Wow. Updates on two stories in one day. Thank you reviewers and followers, you rock! With each day that goes by without posting an update, my guilt grows, thanks to you.
Disclaimer: I don't own Predator(s) and I'm not making any money off this fic. This story is intended for Mature readers who are okay with inappropriate situations, naughty language and descriptive sexual encounters between predator and human.
Aware of Anya's sudden tension in the wake of their mating, L'tor nevertheless settled in to enjoy the lethargy and calm that followed. This had been the first time he'd ever gently taken a female. Even those that had willingly approached him were taken with aggression, the application of restraint and the use of force. It hadn't been anger that drove him to perform that way; it was more of an instinctive drive to prove to the interested female that he was strong and capable and dominant, worthy of her interest. It was the same as the first time he'd bred Anya, driven by the need to take her and dominate her, to establish his authority over her.
This time, though, he'd been presented with a willing female for a second round of mating. The sparring beforehand had laid the foundation for gentleness and affection and the drops he'd put into her drink assured him that she would remain focused but calm. He'd taken his time, exploring and testing her, drinking in the details of her soft body, filling his senses with the scent and taste of her, listening to the sounds she made in reaction. He had never allowed a female to touch him when he bred her. Anya had, and the sensation of her small hands pulling at him, her bllunt nails digging into his skin, had been heady. Intoxicating. His female, his mate, wanted him to breed her. Asked, begged, demanded. The realization had caused him to finish quickly and, for him, explosively. Breeding her, he was pleased to realize, would be no hardship for him.
In the aftermath he found himself pleasantly sated, a side effect of his orgasm. It would give Anya time to recover before he demanded his right to her body again, for now far more interested in mating with her than in the reason he'd taken her as a mate in the first place: simply to produce his pups. The physical need was stronger than the biological need, the desire to hear the sounds she made, to feel her clutching at him in passion and pleasure, writhing beneath him as he stroked into her. She might be small but she was tough and he sensed that she was tougher still, that if he was careful she would come to willingly accept aggression from him and not interpret it as anger or punishment.
Aroused by his thoughts, by the memory of Anya's willing participation, by her scent, L'tor shifted beside her. She lifted her head and he grunted, then tugged himself out of her and rolled her over onto her belly. He slid over her carefully, pressing her down but keeping most of his weight off of her, finding her entrance again and pressing back inside. She moaned softly but lifted her bottom willingly; she was wet and not so tight as before. He propped himself onto one elbow, sliding his hand down her side and taking her hip to lift her bottom higher, encouraging her to rise beneath him. The sexy arch of her spine captured his attention for a moment, until she nudged against his groin, moving him inside her.
He slid over her again, mounting her, holding the image of her arms stretched over her head, her face pressed into the furs, her back arched dramatically as she kept her bottom raised beneath him for his pleasure. With a low growl he started moving, drawing out and pressing back in, so hard and throbbing his erection pained him and pricked his aggression. He quickened the pace, pressing her hard against the bedding, pulling out steadily but shoving back in roughly. She shifted beneath him, raised herself higher in response, her hands closing in the furs as she huffed in time. She was bracing herself for each thrust, lifting in time to meet them. Her reaction excited him, drove him harder, made him clench and bunch in response.
When she began moaning between huffs he deepened his strokes and changed his angle, then shuddered as the sensation changed. He growled again, rising over her as his own hands closed in the furs on either side of her, as his tension grew incrementally with each thrust until he was grunting with urgency. As if she felt it and sensed it, Anya lifted higher and started pushing back, rocking to meet him. He shuddered again, an all-over ripple of muscle, then roared the breath out of his lungs, head lifted, mandibles spread wide as he jerked against her, emptying himself inside of her with an orgasm so intense and hard and sudden that it bordered on painful. It ebbed away slowly, almost reluctantly, leaving him shivering and panting and rocking softly against her as he maintained only enough sense not to slump down on top of her.
When he'd regained enough awareness to move, L'tor settled himself behind Anya, sliding his left arm beneath her head as his right hand covered her breast. He pulled her back against his chest, then released her breast and slid his hand down her belly in a slow caress, feeling her rocking in time with his hard breathing. They both settled quickly though, and L'tor suspected he was asleep before she was.
As the ship of the clan that L'tor belonged to had many of its members currently selecting females from Anya's planet, the journey to reach it was a relatively short one. His personal craft was of a superior speed than the average, but even so, galactic travel necessitated a reduction in velocity. The gravitational forces inherent in any solar system were not only capable of reducing a ship's speed; they attracted and held debris and matter that were to be avoided. Between galaxies his ship was capable of awesome speed that greatly reduced travel time between between planets that offered abundant game. En-route he typically used the time to train, maintaining his physical condition, to prepare his weapons and armor, to meditate and prepare his mind for the rigors of the hunt. At the end of any hunt he used the time to rest, cleaning and treating any wounds he'd received, polishing and preparing his new trophies for display, then planning his next excursion.
Not so, now. Though he'd had companions onboard before, they were never either female or ooman. Never restlessly wandering, perfumed with pheromones that enticed relentlessly until they pricked his temper as he tried to focus on his intended goal prior to reaching the clan ship. Training and taming Anya were paramount; he had an expectation of her behavior and on this he would not be budged, despite the nearly overwhelming desire to put a few drops of the sedative/stimulant into everything she ate and drank so she would be more than willing to spend the entire trip in his bed.
