Chapter Text
The Not-Prey baring his teeth and holding the retracting blade straight for the Bad Blood to fall upon had quickly become a story the Hunter was fond of telling. It always got a reaction when he repeated how the Not-Prey was completely willing to sacrifice himself to eliminate the Bad Blood; likewise, it always got a reaction when the Hunter revealed that he’d survived. Sometimes he’d tell about the Not-Prey trying to stumble on home naked and mostly-sedated. That usually got laughs, and engendered some degree of affection for the tenacious little beast in his audience.
When he was given permission to return to Earth, barely any time had passed at all. He fought the urge to visit his Not-Prey for a day, and eventually gave in to it; not to kill him, and he wasn’t sure why if not for that. Maybe just to see him.
He could be Prey; he was still skilled and knew the valley like the back of his hand. With his bow and arrows, if he had enough distance he’d have a good chance.
The Hunter abruptly thought of the Not-Prey ducking under his arm to try and tug him outside for ruining the countertop, or sighing and laying lax in his arms as he carried him home, and the urge to kill him waned. He thought of his clan symbol that he’d carved into the handle of the Not-Prey’s pocketknife years ago and the urge waned even further.
The house was much the same. The weird wire-and-wood enclosure he’d noticed but not thought too much about the first time had chickens in it. There was a garden of raised beds with tomatoes and carrots. As he finished taking in the state of the house, he opened the back door to let himself in and neglected to close it to give the Not-Prey a sporting chance of noticing him. Even when he was cloaked, the Not-Prey had an uncanny second sense of being able to pick him out— in the trees, in the hide, and certainly in his own home.
He sat down on the couch. It was the same one, older now, worn, a few new stains on it but clean. The kitchen was identical. In the living room where the Hunter was there were some animal skins on the mantel in front of the television, a few pictures in frames; wood, metal, sometimes not even in a frame and simply propped against the wall. They were mostly people the Hunter didn’t recognize with the Not-Prey. Some, black and white and of animals, were more were clearly taken by the trailcams.
The Hunter had barely been sitting for a minute before the phone rang. The phone was in the kitchen, hanging on the wall by the refrigerator, a bulky cream-colored thing with a spring-coiled cord. It rang, and rang, and rang, and finally a recording of the Not-Prey’s voice asked the caller to leave a message.
“Hi, Noah,” the voice started. It was cheery and female, perky despite the heat and hour. “This is Eileen calling from the Parks Department.” She continued on about some meeting and money, and funding, and Noah’s camera traps and the photos from them being used in some sort of breeding program, but the Hunter stopped listening. The Not-Prey had a name. He’d known, of course, that the Not-Prey had a name, but when he hadn’t known it that fact had been little more than a conceptual thing; he couldn’t even imagine the Not-Prey having a name that other people called him and that he responded to. He was just that; Not-Prey, hobbling on a crutch, shooting the Bad Blood full of arrows, baring his teeth and cursing, letting his weak hand streak blood all over the Hunter’s helmet, flying through the trees with the rifle that was almost used to kill him. He was too wild to have a name. He belonged to the valley, and the inhuman and savage rules that governed there, and he was Not-Prey, and he was named by the valley and the things that lived there, and he couldn’t be named by humans because he was barely one himself. He was untethered from the sensibilities of the humans the Hunter usually preyed upon.
Now he was Noah. Eileen from the Parks Department had brought him down and made him human again. It was for the best, the Hunter told himself; Noah was an exceptional human, but still a human, and he’d been broken over and over again by first the Hunter, and then the Bad Blood, and even before that he’d been brutalized by his own kind.
He felt like a damn Youngblood with a crush. His heart had skipped, years ago, when he’d stripped Noah to smear medigel on his cracked ribs and seen the florid, magnificent scar on his chest. It would have killed him. It could have, it should have killed him, and the Hunter had been ready to make it so, but he’d survived. The wound had healed, had scarred over, and it was an attractive scar. When he’d come up on Noah from behind to pick him up and carry him home he’d admired the exit point scars as well. They were less expansive, but gnarled and puckered. The Hunter wanted to touch them. They were his handiwork. Healed, they were exquisite. Any Yautja would be proud to bear them like badges of honor.
