quickly. The emptiness after is jarring, though the friction from the sudden action had gotten him worked up enough for another wave of slick to gush forward. As he is currently quite a mess — he can feel the slick leaking out as his hole continues to clench — he tries to turn his face away so he can avoid scrutiny.

He promptly snaps his head back forward, a startled and embarrassingly loud moan working its way out from his mouth, when the creature slams back in with no warning.

“Ah- hah, wai—” Artful doesn’t even get to finish the word before the creature drags its cock in and out again roughly, as if saying I’m not waiting any longer, and his next objections turn into nonsensical syllables and cut-off sounds as the creature begins fucking him in earnest.

Fuck, the pleasure is genuinely overwhelming. The creature isn’t huge to the point of impracticality, but it’s notably big and certainly long enough to hit every sweet spot Artful had ever discovered plus some that he hadn’t. And while Artful had avoided looking at its cock, primarily so he wouldn’t lose his nerve and try to scramble away like a coward — not that it would have worked anyway, he could tell the creature would have just suppressed him easily, and why the hell did that thought get him even more worked up — he was now faced with the consequences of his actions.

“S — haah — slow down,” he begs through already teary eyes (holy shit, he’s never going to let himself live this down) as his grip on the creature’s shoulders tighten. Barbs, he’s certain of them: the creature’s cock is fucking barbed, and damn if it isn’t sending Artful careening like a leaf in a hurricane.

“Wha- wait—” he protests when he feels the creature start to speed up instead, but it just keeps going. Clearly, asking for mercy doesn’t work, so Artful just has to lie and take it.

That thought also gets him strangely excited, and this time a physical reflection of his current emotions comes in the form of his cunt clenching again.

“Hah- mm,” He tries to muffle his cries by biting on his lip. This area was public, almost glaringly so, and all the involuntary things he’s been doing are just making it harder for him to ignore the pleasure. Every time the creature thrusts in roughly, he can’t help but rock his hips back to meet it halfway, throwing himself onto its dick again and again like someone crazy, already lost in the way it scrapes all his sensitive zones perfectly, in the way a particularly rough section always manages to grind directly into that one spot. Every movement sends searing heat down his spine, goosebumps breaking out across his body as he shakes from the stimulation. He can feel himself stretching, albeit not as severely as before, and he just knows he’s going to be remembering the shape of the creature long after this encounter.

The slight sting that sears across his nerves in that same tight-hot way pleasure does, the dozens of pinpricks of concentrated pressure and the waves of sensation crashing into him every time the creature fucks back in and he clenches down on it, the burning warmth that radiates from his abdomen, the empty, bloated feeling that had been bugging him lately finally disappearing under the insistent battering of the creature’s cock; it’s all overwhelming, incredibly so, and Artful’s surprised he even has the capacity to put together these types of thoughts right now.

Of course, that’s when the creature somehow manages to speed up even further and go even rougher, and Artful promptly loses the fight between him and rationality.

“Ah-!” His back arches clean off the ground this time, and for a second he’s pressing up into the creature, feeling the searing heat across both of their skins, feeling its muscles work as it strains to claim him. “Gah- hah- ahn!” Strings of broken gasps and strangled moans leave his mouth, filling the air between them, overriding the faint wet sounds of their coupling.

As he feels the searing tension in his stomach coalesce, he tries to warn the creature, tries to tell it to go faster and to stop and that he’s going to cum, but in the end all that leaves his mouth are more indecent sounds and, on the one occasion he’d managed to force his vocal chords to work beyond the pleasure, a downright filthy sound that was very evidently a plea for more.

The creature took him to heart, of course, and Artful had the dim thought that he really was going to die like this as the creature practically slammed in, dragging his body up and down as it pushed its pace to the limits like it was just fucking into a toy.

Unconsciously, actual words began finally slipping from his lips, just as the coil in his stomach finally reached its limit.

Warm. Warm. Warm. Warm. Hot.

So hot.

Not-prey is very obedient underneath it, even going so far as to reciprocate some of its advances. Every thrust forward is met with a feeble, but nonetheless heated, rocking that sends dizzying waves of stimulation to its head as Not-prey clenches back down on it.

“Hah- mm,” Not-prey is attempting to silence himself, and the thought leaves a sour taste in Pursuer’s mouth. While vaguely aware that its instincts had shifted during their strange union, it was unable to grasp the full extent until now. Looking down at Not-prey, it eyes the teeth digging into his lip and wonders if it could dislodge them without causing significant damage. Why was Not-prey so conscious about noise anyways? It’s not like any prey would interrupt them: Pursuer couldn’t sense a single living thing around other than them.

Why is Not-prey afraid? Cannot hear the beautiful sounds anymore.