He growled quietly and raggedly to himself as cut a large roasted tenderloin into individual steaks. Being so double-minded was a foreign experience to him and he resented the hell out of it. Normally he set a course and diligently pursued it but now he felt himself constantly being pulled in multiple directions. Even arguing with himself in his head, as if he were going mad, as if the conflicting desires inside him were individuals, all battling each other for dominance.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the feminine sounds of pleasure she emitted while he bred her. The way she moved restlessly beneath him, riding him as he rode her. The softness of her skin, the way she encouraged him with her entire being, pulling and flexing and grabbing at him with her small hands...
Discipline, he reminded himself with a coarse chuff of self-rebuke. It was what he constantly told his students during training and now he was using the advice on himself. Everything in due course. He steadied his thoughts, quieting the cacophony of demand in his head that battled incessantly with his rigid self-control. Train her, tame her. Get her accustomed to his presence so she didn't embarrass him when they arrived at the clan ship-
"Whatcha doin?" Anya's voice abruptly asked from behind him, and he swiflty slammed the knife in his hand point-down on the tenderloin hard enough to pin it to the cutting surface, then growled vehemently as his tentative discipline scattered like the wind.
When he turned to face her, clenching his hands into fists, he took note of her expression as she met his eyes. To his kind, prolonged eye contact was indicative of a challenge. This, he'd come to learn, was her way of trying to read him, of assessing his mood and intent, since her sense of smell wasn't keen enough to pick up on the subtle nuances of his n'dui'se, and since she wasn't experienced enough to interpret his body language. Like her, he was trying to learn her mannerisms and expressions to better determine her moods and intentions.
"Looks like it's dead already," she said. When he continued to stare at her, unsure of what she was talking about, she clarified. "The meat."
Pauk the meat, his building aggressive side said, annoyed at her easy ability to wreak havoc on his self-control and irritated by her interrupting his carefully ordered thoughts.
No, pauk the female, his lust countered.
His stomach reminded him that he'd been ignoring it for days while this battle had raged, adding another ingredient to his internal conflict. While he tried to re-instill discipline in himself another part seriously questioned his sanity.
"Train," he growled, suddenly hitting on a solution. Anya blinked, then crimped her finely furred brows.
"What about a train?" she asked.
Annoyed, he rumbled, "Eat later. Train now," then lifted a hand and motioned at her to move.
"Oh, train," she said, her expression becoming considerably brighter. Willingly, she followed him to his exercise room as he brushed past her to lead the way, busying his mind with the difference between the way he'd said train and the way she said train in order to not concentrate on other things. Yautja had much less inflection and nuance in their speech, depending on other means to convey it. Since oomans lacked tusks and mandibles and the ability to smell like anything other than something that needed desperately to be mated, he supposed they'd been forced to resort to mores subtle means to get their points across.
He barked harshly at her and she froze in place, slamming to a halt as she stepped and raised the staff in both hands. When she stilled he advanced, moving behind her and bracketing her with his arms. He covered her hands with both of his and roughly shoved them further apart, none too gentle as he widened her stance by knocking the side of his hard leg against the inside of her calf. With a grunt he gave her a light cuff and moved back to start walking to the far side of the circle.
"You didn't...did you just bark at me like a junkyard dog?" Anya demanded boldly. She'd been horrified at his aggression and held herself stiffly as he shoved and nudged at her to correct her stance, and without thinking she'd opened her mouth. What she didn't say was that if this was the way he would train her she didn't want any part of it. His annoyance directed at her was more than she could take.
L'tor froze in the process of walking away from her, then turned to face her. She'd seen the way his fists had clenched and the muscles in his back bunched into bold relief against his rough, scarred skin. She straightened as he looked at her, clutching the staff tightly in her hands. "And take a fucking whack at me?" she continued, her tone hard. "Cuz if this is just pissing you off maybe I should jus-"
His advance in her direction cut off her words, and once within reach of her he lifted his hand and lightly touched her face, issuing a soft rumble and cutting her off. She stared into his fierce eyes, unsure and wondering if she was about to be punished for her outburst. Any display of aggression on his part made her understandably nervous and desperate to remove herself from him as far as she could. The hand on her face slid down her arm as he stepped closer, and she held herself stiffly as he brushed himself along her body as he moved behind her again, raising his other arm to frame her as before.
He began to move her, to position her how he wanted her again, but differently this time. His movements were slower and gentler, each touch a caress as he softened her grip on the staff and spread her hands further apart along its length. His hands slid back along her arms, lifting them a bit higher, pushing the staff out further from her body. Her tension began to ebb at his slow rumble, at the hands sliding down her flanks to tug her hips back and straighten her spine.
This is much better, Anya couldn't help but think, paying attention to how he was positioning her but a bit distracted by the way he was doing it. She pressed her back against his chest and heard the low etching of a purr in response, a tentative thrum that slipped out. It was, she supposed, apology and reassurance, and she eased herself back into the position he was trying to set her in, surrounded by heat and yautja-scent. He had hesitated as she'd pressed against him and now he returned to gently positioning her. She assumed that he taught his students with impatience and rough demand, but that method wasn't going to work him to her. She needed his gentler side or he would easily scare the shit out of her.