A puddle of body heat was steadily climbing up the hill that led to the back porch. Noah had returned-- he peeked his head in, looking for evidence of a visitor. The door clicked shut and a few seconds later he turned the corner to the area separating the kitchen from the living room; he’d hung up his bow and quiver, but the retracting blade was at his side, low and fantastically confident. It wasn’t even extended. Noah stared at the couch for a second and then turned away to continue on to the kitchen. Now that the Hunter could see him properly, he’d obviously been down in the valley-- his shirt was drenched in sweat and his hair was flat against his head. The Hunter watched him as he got himself a glass of water and poured the bottom of the glass over his head after he'd drank it, and kept watching-- Noah shook his head, threw his hair off of his forehead. He rose at about the same time Noah put the glass down and cut the distance between them considerably with a few long, quiet steps.
Noah’s shoulders pinched together-- he’d been heard. He’d walked into some sort of trap, or else he was following an unseen script that Noah had set out for him. He didn’t expect anything less.
Standing, now, close to him, showed how small Noah had stayed. He was on the tall side of average for a human but he only reached the Hunter’s shoulder, and his body hadn’t been cultivated to bring down beasts much larger than himself with little more than a sword. His arms, though, those were nice even to a Yautja’s sensibilities. Archery had treated him well. There was nothing showy about him. It all had a purpose. That was very, very attractive.
“I knew it!” Noah turned on his heel, already looking up to confront a taller opponent as opposed to one around human size.
Damn it, he was acting like a Youngblood with a crush, and to a human on top of that. Noah brandished the retracting blade, warding rather than overtly aggressive; it was a total bluff. The Hunter knew it was, and even knowing the capabilities of the retracting blade felt no fear in calling that bluff. Was he even trying to be threatening?
He seized Noah around the wrist and squeezed-- he yelped and dropped the sword without protest, and the Hunter kicked it away. It hit the wall and came to rest far enough away that Noah would have to choose between keeping an eye on the Hunter or retrieving his blade.
Wisely, he chose the Hunter. His expression had already changed from alarm to a steely set of determination.
He’d gotten a new crutch, the Hunter noted when he raised it to bludgeon him with it. He caught it and unlike Noah’s attempt with the sword, did not let go. Surely Noah would have learned by now that it was an unwise decision?
The Hunter remembered, though, that humans showed great affection by offering up vulnerability— look; I love you so much I have made myself helpless to you. It was not a very Yautja sensibility. It was foolish to act as such to a Yautja.
Then it must mean a great love, indeed. Yautja courting was often indistinguishable from combat— two equals clashing, testing each other, and only then deciding whether a union was worth it.
He wasn’t sure that Noah was courting him, though. The Hunter was strong and powerful and surely a prized partner even to a human ignorant of his accomplishments, but he had nearly killed Noah before. He’d been scared of him.
He’d nearly died for him and he wasn’t scared now, the Hunter realized, and already knew that Noah had no problem making his thoughts known-- bold, and demanding.
Noah must be going through a similar thought process. His head was tilted ever-so-slightly to the side, measuring the Hunter’s intentions. “Oh, you wanna go?” He tugged on the crutch, waiting for an answer. When he got it, he finally dropped the crutch and leaned back, like a snake about to strike, and then leapt forward and pounced on him. “Let’s go, then!”
The Hunter let the crutch fall, forgotten, and snatched Noah out of the air by the waist. Noah elbowed and struck at him with an open hand, using the heel of his palm to smash into the helm. His knee collided with the Hunter’s shoulder.