Sounds were nice. Made everything hot but in a good way. Want more. Always want more. Hungry for reaction.

Why is Not-prey afraid? You are right here.

Unacceptable. Mate cannot be scared.

Annoyed and feeling its senses already growing numb to the roaring fire of pleasure, Puruser steadies itself a bit before pounding into Not-prey even harder.

“Ah-!” Not-prey reacts instantly, rocking up from the ground and momentarily grazing its front as his back bends in a clean arc. The sound that escapes him is practically equal in volume to a shout, and Pursuer can hear the shock, the confusion, but most importantly of all, the pleasure that rings so clearly it feels like a physical vibration through the air.

Good. Not-prey should not be silent. Should not be scared. Should not be thinking about anything other than you.

“Gah- hah- ahn!” Those same pleasured noises continue to leave his mouth, now interspersed with gasps and groans whenever Pursuer pushes back in too fast. It wants to hear those noises forever, wants to keep each one suspended in the air until the world ends so it can replay every moment again and again, proof of their union. But it also wants to swallow Not-prey’s mouth, to claim his nonsensical words and his half-formed thoughts for itself, to never risk letting anyone else hear what should be its and only its.

For now, it chooses to let Not-prey vocalize, to allow these groans and pleas into the world. It’s intoxicated, drunk off the dulcet tones of his voice, and every slight hitch of breath drives its hips further, faster, perpetually seeking to steal another snatch of sound from the blood-red of his throat. This proves to be the right decision when Not-prey downright whines, cracking voice holding nothing but pleasure and a desperation for more that sends Pursuer’s head spinning.

Yes. This is how it should be. Not-prey should like this too. Should feel very good. Faster. Harder. Sate this hunger. You know very well how to eat your fill.

It’s dimly aware that it’s starting to tremble just the slightest bit, limbs finally beginning to burn with the strain of its movements. The world warps around it, a blur that ebbs and flows like the waters of a lake. The pleasure that shoots through its length with every minor motion sends disorienting waves of heat across its body. It’s pretty sure that even if it stopped moving, just breathing while being inside Not-prey’s hole would be enough to keep it in this maddened state of mind indefinitely. Strangely, as the pleasure grows, it feels the need to vocalize, much like Not-prey. It holds itself back, instead straining to catch every single one of Not-prey’s sounds, all the way up until his trembling reaches a critical point and he actually starts forming words again, much to Pursuer’s surprise.

“Guh- gonna cum,” Not-prey warns(?), somehow finding the strength to clutch onto its shoulders, and it tilts its head slightly, lost in the wet warmth around its length, mindlessly driving forward again and again despite his urgent tone, too out of it to decipher what the last word meant. However, Not-prey’s next attempt served to jolt it back to reality, and for a moment the whole world seemed to slow down.

“Inside, inside please—” the words themselves theoretically shouldn’t hold significance. Pursuer has no idea what Not-prey is talking about. But they set off some terrible, primal part of its instincts anyways, like the syllables hold some ancient secret that means life or death for it. Unbidden, a growl rises out of its throat, startling and definitely not formed of its own volition. There’s a pressure in its abdomen now, the same one that had built endlessly without any release in sight back during its days of isolation in its cave. That pressure is winding tight now, coiling around like a snake, and Pursuer knows when it snaps and lunges something will happen to both itself and Not-prey.

Not-prey keeps up the stream of “inside” for a few more seconds, doggedly begging for something Pursuer knows not about, but it tries to fulfill whatever need drives his words, lingering inside every time it thrusts in, taking more time to drag itself back out every time it enters him again. At some point, though, it grows impatient, and when it snaps its hips forward hard something seems to give in Not-prey.

New words. New words are pouring out of Not-prey’s mouth. But Pursuer doesn’t have time to analyze any of them, because—

Because—

“Please, please, inside, cum inside—” Not-prey is babbling, rambling, “inside, ah- ah- I-”

“Stay inside,” nails dig into Pursuer’s shoulders, unnaturally sharp, “stay inside, cum inside, fuck, I—”

The desperate tone, the repeated begging and emphasis on staying inside, even the sting of pain from Not-prey’s grip, everything sends Pursuer slamming forward, spiraling deeper and deeper into pleasure, and there’s this unbearable heat in its attachment, and it feels like it’s really reaching a limit—

“—knock me up—”

—what.

Everything freezes for a second.

Distantly, it is aware that it is still moving. Distantly, it is aware that Not-prey is speaking again.

“—inside, inside, fuck, please, breed me—”

What.

…

Breed.