Still bracketing her, he moved her in a slow, gliding strike. The first one was sketchy because she hadn't been expecting it. She relaxed her resistance and he did it again, then slid his right hand along her arm, down her side to her hip. He squeezed her there and gave her a pat, then slid his hand back over hers. Again, another strike, another pat to her hip. He wanted the move to come from there, from her core and not her arms. Getting it, she nodded, and the next time she twisted with him, pushing from her hip and the leg on that side. He grunted, a short, quick sound that she could feel against her back. He did it with her a few more times then rearranged her to repeat the move from the other side, from the other hip and leg.
The concept was sound, one she already knew. The muscles in her back and legs were stronger than those in her arms, and combining all three behind her strike would add more power to it. The problem was that she had been rigidly nervous doing mock battle against an apparently infuriated yautja and she hadn't committed to her movements. She had also been battling a need to never take her eyes off him, to not allow herself to twist away or twirl and turn her back, an instinctive need to never lose sight of him. A fear response, triggered in part by his no-nonsense attitude from the moment he'd brought her here to start sparring.
The contact eased her tension and she began to relax and move more smoothly, echoing him as he stepped, turned, struck. He began to add speed and she stayed with him, focused on the instruction while at the same time aware of his beer-scent, his heat, and the press of his body against hers. She could feel, as he moved, the bunch and slide of his muscles against her back and arms, the casual strength of his fingers as his grip tightened over her hands. His focus turned there and he used gentle pressure to try and loosen her death-grip on the too-big-for-her staff, showing her with his own hands when to loosen and when to clench.
She realized they were moving in a quiet, slow dance; step, strike, spin, parry, strike, block, from one leg to the other, staying in constant motion, gliding now from one movement to the next. It went from halting and unsteady to smooth as she relaxed, leaned into him and read the cues his body sent hers. A steady cadence of movements, graceful and powerful, accompanied by gentle direction as he kept her moving while letting go with one hand or the other to touch her pointedly: shoulder here, leg there, hip like this, back straight, head up, hands like this, grip like that. She calmed and steadied, becoming more limber and fluid, starting to catch on and self-correct. The yautja wrapped around her body from behind would rumble quietly to communicate his pleasure and approval, pivoting, turning, guiding her around the sparring circle, teaching her not to guard her little corner of it but to feel comfortable moving around it.
As he moved faster she stepped in sync, bending as he leaned against her back, turning on her forehand, pivoting on her heel, lifting the staff, swinging it low, striking out with a fluid motion. Her breathing steadied and deepened, keeping in time with his subconsciously, aware of the press and release of each inhale and exhale against her back. Her world became the staff she shared with the predator, the contact of his body against her, the rise and fall of his movements. He worked within her, curbing his reach and power to match hers and demanding her utmost, dropping his balance to his hips instead of his core to guide her properly in the way she needed to move. If he didn't like it, if he wasn't pleased with it, he forced her to repeat it, over and over until he was satisfied that she understood, until she took the lead and he backed off to shadow her. Arms straight, arms bent, wrists hard, wrists soft, grip like this, step like that. Always keeping mindful of the sparring circle and staying within it, sometimes dancing along its perimeter, sometimes boldly cutting through the center of it.
"Ngot," he rumbled, keeping her moving, asking her now with the guidance of his body to feint, to turn on her backhand, to bring the staff low for a leg sweep, to rotate it as she pivoted and at the same time swing it like a sword. The movements became faster still and more complicated and she continued to shadow him, to read his intentions in the shifting of his body.
At the end he had one hand on her hip and the other behind her neck, taking away the cues she was reading from the close contact with him and merely using his hands to correct her as she continued the movements on her own. No more rough and aggressive brutality; now he used pressure to guide her, to remind her, to position her as she moved. It should have distracted her but it didn't. She found herself paying attention to those hands, seeking and accepting their correction and contact as she moved willingly beneath them.
She'd never been taught this way, with so much physical contact. She'd always felt there was a certain sensuality to fighting, to the martial arts, to the cadence and movements and steps and postures. L'tor's touch was making that belief so much more concrete, driving it home. It was a dance and he led her without a word, the years of training and experience stored up in his body translating to hers with every touch as something in her opened up and submitted, listening eagerly and responding to his lightest cues. The footwork and balance was the easy part to her; she was a dancer and she had an innate understanding of position and an ability to stay centered and steady. It was the focus and intent that she struggled with; that and the clumsy staffwork.
His grip lightened, then loosened, then released as, satisfied that she'd memorized the dance, he shadowed her. Each time she started to fall back into old habits his touch corrected and reminded her: keep your head up, move your weight to the balls of your feet, relax your tension. She danced for what felt like hours, non-combative, smooth, graceful movements, aware that he was working the basics with her and starting from scratch. For now he was more interested in her movements, her balance, the positioning of her hands on the staff and her stance.
She'd gotten away with focusing inward during her kata for years, leveling up despite the fact that she was sliding into strikes without looking at her target, that she was keeping her eyes fixed on the mat as she went through the moves. It had been play for her. Exercise. To L'tor this was serious business, practice and toning and strengthening in preparation for life or death battles. It wasn't about how cute she looked in her uniform and how flexible she was and how nicely she moved.
He was quick, too, catching her faults before she even realized them. It spoke to her of his expertise as a teacher and the careful focused attention he had on her. The second her eyes drifted he'd grunt. Same for if she wasn't paying proper attention to her balance and under- or over-stepped.