A dull ache. Nothing more. He’d have to try harder than that. Still, the simple fact that he was hot with emotion instead of projecting an unnatural, uncomfortable calm— hot fear, then cold rage, and then determination, colder still— like he had against the Bad Blood made the Hunter’s blood rush. He brought them both to the floor, bending his knee and caging Noah underneath him. Noah was on his back, the Hunter halfway up his chest, foot planted by his shoulder. Noah’s fist connected his chest-- Noah was snarling. His eyes were bright. His hair was still somewhat shaggy, splayed behind him. The energy of the room felt different, tighter, higher. Noah was smiling.
Humans liked to treat gently those among them that were weak, or injured. With his crutch, Noah must seem both. The Hunter knew that he was neither, and finally being treated as he should be must have loosed something in him. The Hunter pitied the fools who didn’t know what his Prey was like, but then-- he was his.
Noah pushed on his leg. That wasn’t going to work. Even if they were the same size, the Hunter was planted and Noah was pinned under him. He reached for him, to grab him around the neck or maybe brush claws through his hair, and Noah retaliated with a surprisingly hard blow to the inside of his wrist.
Disabling, if they were evenly matched, and distracting regardless. He pulled his hand back and set it on Noah’s hip to keep him from kicking, and Noah hit him in the soft divot of flesh at the join of his thumb and wrist. That actually stung, and it was a smart hit, so he let go. Noah glanced up at him for a moment, eyes flashing and bright.
Another sharp, near-painful blow to the inside of his thigh, nearly at his groin, and he lowered that knee to the ground as well. Even kneeling above him there was nearly an entire inch of space between his body and Noah’s, and Noah took advantage of the Hunter’s mock-stunned pain to lever himself out from underneath him-- hands, his good leg scooting him across the floor.
He couldn’t waste time to stand. It would hurt, hurt him too if he tried to go too fast. It put a hitch in the flow of combat that the Hunter could tell neither of them liked. It made Noah sloppy and desperate to prove that he wasn’t weak. He lifted both legs up and tried to kick the Hunter. Silly, stupid Prey; the Hunter caught the little fool by the ankle of the leg that wasn’t a liability and tugged him closer, rolled him onto his shoulders, pushed his knee all the way to his chest. Noah was tucked against him and incapable of getting much leverage. It was a very neat pin, somewhat undignified for the receiver, but not painful if he didn’t struggle.
Of course he struggled; the Hunter wouldn’t find him attractive if he didn’t. Viciously pleased, warmly amused heat rose in his chest as Noah strained against him.
He expected a hit; more fists. Not Noah’s bad leg. It smacked him across the helm, ungraceful, but surprising enough that his head turned with it.
He let Noah go, hand raising to check the nonexistent damage, and only a breath later followed him back to the ground. He hadn’t gotten far enough away or recovered enough, and was easy prey for the Hunter to seize by the hair and force onto his belly. He dug his knee into the Prey’s back, pinning him once again. He’d find a way out, he always did.
He was surprised, still, the Hunter noticed. He hadn’t expected Noah to use his bad leg.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised.
Noah thrashed and dug his elbow into the Hunter’s thigh. It barely even felt like anything, was a badly-angled strike to the meat of his leg, and the Hunter shoved his face into the floor with punitive pressure. He’d have to be smarter than that. The noise that Noah made was strained and indignant, enraged, and it made the Hunter harden despite himself. Hands, reaching back, wrapping around his wrists-- good-- and then nails, trimmed short but still long enough to have bite-- perfect-- he released Noah’s hair, and the Prey twisted around, body flipping under his knee, to get his nails on the inside of his thigh. That hurt.
The Hunter snarled. Instead of anger, heat rose again, higher, his cock fattening in his armor. His hand closed around Noah’s throat. The Prey spasmed, exploded into movement and struggle. There was no fear in it. He wasn’t fighting for his life; he was fighting because he could, and because he wanted to, and because it made his blood rush and felt good. He gripped him by the throat, suddenly hungry to get as close to his thundering pulse as possible-- Noah kicked him again, but with his lack of leverage there was nothing he could do to stop the Hunter from wrestling him into a pin again. His arm pressed against Noah’s chest, elbow nudging the split of his legs. He put his other hand on Noah’s thigh and took the opportunity to give him a little squeeze while he was trying to find a way out of the pin.