(Artful is delirious at this point, barely aware of his own body, but there’s something in the back of his mind screaming that he wants this thing’s cum in him right now, wants it to devour him completely, and he’s not quite sure what he’s saying, but he continues speaking anyways, spitting his slurred words out between the endless cascade of moans and single word phrases that emerge from his mouth automatically. The thought of being claimed in such a way awakens something dark in him, a quiet, lurking thing that whispers he’ll never have to agonize about survival again, that he can just lie prone, filled with the creature in the most visceral way possible, and stay down where he is, with nothing to worry about except keeping his legs spread, nothing to think about but the creature’s cock in him, always dripping, always ready. No more stupid Government chasing him, no more cold nights stifling his coughs until his ribs creak with the effort of holding it all back, just the heat and the pleasure and the instinctual belonging that comes with bearing another’s young.

Maybe that’s why he drags himself closer, forcing his hips down even further onto the creature’s cock until he feels it deep in him hitting something at the end of his cunt, and even though he knows there’s not actually a womb there, even though he knows magic can only do so much when he is literally not biologically a woman, he allows himself to forget for a second, truly convinces himself that the creature’s seed could and would take if they just tried hard enough, and then he scrapes one hand hard down the creature’s back and snarls in its ear:

“Fucking get me pregnant now.”

And the creature obliges.)

The world goes completely, utterly white for a moment.

There’s a ringing sound coming from somewhere in the distance, something that echoes through the air like the scrape of metal on non-stick flooring. It’s an oddly specific comparison to make. Why had it come up now, of all times?

One, two, three heartbeats, and the stillness shatters, and everything comes rushing back in full color.

“Merde,” Artful sobs, voice cracking. His entire abdomen lights up with a fierce heat, one that burns so good it has him raking his nails across the creature’s back, the world blurring for a second as tears finally begin to fall. The creature’s cock seems to have fucking grown, and it forces itself inside with a series of thrusts and grinds that ultimately end in a burst of pleasure. Artful’s been coming continuously, his climax never allowed to abate under the insistent battering, and when the creature finally fits fully inside with a comically loud pop, he sees stars, cunt clenching desperately around the intrusion. He can feel his walls straining, the barbs hooked on their ridges digging in and sending him bearing down again and again, momentarily lost in the way it hurts so good; he knows his body is at its limit after being abused for so long, but he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. The creature’s coming in him, waves of warmth that have him gushing and his eyes rolling back, and it’s only when he subconsciously rolls his hips again that he realizes somehow nothing’s slipping out past the cock stuffing him full.

Fuck, it fucking knotted me, Artful realizes, and promptly comes again with the thought. He spasms, a choked gasp making its way out of his throat, nerves lighting up like his body’s a live wire as his cunt works around the creature. He faintly recalls those comments he’d seen below posts of edits, something something “it’s pulsing his name in morse code,” and a hysterical giggle pushes its way out of him, hanging in the air as if waiting for acknowledgement. None comes, though — the creature suddenly collapses as it finishes, and Artful is pushed down as it goes slack. The weight on top of him is surprisingly light, but definitely notable. While breathing isn’t hard, moving certainly is, although that might be because of what they were just doing.

The thought brings a flush to Artful’s cheeks, so he tries to clear his mind, hands absently flexing against the flesh of the creature’s back where they lay. The creature trembles in his arms, pitifully limp like a puppet with its strings cut, and Artful nudges it into what seems like a more comfortable position, exhausted mind bubbling with turmoil. Has the creature ever even had sex? Probably not, with the way it initially tried to push in immediately. Is Artful a shitty person for taking advantage of its clearly unnatural condition? Was this considered zoophilia? Did he seriously just let some weird thing straight out of a horror movie fuck him? Holy shit, was he actually losing it?

From a logical standpoint no, god I sure hope not, yes because I’m a pathetic loser, if I seriously need to consider this then yeah I probably am. That was Artful’s best estimate.

Frowning slightly, Artful hesitantly rubs a few circles into the creature’s back, careful to avoid the areas he’s damaged. Despite its skin feeling very tough, his nails had somehow managed to gouge a few gashes regardless, probably thanks to some subconscious use of magic in the heat of the moment. In any case, the creature seems a bit overwhelmed, and Artful feels kind of sorry, although whether that was for it or for himself was up in the air. The tremors do ease a bit under his ministrations, so he considers it a success. He opens his mouth to say something, mind blanking a bit and thoughts just yelling at him to break the silence, but all that comes out is a yawn.

Huh, what…? Artful blinks once, twice, the world flashing dark, black slowly creeping across the edges of his vision.

Fuck, I’m so tired… His eyes involuntarily flutter shut, his entire body beginning to feel weighed down like he was sinking in water. His hands stutter, then stall, then stop completely, and the creature presses closer in confusion, a sound somewhere between a click and a murmur exiting its mouth. Distantly, he remembers the previous few minutes, when the creature was still trying to fit inside him while coming. He thinks it might have made similar sounds then, now that he’s recalling the events more clearly.