"Body follows head," he warned her as her attention wandered and she fixed her gaze too long on the weapons affixed to the wall, wondering what they were. Damn if he wasn't right; it caused her to improperly complete her turn and she stumbled a bit since her feet couldn't go where they'd expected to go. To her embarrassment it took some time for her to regain her form, as the free-flowing movements, attached to each other like a line of freight cars, all bumped into one another. Turned out that what he'd made look so simple was actually pretty complicated. It required her full concentration and attention, for her brain to be engaged in sync with her body.
"Hko," he grumbled, sliding against her back, keeping her moving as he bracketed her again and put her back on track. As he worked with her she realized her other mistake; she'd gone back into staying within one area of the sparring circle, not pushing herself to utilize its entire circumference. She blushed, glad he was behind her and couldn't see her mortification. She hadn't realized just how bad at this she was until this seemingly simple exercise drove it home. How the hell had her sensais allowed her to level up to a brown belt? It was beyond embarrassing.
After a long soak in the blazing hot bath to help ease her stiffness, Anya took herself for a stroll. L'tor had exited the bath before her, rumbling something under his breath that led her to believe he had pressing business elsewhere. He'd spent a long time working with her. Hours. Every muscle and bone in her body ached from strain and exertion, and her nerve endings were still tingling restlessly as her mind reviewed the steps and motions over and over again.
She ended up in the section of corridor where what she assumed were L'tor's trophies were hung. Here were the skulls that had resided temporarily outside her front door, and dozens more. Bones and claws and spines, all polished and honed to a shiny luster that lent them an air of unreality. Well, that and the mere looks of them. She recognized the tyrannosaurus thing and what she'd been told was a queen xenomorph, the skulls he'd chosen to place at her house. Other than that, there was nothing recognizable here to her. These were all alien monsters, most huge.
Anya moved slowly along the passageway, touching nothing as her eyes drank in details. There wasn't a skull that wasn't ringed with impressive teeth or adorned with wicked stabbing horns of some kind. There were claws that were a foot long, narrowing toward their razor-sharp tips like scythes. She stared, wondering about the creatures these pieces and parts belonged to, what they looked like, how they moved, where they came from and how they'd ended up here.
A low, familiar rumble reached her ears and she looked over and saw L'tor standing at the opposite end of the huge display. Whatever the individual stories of these creatures whose remains were on display, none of them could best what she was looking at right now. He stood, as was his habit, ramrod straight, broad shoulders square, each foot squarely lined up beneath them. Between, his impressive body was bare except for a short skirt draped modestly around his comparatively narrow waist. This one was a dark red hide and she stared maybe longer than was polite, trying to work out how he'd wrapped it. It circled his hips, covered the bulge of his maleness, split over the bulge, then draped over the very top of each huge thigh. She supposed such a thing would be considered a loincloth, but it was nothing like Tarzan's simple, ragged loincloth.
L'tor cut an impressive figure, and despite his rigid posture she didn't sense any tension in him. She was getting better at reading him, more comfortable with his presence. As a matter of fact, him training her the way he had had done wonders for her confidence level. What she was standing here staring at now had, just an hour or so ago, been wrapped around her head-to-toe, gently moving and guiding and teaching. Though he was a capable killer of dragons and dinosaurs he was also capable of a gentle squeeze, a light pat, and a whisper of a brush against her skin.
Anya blinked and adjusted her posture, then headed down the corridor to him as he held out a hand to her, a summons. He rumbled again as she paused in front of him, seeing the scars he was peppered in anew, now that she'd spent some time studying what he'd gone up against. Amazing there wasn't more damage than she was seeing. Missing limbs wouldn't have shocked her, since he seemed to have a particular preference for going up against creatures with heads three foot long and bigger.
"Ngot," he rumbled in his deep, gravelly voice, and Anya realized she'd willingly responded to his wordless command to come without hesitation. The fingers he'd held out to her curled in toward his palm and he brushed the backs of his knuckles down her cheek with a light, pleased purr, making her flush.
She lowered her gaze from his terrifying face and fierce eyes, settling them on his well-muscled abdomen. Her eyes skipped from one healed nick, cut, slash and gouge to the next, taking them in one-by-one. His thick hide had a pebbly texture that was a bit smoother on his belly and chest, less rough and abrasive. The coloration here was lighter, too, and without thinking about it, Anya lifted her hand and touched him with her fingertips.
Heat and texture and a slightly pliable hardness. When her fingertips encountered a scar she felt a rougher hardness, less pliability. Some were deep enough for her fingers to slide into, coarse and rough. She traced them, outlined them, explored them, bringing herself a step closer without being aware of it, fascinated by what she was seeing and feeling.
L'tor went still, aware he was being studied. Anya's hand came up and she lightly touched his abdomen, then her fingertips started moving from one old scar to the next. The majority of scars were concentrated in his unarmored areas, damage sustained in the countless hunts he'd partaken in. The only scars he bore in the places where he was normally armored were from ritual battle, jehdin jehdin, one-on-one. Those were for rank and respect, fueled by conflict and ambition, conducted between yautja without armor or weapons and overseen by Elders and an audience of other warriors.