He froze, instead, mouth parting in surprise; eyes clouding in confusion, then realization, then arousal. The thermogram returned a spreading heat on his face, his chest, between his legs.
It didn’t stop him from once more digging his nails into the Hunter’s wrists and clubbing his helm with a foot again. Confident that the message was sent, the Hunter let go of his Prey and watched as he rolled over his shoulder and splayed on his front. His shoulders were raised, he was trying to win purchase, and the bold little fool thought that the Hunter would give it to him. The Hunter gripped him by the waistband of his jeans and tugged him over onto his lap. His cock was painfully hard in his armor and he could see a similar spreading need between his Prey’s legs, even as Noah frantically kicked and won himself space once more.
Not for long. Never for very long; now that he could put his hands on Noah without having to hurt him, the Hunter thought he’d never get enough of it. He snared his ankle and tugged him back, Noah’s palms flat on the ground and unable to prevent it. He returned to the inside of his thigh, risking a confident grope and sliding inwards to grind his palm to Noah’s heat. Another jerk, but no split-second freeze this time, and no denial. Noah kicked him again instead, twisting a little bit to catch his gaze.
A grin. The Hunter leaned forward and retrieved him again, facing far less struggle. Noah was slowing down. He was shaking, a little bit, in his shoulders and hands; his bad leg was trembling even though he didn’t seem to feel it.
He would feel it. The Hunter pinned him down in his lap and held him there until he settled, and then for a little while longer as he learned to listen to his body. He would have kept on fighting even as it became agony, the Hunter realized, and this time was not surprised. A hot wave of desire, and then fondness, flooded him. His Prey was tensely propped over his lap, panting, making no noises of pain but clearly feeling it; expecting at any moment to be released for the impromptu wrestling match to continue.
His Prey was done, the Hunter decided. He lowered his hand to the tight, strained muscle of his leg, digging the heel of his hand into his thigh. Noah tensed again and it almost seemed that he was about to bolt, but when the contact stayed just a touch away from painful, he put his head down again. Submitted to it. If not for his armor, the Hunter’s cock would be pressing into his belly with how hard the display made him.
It let him get at the sore muscle. Slowly, the shaking was tapering off. Noah himself sighed and relaxed by degrees as the Hunter worked him.
“Don’t stop.”
His hands were following a scar. Idle, dreamy, completely relieved that the Hunter was taking care of him; tending to him. The Hunter squeezed his thigh and watched with interest as heat flared between Noah’s legs once more, the touch prodded his side, and Noah squirmed to catch his eye. He was smiling again.
“You know, you could get at it better if you took my jeans off.”
Did he--
He did. Excitement rushed through him, once more hot and prickling, and he tore Noah’s shoes off, then his jeans and underwear in one fell swoop. Noah wasn’t particularly scarred but for the huge surgical scar on his knee where it had been operated on, years ago, but he had myriad mysterious little cuts and bruises; red marks from where the Hunter had grabbed him perhaps a bit too hard.
He was hot; his bare skin was scorching. The Hunter put his hand back on Noah’s thigh, rubbing and squeezing. Noah’s knee bent with the sheer sensation of it, then fell limp.
“Oh, don’t stop.” Need, naked and undisguised, consumed Noah’s entire tone. His body was shaking again and the Hunter could see that he was wet between his legs. Him being able to get wet in the first place would certainly make things easier; the Hunter was grateful enough for that. He dug his knuckles into a particularly difficult knot and Noah moaned. Noah usually wasn’t loud, it was hard to get him to be loud, and the Hunter had only heard him in pain or fear before this. Pleasure was a different beast entirely. “Oooh, god.”