Food for thought later, Artful decides, and promptly passes out.

The cave is warm.

Pursuer is warm, too. Not the bad kind of warmth, this time. The good kind, the kind that helps, the kind that proves it’s alive. The kind that comes with adrenaline, with burning limbs and aching lungs and the perpetual motion of life.

Not-prey lies curled on his side, draped in furs. Pursuer had long since forgone paltry comforts such as softness, thrown aside its greedy wants in favor of its base needs. There was never time to live, only just enough to survive. But Not-prey made it rethink, reconsider, and ultimately turn back to those worldly practices. Furs to pad the floor and cover them when cold, pine needles and flowers to lace the overpowering scent of petrichor with something softer, something that turned the pungent odor pleasing instead of simply bearable.

Not-prey hasn’t woken up in a while. It was quite chaotic when he first arose, the pitch black of night hiding him from Pursuer until he had almost made it out of the cave. It had shot up, then, alarmed at the missing presence beside it, and bodily dragged him back in, piling on top of him in an effort to contain him within the dim dark. While initially successful, Not-prey has since vanished several times per day despite Pursuer’s best efforts — a feat that makes it grind its teeth in frustration — but he always comes back before nightfall. It seems that, while he has things to do, he doesn’t have anywhere better to sleep, doesn’t have anyone else he likes more. He will forever return to here, to Pursuer. This thought, heavy and slightly delusional, is what allows it to continue letting Not-prey go.

Recently, Not-prey’s been different. He sleeps longer, goes out less, and often comes back untidy, like he isn’t bothering to be careful anymore. He’s still warm, neither hotter nor colder, and he looks completely fine, but his anomalous behavior confuses Pursuer.

As if stirred by its thoughts, Not-prey sits up and yawns, furs falling away to reveal his form. He’s wearing another set of that strange material again, except this time it’s much more loose-fitting, flowing around his figure and pooling at his wrists and ankles. Blinking blearily, he squints his eyes and peers at Pursuer, confusion swirling in his narrowed eyes.

“What’re you staring for?” Not-prey questions, voice barely louder than a murmur as he shuffles closer. While he had initially been extremely wary of Pursuer, something that for some reason deeply upset it, the fear faded rather quickly, and in its place was a very frequent prospenity for stealing its body heat. Just like now, when he leans against it, seemingly unbothered by the toughness of its skin as his head falls onto its shoulder.

Shaking its head slightly to indicate it doesn’t know either, Pursuer hesitates for a moment before pointing to Not-prey. Maybe if it asked, he would give it answers willingly?

“Oh,” Not-prey blinks. “Right. My name’s Artful.”

It’s definitely not the response it’d hoped for, but the words hold valuable insight regardless.

Artful. It suits him.

“What’s yours?”

Ah. Pursuer’s not sure how to go about telling Not-prey Artful, what with not being able to make the sounds necessary. Eventually it just points to its throat and hopes that gets the point across.

“Can’t say?” Artful sighs, raising a hand to lightly press at its jugular with his thumb, and Pursuer goes still, every instinct screaming an incoherent mix of danger danger backward and closer closer forward. Fortunately, the conflict doesn’t last long, Artful dropping his hand soon after.

“That’s okay,” he hums, opting to toy with the strange black piece that covers half his face instead. “There’s always time.”

Huh.

Artful is…

Artful is right…?

They do have time. All the time in the world, if Pursuer were to be a bit arrogant. It’s like the seasons have slowed down, this once. It looks around at the cave lined with furs, the bundles of pine and blossoms that lend their color to the space and permeate the air with their smells, little pockets of freshness in the monotony of grey. The days have been so slow, lately. It seemed such a short time ago that it was losing weeks at a time to starvation, and now every hour crawls by like something precious not yet willing to end.

Slowly, it nods along, and Artful smiles as he yawns again, clearly satisfied. Soon his breathing slows, and Pursuer gently returns him to the veritable nest of furs he’s made, tucking the largest one over him.

‘There’s always time.’

Yes. Yes, there was time now. Time to live, not just survive.

Slowly, Pursuer lays down beside Artful and closes its eyes.

“Sweet dreams,” Artful murmurs, and it rolls over, tangling their limbs together through the fur.

“…” It doesn’t know how to speak, but it tries to reciprocate the best it can regardless, and Artful’s low laughter sweeps through the cave for a second before everything quiets down again.

Today was a kind day. Tomorrow will be a kinder one yet. Everything passes with time.

Pursuer falls asleep with Artful by its side. It’s the first time they lie together like this. It hopes it won’t be the last.

Storms are always easier to weather when you’re warm.