He was peppered with dozens of blade wounds from every kind of sharp instrument imaginable: claws, fangs, knives, swords. Even, he recalled as her fingers traced a long gash that had opened him up from left to right, a jagged piece of twisted metal swung at him by a terrified and enraged zagreb. Would have killed him if his quick reflexes hadn't enabled him to jump back the second he'd registered the swing. As it was, the sharp edge had bitten deep and torn through a good portion of his anatomy. He'd killed the zagreb, a quadruped beast much larger than himself with the unusual ability to fight on two feet, then been forced to stop and coat the massive wound to prevent anymore blood loss and inject himself with adrenaline to make the trek back to his ship. That had been a particularly close call, one that in the end had left him with a scar to be proud of and a trophy of a kill few others would dare.
He began to purr quietly, pleased. The incident with the zagreb had been countless seasons ago, and now he pointed out its skull to his female, then motioned at the slash that could have cut him in half while she stared up at him, then at the trophy. A zagreb was a force to be reckoned with, and this one was an adult male with a large harem to protect. Too bad he hadn't the strength to take the entire body back to his ship; he would've liked to have mounted it whole so that others could see the scars on its hide that proved it had been an aggressive and dominant male.
Anya had made her way behind him and he kept his awareness on her touch. There was a large scar from a blast hole near his spine on his lower back, below where his armor sat, and he stiffened as she touched it. Not because it gave him pain but because it reminded him that that particular wound had been inflicted by a member of her species, a large combat-trained and well-armed male who'd delighted L'tor with his ability to evade and ambush. While he wasn't familiar with the weapon that had blown a sizable hole in his back, he wondered if Anya would recognize its signature as she had one of the scars on his thigh. He was of the crossover generation; old enough to have taken part in ooman hunts before seeing them banned by the loss of the yautja female population and the discovery that ooman females were capable surrogates. While he had stopped hunting oomans he had not joined the ranks of those traveling to earth to either find a potential mate or to become more familiar with their habits and customs. He'd held out, hoping that, with his race so scattered, yautja females would be found thriving in some far corner of the universe.
So far, though, there had been no indications that such a population still existed. L'tor was aware that many had gone in search of signs, capable and experienced warriors that were thorough enough to even scour ancient hunting planets long since abandoned. If there were yautja females left alive somewhere it was obvious that they didn't want to be found. Which, he supposed, was possible. Even his Master had ruefully told him what a pain in the ass they were.
L'tor had never experienced a yautja female; he was considered to be of a particular nobility as his bearer had been yautja and not ooman. For almost the last century yautja had been born to ooman females, and there was a sort of elitism amongst the purebreds of two yautja parents. Like most others born to a yautja female, he had been resistant to the thought of taking an ooman as a mate. He had seen the last of the yautja females at gatherings when he was younger, but he hadn't been highly ranked or experienced enough at the time to garner their interest. He'd watched highly ranked warriors battle each other to the death for the right to breed in a ritual as old as time, working themselves up into a foaming fury and mortally wounding each other, only to be rejected in the end. Competition had become more fierce than ever with a reduction in the number of females, and even then L'tor had understood that the odds of him winning the right to mate one were slim.
In the early days he'd hunted with a pack. It was the only way to planet-hop, since he didn't own a ship. The downside was that he'd had to answer to a pack leader, go where he chose, and live by his rules. He'd endured for a time before being pushed to confrontation that ultimately resulted in the death of the pack's leader and earned him the title. The reputation he'd built meant that many yautja were vying for a place in his pack and for a long while he'd thrived in his new role. But then overseeing petty disputes and squabbles had taken their toll on him and he found himself wishing for a ship of his own and some peace and quiet. So he'd worked on his rank, on gaining the respect of the Elders, the experienced warriors and the upper echelon of his species. Thus ensued a time of conflict for him, of battle after battle that he'd fought against the more highly ranked, the more experienced, the older and wealthier with possessions he coveted. He'd fought with unmatched ferocity so that he had the right to take the things he wanted and needed, and to earn himself a place in their ranks.
And once he achieved what he'd set out to achieve he took his new ship and possessions and left the clan ship to travel the cosmos again, this time alone. And again he thrived in this new season of his life, working on his awu'asa, armor, and on his arsenal, learning to use new weapons, learning every inch of his ship...and filling it with trophies. The finest furs, the choicest meats, fruits and vegetables from every corner of the galaxy. He ate like he'd never had before, did what he chose to do, went where he wanted to go, answered to no one and kept to his own schedule. One trophy display became two, then three. He arranged them, rearranged them, debated getting rid of some of them. Modified his ship, had it customized to suit him. Improved the quality of his possessions by upgrading or getting new. Added amenities that pleased him.
He'd been honored when he was first approached about taking on students and teaching them the skills he'd learned. He'd dry-docked his ship and taken on the role of Master in a larger vessel built to hold more yautja, with several huge kehrite, training pits. Now he had a pilot, a navigator, a team of mechanics, healers, storytellers, cooks, servants and other Blooded warriors to assist his efforts to train the unBlooded younglings. The ship was a small self-sustaining city that was under his command, presenting new challenges, firmly establishing his dominance and teaching him, a normally solitary yautja, which social skills he was lacking in. Most, as it turned out. He was not accustomed to negotiation, to patience, to reconciliation, to controlling his temper, tempering his actions or, most importantly, forgiveness. Youngsters do many, many stupid things that the old L'tor would have taken as grave insult. The new L'tor, the Master, realized very quickly that a Master who killed his every student would be labeled a badBlood by his kind and hunted by the Arbitrators.