The Hunter could be patient. The thought of keeping his hands away from his Noah’s heat and wet for one more moment was nearly unbearable; almost painful with its intensity. He spread Noah’s legs open with a soft touch at his thigh.
He could still protest, but the Hunter was growing less concerned that Noah might not share his intent with each passing moment and especially when Noah reached to playfully tug on his armor.
“C’mon, keep going.”
Smiling, again. The Hunter couldn’t get enough of him. He dragged his claws down Noah’s thigh just to watch him arch his back, his lips parting again to gasp. To sigh, voice raspy and thick with need. The Hunter suddenly wanted to take his helm off to be able to smell him; to taste him.
Thin red lines took form on his Noah’s legs, beading drops of blood. He’d tear him up if he kept up like this; he already knew Noah would not protest, because he had the same magnitude of appetite as the Hunter while his body was woefully incapable of bearing it. Best to move on before he seriously injured him.
The Hunter moved between his legs and pressed a knuckle against his wet folds. Noah rocked his hips uselessly-- even that small movement made the Hunter strain against his armor. It would have to come off sometime. He didn’t know what he was waiting for; he had his Prey under him, wet and hot and wonderfully needy.
“Thought we were wrestling.” The Prey’s voice was bright and amused even though his eyes were half-shut. The Hunter laughed at him; delighted, more at his need than his wit. “Yeah?”
He was even more easily moved when he wasn’t squirming around. The Hunter pawed his chest and legs to urge him onto his back. Noah’s legs were spread, feet on either side of the Hunter’s hips, and when the Hunter reached for his thighs Noah reached out as if to stop him.
Slowly. Inciting. He wanted the Hunter to stop him, and stop him he did, collecting Noah’s wrists in his hand and holding them clear and out of the way. Noah’s legs tightened around him and a wash of heat pulsed to life in his chest. His fingers flexed uselessly, attempting to tug his wrists free.
The Hunter cut his moment of rebellion short by returning to his hole, which was a dirty trick but entirely warranted. His Prey keened and his struggles melted away immediately as the Hunter knuckled his swollen, soaked clit. Sweat clung to the crease of his thighs-- slick transferred liberally from Noah’s skin to the Hunter’s finger. Noah was making tiny, desperate whines in his throat. The Hunter could tell he could make him come just from that; holding him down, toying with him. A human couldn’t do that to him.
“Fuck, you win, I surrender.” Noah wasn’t tugging against the hand around his wrists anymore. That, and his admission of surrender-- finally!-- was what the Hunter had needed. His Prey never stopped fighting, but now he had.
He dropped Noah’s hands-- Noah let them fall to the side, weak from having been held for so long, and didn’t struggle when the Hunter turned him again. A patch of sweat shone on his back. He could handle the heat, the Hunter knew, even if his entire body was flushed with both arousal and the abnormal heat.
Noah testingly moved his arms as the Hunter fondled him properly. The insides of his thighs were only a bit cut up, and the new position had him so intimately exposed that the Hunter could see everything whether Noah wanted him to or not.
Could do whatever he wanted, whether Noah wanted him to or not. Noah sighed and arched his back-- pulled him back to the reality of their wants being very closely aligned. He palmed the swell of Noah’s ass on impulse and found that he liked the spring of it. He gave it a light smack, just to see if it was as springy as it felt-- Noah tensed. His neck and shoulders got hotter.
Interesting.
He returned to palming and squeezing Noah’s ass, pulling him apart occasionally to watch how his hole pulsed and dripped. More rarely, swatting him to make him tense and gasp again, eyes glued to the way his Noah curved his back.
“Have you been watching porn?” He asked after a few minutes. His legs were shaking, but his tone was amused even under the thickness of arousal. The Hunter did not watch porn and was surprised when the suggestion made him indignant. He cocked his hand back, waiting for Noah to glance back at him before spanking him, far harder than before, and relishing the pained yelp it won. He continued, less powerfully, as if punishing his Prey for his comment; but a punishment was aimed at correcting behavior, and he had the feeling this would change nothing at all. The Prey buried his face in his arms and groaned.