With new status and new wealth he'd acquired another ship, this one through trade instead of battle. In between teaching his students he would sometimes take the other Blooded hunting with him to keep his skills sharp and his trophy collection and experience growing. It was then that he was made aware that though others of his kind shared his experience and his years, most of them did not share his high rank, his ambition and successfulness. They were content to attach themselves to him and defer to him, as if they felt they had achieved their personal pinnacles. And when he had confronted his former Master over Anya he realized that he had achieved an unusually high level of regard and respect and become something that others feared to insult. Instead of making him arrogant, this realization had humbled him. He had, in essence, nothing left to prove, except to himself. It was a freeing discovery and gave him the opportunity to take a step back, to look at what he had become, and to decide what he wanted to be.
Brought back to concentrating on her, he realized that Anya's touch was gentle, delicate, like she feared hurting him as she explored his old wounds, when in truth they were less sensitive than most any other part of his body. She delighted him by paying attention when he indicated the trophied remains of the creatures that had inflicted certain ones, moving with him, staying interested. She was touching his body, familiarizing herself with him and giving him an opportunity to tell her, without discussion, of the epic battles that had scarred him. Sometimes she moved away to touch the trophies, running her fingers down claws and teeth and spines before returning to him to touch the wound again. It was, to him, incredibly arousing as he stood and watched. His success was serving him a new purpose in impressing this female. She had a quick mind and he was aware it was busy, another thing he not only respected but found particularly attractive.
She had trophies in her dwelling, too. Skulls and skins and mounted heads of creatures native to her planet. That fact told him that she understood what it meant to be proud of her kills, that she could better understand what she was seeing and didn't require an explanation. The difference was that none of her kills had attempted to kill her.
Her hands were at his hip now, tracing the four slashes left by the claws of a queen kainde amedha that had pinned and held him. They were brutally deep, and combined with the contusion from the impact of her massive weight had left him limping for days and fearing he would be permanently crippled. Try as she might she couldn't best him though, and her skull was one of the two he'd chosen to place outside Anya's dwelling. As if she understood the magnitude of this kill, Anya spent extra time at the skull, lifting herself onto her toes to touch the spear tip of the queen's tail mounted next to her skull. The kainde amedha used their long tails as spear, lance, whip and dagger, keeping it in constant motion and ready to strike.
L'tor moved up behind her and lifted the tail tip off the wall, holding it out to Anya. She hesitated before accepting it, feeling its solid heft, the cutting ridges, jagged edges and sharp tip. She just couldn't picture the animal this came from, nor did she want to. Obviously it had been vicious and well-armed. L'tor pointed to the front of his thigh, the huge, deep slash she'd noticed that night in her bedroom, then he pointed to the tail. This three foot long battering ram had inflicted the damage, she understood. He'd been lucky that only the tip had caught him...or, more likely, he'd been quick enough to minimize the damage so that only the tip had caught him.
L'tor regretted handing Anya the tail. Not because he didn't want her to touch his trophies but because it took her hands and her attention off his body. He was not accustomed to physical contact outside of battles, and not at all used to being touched gently. It was pleasing and sensual and he wanted more of it. More of her.
Anya held the tail tip out and let L'tor take it back, watching as he lifted it back to its place on the wall. She looked again at the skull, seeing it with new eyes. This creature had been as formidable as its skull appeared, and had apparently damn near killed L'tor. With renewed respect she settled her attention on him.
They'd gone into a zone of silent communication that was almost magical. Cosmic, like. His breathing was steady, his movements slow and deliberate as if he was afraid that moving too abruptly would frighten her off. And, she realized, it probably would have. She would have interpreted that as impatience or aggravation on his part and stopped her curious exploration of the roadmap of scars that covered him. Instead, he contributed his part by indicating at times the skull or claws or pelt of the creature that had left their mark on him, not only allowing her curiosity but responding to it, encouraging it.
It had been her first glimpse into who he really was, what had made and shaped him. It was intimidating, horrifying...and awe-inspiring, she had to admit. She'd seen some impressive trophy rooms in her past, all containing the remains of animals that had been shot from a distance by a high-powered rifle, most probably while they weren't even aware they were being hunted. They'd been grazing or sunning or going about their business with no awareness that a thousand or more feet away someone was lining them up in a carefully calibrated scope attached to a weapon so powerful that by the time the animal flinched in reaction to the sound of the shot it was already dead.
L'tor, on the other hand, was beaten and battle-scarred, showing her damage caused by close-quarter combat. The creatures saw their attacker and had the opportunity to fight back using every means available to them while he limited himself to bladed weapons instead of the cannon that rode his shoulder or any of the other of his arsenal of projectiles. He not only put himself in their environment; he entered their world, their territory, in a further attempt to put himself at a disadvantage. He bore evidence of horrific wounds that were as potentially crippling as they were painful. He didn't hunt grazers; he hunted well-armed carnivores with lethal potential.
Watching her, he reached out and took her hands, then lifted them and placed them on his rock-hard belly. She flattened her palms against his rough, hard flesh and looked up at him, unsure. He rumbled, low and slow, the sound reassuring. Warm. She colored but left her hands where he'd placed them, lowering her gaze, unable to meet his fierce amber eyes. He was inviting her back to where they had been, inviting her touch, her exploration and curiosity. Wanting it.
His heat was incredible. Soothing. And just then she realized that he was purring, the sound low and gentle as he regarded her and waited. To her was given the right, the invitation, to touch, to feel, to know. She'd been courted, chosen, mated, bitten, marked and tested. There was a gentle side to this aggressive yautja that he wanted her to encourage.
She ran her hands upward, over the bumps of his powerful abdominal muscles. His skin was rough, pebbly, thick. She knew, though, that he could feel her touch, that he reacted to it with a slow, deeply indrawn breath and the tensing of his belly beneath her hands. His chest swelled and his spine straightened as his purr deepened and strengthened, overlaid with a masculine rumble that told her he was pleased with her touch. She smirked as he drew in a breath and struck that sexy masculine pose: spine straightened, shoulders wide, chin tucked, arms held slightly out from his flanks, elbows back, hands clenched, thick hairs flared and crowning. It maximized his sheer size, musculature and physique, broadcasting his strength, showcasing that extraordinary body to its absolute best.
What kept it from feeling terrifying was the purr that had strengthened to fill her ears, reassuring her that though the visual was threatening it wasn't meant to frighten...at least not her. She supposed it was his way of boasting. Showing off. Advertising his health and power and fitness.
"You trying to scare me or impress me?" she murmured, keeping her hands on him while she looked up at him. He was staring intently down at her, his gaze piercing and fierce as he rumbled low in his throat.
She took one hand off him and started a slow circle, running the tips of her fingers along his skin, lifting from his belly to trail across his forearm as she moved around behind him. Not quite flesh, not quite scales, sort of a in-between adaptation of both, biological armor that was firm and dense, stretched tightly over the musculature beneath it. Heat was pouring off him and he remained still as she moved behind him, aware of him towering over her, aware of the power and strength of the being she was touching...that wanted her to touch him.
She paused behind him, looking at the huge muscles along his back that flared out on either side of his ribs. Lats, she recalled, aware that she had practically none as she reached back to slide her hand along her side. Back here the patterning on his skin was particularly stunning, a red and buff and black diamond pattern that ran down his spine, coming to its widest at his waist. Like a snake, she mused, tracing it with her fingers. She hadn't noticed this when he'd been fully armored since the portion of his kit that rode his back covered most of it. A shame, too, because it really was spectacular, at least in her opinion.
As she moved back around in front of him to face him his hand came up on that side and closed around her waist, over her hip. She flinched a bit then got control over herself and stilled. His touch was hot, his hand so huge he could catch and hold her like that, single-handedly by her midsection. This was the other thing she was struggling to get used to: even when he was being gentle it was backed by a subtle dominance that she instinctively objected to. There were a hundred options for him to touch her and he'd chosen to close his huge hand on her flank, restraining her and reminding her how weak and small she was in comparison to him. The move was made even more intimidating by the fact that they were standing in front of three hundred feet of corridor lined floor to ceiling with the huge skulls of dangerous alien creatures he'd killed.
He rumbled through the purr and reached up with his other hand to touch her hair. "Ngot, An'eya." The hand around her midsection released her, then he lifted it and used his thumb and first two fingers to circle her throat. She held still and lifted her chin a bit to ease off some of the pressure and help her breathe. His other two fingers rested along her collarbone as he stared into her face and waited, testing her, reminding her who was boss, and, she suspected, getting her used to the idea that he had the right to grab her anywhere at any time for any reason. Apparently she was not discouraged from touching him, but just in case she was getting any ideas he was taking the time to remind her that he was the dominant one here, and that he expected her submission.
So she waited, standing with her hands loosely at her sides, concentrating on keeping her breathing steady and her mind calm because, quite honestly, she really wanted to freak the hell out. Part of her was trying to get her attention with indignant 'how dare he's!', part of her wondered what would happen if she drove her knee into his crotch, and part of her wanted to dispute his right to wrap his giant, murderous hand around her throat. This wasn't the first time he'd done this though, and she knew the consequences if she decided to do anything other than stand meekly and take it. One time being locked in a spare bedroom was enough for her. He didn't have to hit her or threaten her; all he had to do was take away her freedom to move around his ship, putting her on notice what her life could be like if she wanted to continue giving him shit.
So for now she had graduated up to enduring the dominance displays, which, she couldn't help but notice, were getting longer and longer in duration. Though she wouldn't admit it, they were probably more for her benefit than his, and they did help to remind her of her place in L'tor's world. For instance, after today, the training, the touching, she would probably feel more at ease, more relaxed and less respectful toward him. He wasn't human, he wasn't her pal or her friend, and he was making sure to drive those points home to her. He had expectations for her behavior and he demanded her respect. These painless displays were like gentle but firm reminders for her to not lose sight of where she was and who she was with.
"Stiff," he rumbled.
She lifted her chin a bit more and asked, "What?"
He chuckled, the sound malevolent from such a huge chest, made more so by the fact that he was holding her by the throat. "Not be so stiff," he said.
Phase two, she thought automatically, mulling it over. She was submitting, but not willingly. She was submitting because he'd taught her the consequences if she didn't. He released her then, his thumb coming up to brush against her cheek before he let go of her entirely.
"Come," he rumbled, then turned and headed off, leaving her still mulling. She followed, thinking about what it was that he wanted from her, miffed that it wasn't enough that she'd learned not to defy him.