The Hunter paused when Noah’s ass was the same shade as his face. He returned to his hole, then, pulling him apart. His own need was clamoring for attention. He deserved this-- this was his reward. Still, it was just as alluring to rub his knuckle over his Prey’s clit until it had his voice breaking from him unexpectedly, unwillingly. His hips jerked to try and make the Hunter give him more, but the Hunter had pulled his hand away already. Noah moaned, disappointed, and bit his wrist.
Silly Prey. Not that the Hunter didn’t enjoy it. He dragged his claws down Noah’s bared thigh, completely unsurprised when it only made him moan again, indecipherable. Noah bucked his hips, so the Hunter swatted him again.
“Hey--” He sounded wrecked. His voice was ragged with need. The Hunter ignored him, rubbing a knuckle against the soaked opening to his hole. He could smell him even past the helm, which was nothing less than impressive. Humans didn’t put out pheromones to the same noticeably degree as other animals, but they still did, and most of the time their own sweat and musk did the job well enough. Noah cried out again, frustrated that the Hunter was so easily denying him the greater pleasure he knew he could have. “Stop teasing!”
The Hunter gave his ass a pat. He’d give it to him. There wasn’t any point to not, and he wanted to see his Prey come apart, but his Prey would have to be patient. Noah laid obligingly still as the Hunter disconnected his helm, setting his behind himself out of the way. Noah still didn’t turn to look. He was thinking.
He chose something else-- arched his back, clear invitation. As soon as the Hunter had taken the helm off he’d been swamped with Noah’s scent. He smelled like the woods, from where it still clung to him; more than that the salt of his sweat, the thick musk of his slick, a sharp copper tang mingling with all of it from the shallow open wounds from the Hunter’s claws. He smelled irresistible.
He wanted to taste him, not just smell him, and the position made it exceedingly easy for him to do that. He ignored his cock straining against his armor for a little while longer in favor of gripping Noah around his thighs and hauling him up until he could press his face between Noah’s legs. He thrust his tongue out at the very second Noah tried to say something, and soon enough Noah couldn’t say anything at all as he tormented his scorching, sopping walls with his tongue. Noah yelled and moaned, body thrashing against the relentless pleasure that he had no way of escaping. The Hunter kept it up until Noah stopped fighting it. He had to learn, after all.
He pulled his tongue out to instead rasp over Noah’s clit. It made Noah jerk and spasm involuntarily, won dazed, pitiful noises from him.
He set him down on his side. Noah curled up a bit, whimpering. The Hunter took the reprieve to undress himself, quite pleased with himself at his newly tamed Prey. He tugged his shirt off next and tossed it away, returning his attention to his Noah after making sure it was somewhere in the vicinity of his other clothes. It was easy to loom over him, what with his loose, vulnerable position and the Hunter’s own bulk, and easy to tug him into position on his back with his legs spread.
He’d had his eyes closed; he froze when he opened them and saw the Hunter’s face. His eyelids fluttered, lips parting, once more tensing up.
Not fear. Surprise. He was deciding whether he liked what he saw.
The Hunter wasn’t sure what he’d do if Noah decided he didn’t, but he was in luck; had been in luck multiple times today. Noah reached for him and the Hunter reached back. Squeezed. Noah’s hand was small in his, but not weak. He took some comfort from that and took his hand back to roll Noah’s hips up, exposing him once more.
And again, Noah tensed. Right. Noah was small, and the Hunter was very large. He could hurt him if he wasn’t careful. Noah was squeezing the flesh of his thigh. He left indents of nails; he was looking.
He was whining. The Hunter didn’t like the idea of his Noah fretting and reached out again to soothe him, stroking his chest and cupping his face. He was scarred, and he had survived. This would be nothing compared to that and far more pleasurable. Noah’s trepidation faded from his posture and he blinked, slowly.
“Okay, okay.”
Worried, but no longer so sharply. He pushed the Hunter’s hand away from his face; the Hunter took the permission for what it was and lined himself up. The head of his cock was already huge and he was thick the whole way down. He’d have to hold Noah still to keep him from jerking around and hurting himself.
As he pushed in, the backs of his hands started to sting. He glanced down and saw Noah’s nails digging into his hands now, instead of his own thigh. His eyes were shut. He was gripping and burning inside, slick walls clinging to the Hunter’s cock. Twitching, pulsing around him. If he’d had any less stamina, he’d come on the spot just from the sensation of his Prey’s tight, needy body split open around his own.
He hilted himself after a minute of slow, steady penetration. His cock pressed against his Prey’s belly and he could actually see it in there.
He held still, watching his Prey’s face twist and twitch with sensation. He was in pain. Uncomfortable. Liking it, even so, or otherwise he’d be making different noises. His Prey opened his eyes. His pupils were impossibly large-- blown out with need and desire. The Hunter was struck with the sudden, striking urge to move. He wanted to fuck him so hard that the neighbors a mile away would hear him scream.
Soon. He had to let him adjust first. He leaned over Noah, gathering him up. Noah’s hands clung to his biceps and held them together as the Hunter maneuvered, sitting down and settling Noah on his lap.
“Fuck.” Noah’s head dropped to his chest, nails digging into his arms. The Hunter gave him even more time to adjust to the new position, stroking his back to keep him calm, and when Noah’s breathing evened out again he allowed himself to move. Noah’s heat was driving him wild. His own heart was pounding in his chest with the barely-restrained urge to thrust him back onto the ground and pound into him until he was well and truly broken for his cock.
“Yeah…” Noah moved against him. Once he’d regained his bearings, he wanted to move. The position set him on top and actually gave him the most leverage, leaving the Hunter dependent on him for deeper thrusts. All he could do was sit, rock his hips up, and hope that his Prey would be eager. He dug his claws into the Prey’s back, urging him to move.
He had surrendered. The Hunter gave him a few more seconds before deciding that he’d had his fun and then seized him by the thighs to stand.
“Hey--!” Noah yelped, squirming and clinging soon after.
Even taking a step felt far better than letting Noah dictate the pace. Evidently, Noah agreed. He writhed in the Hunter’s arms and ground down on him. It was almost too easy to pin him to the wall, Noah’s legs twining around his waist and his nails still digging into his arms. It was a relief close to mind-numbing when he was finally able to move.
“I wanna come,” Noah gasped. One hand dipped between their bodies to rub at himself. The hot clutch of his walls and the friction of fucking him had the Hunter agreeing with him, very much-- the position, holding his Prey open and exposed and completely helpless against him, was doing almost as much as the physical pleasure itself. Noah was close, he could tell as much; was tensing around him and squirming in his grip like it would help. “Come in me.”
His voice was so ragged. They were lost in the sound of skin on skin, the intense pleasure of the Hunter’s cock wrecking Noah’s hole. The intense pulse of his walls around the Hunter’s cock tipped him over the edge-- he didn’t bother trying to hold it back. He hilted himself entirely and let the blinding wave of pleasure crest, spilling himself in Noah.
Suddenly, Noah cried out. He threw his head back and ignored the startling sound it wrought, entire body tensing and clutching the Hunter. “Fuck, I’m coming!”
His arm stung. His Prey’s hand came away with streaks of fluorescent blood on his nails and fingertips.
Noah panted. He panted, too, chest heaving. They were both warm and sweaty, lazy with afterglow.
Noah grumbled after a few seconds of that, kicking weakly. “Fuck.”
Was he in pain? No, he couldn’t be. “Fuck, put me down.”