By the time he entered the viewing room with the huge window and motioned her to a chair as he headed for the bar, she was considering her own experience with the animals she'd worked with. Like her and L'tor, she didn't share a language or culture or nature with those animals, and it was up to her to find a way to communicate with them in order to gain their acceptance, then their trust, then their willing obedience, necessary to train them and co-exist peacefully with them. She had to prove to them that she could be trusted, and she had to reassure and praise more than punish. And, she realized, if she put a hand on a dog or horse and felt tension or stiffness she would know that, despite their momentary compliance, they still hadn't learned to trust her.
Anya sat, staring distantly at the view of the stars. There was a part of her that wanted to be insulted and horrified at this comparison, at this realization that she was being trained like an animal, but she set that aside since it was non-productive. Instead, she asked herself, what was the difference in the way she viewed and treated an animal that reacted to her touch with tension versus one that didn't?
It was simple, really. If they didn't trust her, she didn't trust them. Tension could mean fear or hostility or defiance or aggression, none of which could be trusted. So she asked herself what it was with her stiffness in reaction to L'tor's touch, only dimly aware as he set a goblet in front of her and sat himself in the chair beside her with another for himself. Fear was a strong reason for it, probably the strongest. But there was, she had to admit, part of her still defying her new reality. And part of her was damned angry and resentful about it.
So she had a decision to make, whether or not it was possible for her to accept this life and willingly settle into it. The fear part of it had to work itself out over time, more or less. Anyone could convince themselves they weren't afraid of something, but when put to the test unresolved fear had a way of making its presence known.
For a start, Anya applied herself to thinking about whether or not L'tor had done anything that deserved her fear of him. Sure, his mere presence and appearance was terrifying. He was aggressive and dangerous as hell. Yet he was almost delicate around her. Careful. Gentle, even. She could not recall in all her encounters and time with him a moment where he was overly rough with her, angry with her, aggressive with her in a way that should rightfully make her afraid. He'd lightly cuffed her in rebuke early in the training and the minute she brought it to his attention it earned her probably two hours of gentle contact in exchange. He'd jammed her and pinned her against the wall on the landing in her house but that was because she was armed and he was threatened by that. The minute she'd dropped the gun he'd let her go.
Neither time had actually resulted in her being harmed or even hurt, though he was imminently capable of causing crushing damage and serious injury to her with the barest effort on his part. Hell, she'd been more battered and bruised after their...love-making, or whatever it could be called.
Aware of something like a soap bubble popping inside her as she realized these things, Anya lifted her attention and settled it on L'tor. He was staring steadily at her, sitting at ease in the chair beside her, a drinking goblet in his hand. While she stared back he lifted it, his lower mandibles spreading automatically as the short upper ones lifted, allowing him to tip the goblet against his fearsome, sharp-toothed mouth and drink. The movement was smooth and practiced, and he continued to stare over the lip of the goblet as he drank.
Realizing she had a goblet waiting for her to drink, too, she lowered her eyes on it and picked it up, then lifted it to sniff its contents. Sweet with a bit of bite. Some sort of liquor, then. She tipped it to her mouth then suddenly hesitated as she wondered if there was more of that drug in it. Her eyes flicked back to L'tor as he lowered his goblet, still staring steadily. He was still, the only movement the steady rise and fall of his massive chest as he breathed.
Lowering the goblet after only wetting her lips, Anya asked, "There's more of that drug in here, isn't there?"
L'tor tilted his head slightly, and the movement of his heavy dreadlocks caught her attention as a few strands slid forward from his shoulder over his left pectoral muscle. "Sei-i. Want to breed you," he stated.
Anya swallowed nervously at his bold, direct response. A simple 'yes' would have been sufficient enough answer for her to guess at his intentions. She could only suppose that the fact that he'd announced it was to see her reaction.
Horror washed through her, chased off by fear. She dwelled on the sensation only a moment before dismissing it as unfounded. Despite L'tor's size and his aggression she'd never experienced anyone better at fucking. He knew how and where to touch, how to build the sensations she experienced, and he had the patience of a stalking cat and amazing self-control as he waited until she was physically crazy. Strong, steady strokes, driving into her with demand, forcing her compliance as he restrained her with superior size and weight...she shivered and lifted the goblet to take a sip, aware of L'tor finally blinking as he stared patiently at her.
And truthfully, now that she gave herself permission to think about it, she liked the sexual aggression, damnit. Even admitting it to herself pissed her off, since she never liked the thought of anyone having control over her. Part of the reason he was able to get those mind-blowing orgasms out of her was because of his sheer demand and dominance and her defiant resistance, her disbelief at her traitorous body's response to what he was doing. Turned out that while she maybe didn't like the idea of being dominated, the reality was that it resulted in the best sex she'd ever had.
"Ngot, An'eya," he rumbled quietly as she drank. Now she blinked. She hadn't gotten a 'good' after his little test with grabbing her around the neck. He praised her easily when he was pleased with her to let her know she'd done well, and there was a part of her that needed that praise. It made her feel safer and it relaxed her, made her feel comfortable and at ease. To not hear praise was unsettling and off-putting. She sipped again, a deeper swallow this time, aware that by doing so she was agreeing to his stated desire to 'breed her'.
Her fingers touched the carvings in the goblet, tracing them, and she raised it up to look at them. She didn't know what the cup was made from but it felt hard and solid like stone. The designs even looked carved, not moulded. She ran the pad of her thumb across them as she turned the goblet slowly, taking them in.
"An'eya," L'tor said, and she looked at him. "Come."
She blinked, unsure again. No way was she ready for this.