He obliged. A rush of cum followed, dripping down his thighs and even to the floor. It would have to be cleaned up sometime. The Hunter did not intend to clean it up. He set Noah on his feet, and then swiftly seized him by the shoulders to keep him from continuing to go down until he fell. He helped his Noah lean up against the wall, hand resting on his shoulder just in case. Noah breathed; soft, now. He looked up and smiled as if to assure the Hunter that he was alright.
How’d he known that the Hunter was worried?
“You wanna go wash up?”
It was not an invitation, he already knew. So soon after submitting so wholly to him, his Prey was already back to bossing him around. He nodded and followed after him as he got himself in order-- got his crutch, oriented them down the hall to the bathroom. He pulled what looked like a stool out of the shower and put it on a hamper.
“Cold water okay?”
He’d already turned the water on before finishing, so the Hunter figured it was yet another command disguised as a question. “C’mon in, saves water.”
He ducked under the shower rod. With the two of them, it was crowded but cozy. Noah soaped himself down and cleaned up as well as he could while the Hunter simply stood there and let the water get the worst of it off.
He was not spared. Noah made him bend under the spray to clean his wounds, if they could even be called that, and to be briefly rinsed. It was easier to go along with it; and perhaps he was enjoying being fussed over, if only a bit, by Noah who seemed incredibly unwilling to fuss over anything.
“Done?” Noah interrupted him-- he realized he’d been staring. He grunted an affirmative. The shower turned off and Noah left, tugging a towel from the shower rod and throwing it in his general direction. Noah opened a cabinet and got himself a towel, mussing his hair, wrapping it around himself. “You came back,” he murmured, more to the room than the Hunter.
Of course he had come back. He nodded, watching the way his Prey’s expression softened.
He toweled himself off. The towel was made for someone Noah’s size, not his, and so he was still dripping in several places by the time the towel was soaked through. Noah glanced at him and tossed him another.
He finished drying off as Noah left. The steady click of the crutch on wooden floors let him know where Noah was in the house-- his bedroom, the hall, the kitchen. Music started to play.
Noah returned, still shirtless but now in loose, plaid blue pants.
He’d tried to mimic how Noah had tied his towel around his waist, but it wasn’t doing much. Noah snickered at him. He was so comfortable around him, now, the Hunter realized. It didn’t make him feel indignant, as he expected. It just felt good.
“Looking good.”
Still, even though he was a bit worn from his exertion he couldn’t permit his Prey having too much fun at his expense. He pushed out of the bathroom and slung him up over his shoulder with a motion too quick for Noah to fight.
“Hey!”
He still tried, but not for very long. The Hunter grabbed his crutch with his other hand and walked them down the hall to the couch. He dropped the crutch, and then dropped himself, laying down and draping Noah on top of himself.
Fight entirely gone, Noah turned his head to rest it on the Hunter’s chest. The Hunter held him close. He’d recovered from the cold spray; his body was once again warm. His hair was damp, but the heat would dry it soon enough.
His Prey yawned, eyes drifting shut.
“‘Night,” he murmured. The first time Noah had fallen asleep in front of him, it was with drugs and terror, and pain, and the knowledge that he would die soon; wary. Opposite sides of a campfire. His pocketknife where he could grab for it. The second time, against his chest, exhausted and broken from the Bad Blood and drugged from the medigel. Carried home like some lost, precious thing, though the Hunter certainly hadn’t entertained those thoughts at the time.
Now he was warm, and clean, sated. Smile loosening, mouth open in sleep. The Hunter loosely stroked his back when he realized he was asleep. It was hard to parse through all the different, warring emotions that Noah made him feel. He wanted to protect him, but he wanted to wrestle him and maybe even properly spar. He wanted to keep him safe; but knew he could never truly be happy if he was kept safe. He couldn’t keep him like an exotic pet, and he certainly couldn’t take him as a hunting partner.
He couldn’t keep him, but he could have times like these; he could have him. He could have him.