Archive of Our Own ^beta

No one really anticipated you getting pregnant. Not really.

Sure, it was a possibility, but an incredibly improbable one. Human and Yautja DNA held some fundamental differences, in spite of being surprisingly similar in some regards. Thus, if the laws of biology and physiology were to be true, it dictated that procreation was exceedingly rare, if not entirely impossible to achieve.

Yet, here you were, against the odds, a testament to the universe’s principle of: If there is a will, there is a way.

—

Bhu’kei goes completely silent, not even a stray whicker or growl escapes him. He’s deathly still too, his only movement coming from his clawed fingertips as he taps at his gauntlet, again. This is enough to notify you without words that he’s rerunning the pregnancy test, confirmed when a green light scans over your midsection.

A part of you wants to stop him, to sit up and place a palm on his black-scaled arm, to say “It’s true, Bhu’kei, and it’s okay!”— but you don’t. There’s a small part of you that still reels from disbelief, that wants to recoil in shock and gasp, “It’s not possible!”

A small beep echoes in the dead quiet yurt, and Bhu’kei is still silent. And then he meets your gaze, the expression in his eyes paradoxically unreadable and completely decipherable. He looks apologetic, almost— like he’s waiting for the gravity of the situation to dawn on you, for you to realize just how rare and dangerous and life-threatening this is for you.

Yautja females are larger than their male counterparts; taller, more muscled, and sometimes even stronger. They are built to withstand the 12-month gestation of a Yautja pup, and the entirety of labor and delivery, with ease— an evolutionary gift bestowed upon them due to the fact that most approach childbirth completely alone.

Your disbelief morphs into raw terror— How the Hell do you expect your body to survive this?— and as quickly as that occurs, the raw terror morphs into absolute elation— Well, damn it, you’ll sure try. A smile so big and bright— one you didn’t even know you were capable of doing— splits across your face before you can stop it.

“I’m pregnant!”

—

Announcing your pregnancy to the rest of the camp was initially met with some pushback. Ap-tui, for one, argued that an oomani-di carrying a Yautja pup would be detrimental at best and fatal at worst. True to his blunt nature, he encouraged you to terminate the pregnancy, which probably should have upset you more than it did, but you saw his point.

You had considered abortion, but the thought was fleeting. Despite the potential (and possibly fatal) consequences of carrying a Yautja pup, you rationalized that due to the little to no information on interspecies breeding between humans and Yautja, that your pregnancy was somewhat of a miracle of nature.

Yautja document their history, they transcribe what they learn and all their knowledge about other planets and species and races into databases accessible to all. They have been hunting humans (a morbid thought to you, but one you’ve learned to reconcile with) for hundreds of years, ever since Earth made a blip on their radars.

There is nothing on interspecies breeding. It simply hasn’t happened yet.

That thought partly fueled your decision to keep the baby. More so, however, you wanted the pup— Children were always a desire of yours, and with the development of gaining a handful of Yautja males as your significant others, you had thought the dream had turned to complete fantasy.

Not anymore, you finally got your wish, and you wanted to see it play out, to be the first. Not so much in a selfish, glorifying way— But to stick the finger to the universe and say “Look what love can do.”

Your decision may have also been influenced by your very human strain of curiosity— Something that Van’chaa once told you Yautja lacked in spades.

So, with your mind dead-set on growing that fetus inside you, you shook your head and said, “No, I’m keeping it. It’s my pup.”

Ap-tui was not pleased with your response. Nor was Van’chaa and Th’chi. However, they did not try to press you further. Bhu’kei had already told them that while yes, it was dangerous; It was clearly a risk you were willing to take. And it was not a decision any of them could make for you.

Ultimately, their begrudging support was because you were still female. The Yautja males could do nothing but yield to your wishes. You may be of a different and much less capable species, but honorable and respected Yautja males obeyed their females. So, they would pay that same regard to you.

Thankfully, Ta’kaa’s propensity to celebrate the good in situations garnered a positive reaction that distracted you from the overall dour moods of his hunting brothers.

—

You break your glare with Ap-tui when you hear Ta’kaa whicker in excitement. He meets your gaze, molten eyes cheery and bright, and all the negative emotions leak out of you in an instant. The moss green Yautja scoops you up in his arms, all the while clicking happy noises from his mandibles. You can’t understand a word Ta’kaa says, so far gone in his elation the full Yautja tongue took hold.

Your arms wrapped loose around his neck, tears prick hot at your eyeballs as you watch Ta’kaa growl and clack and nuzzle his mandibles against the soft of your cheek. His body is like fire, and his touch is so tender, so you lean into his affections, smiling.

If there was one Yautja you could rely on for some positivity, it was Ta’kaa.

He is the youngest of the hunting party, and it shows. Ta’kaa acts far more on emotional impulse than the rest, but sometimes it makes him feel a little more human, so you don’t complain. Sometimes though, you have to remind yourself that Ta’kaa passed his Chiva and was Blooded decades before you were born. That often makes you remember that he is a Yautja, born and raised to be a hunter.

But you take his enthusiastic clicking and nuzzling with open arms, offering him kisses to his fluttering mandibles in return.

His elder brothers and cousins click and grumble amongst themselves, allowing their frustrations to air before they silence their grievances for good. Yautja are blunt and direct, so they know to speak out once and then never again. Issues of a more diplomatic blend tend to resolve quickly in Yautja circles.

Off on the sidelines, Ap-tui smothers his concerns deep inside his chest. He opts for watching you joyfully play with his younger brother, absorbing the way your strange, beautiful ooman face contorts with emotion. It took him a while to recognize that when you bare your teeth it means that you are happy, not attempting to threaten.

You are happy now, happy because you carry a pup in your womb, happy because Ap-tui remembers nights when he’s mated you, after which you’ve shed wetness from your eyes because all you’ve ever wanted was children. Another strange ability that oomans have: Crying.

He sees you’re crying now, but he knows it’s not from sadness.

A fairly important question arises in Ap-tui’s mind.

“Who is the sire?” He asks Bhu’kei, who pulls one of his daggers from its hilt at his shin. Bhu’kei doesn’t regard the hunt leader for a moment, instead opting to flip the blade in his hand, looking for impurities. When he finishes, the ink black Yautja glances out the corner of his eye at his cousin.

“You are.” Bhu’kei replies simply.

Ap-tui freezes.

—

“Bhu’kei told me that you’re the sire.” You murmur, coming behind your mate and placing your chin on his shoulder. His inky, blood red tresses tickle your cheek and neck, smooth and warm against your skin. He grunts in response, not moving from his stiff meditation pose.

Ap-tui had distanced himself from the group not long ago, escaping to his private yurt out of the corners of your peripheral. You had asked Bhu’kei what happened, as he was the last to speak to him, and the Yautja had told you then that the hunt leader was the biological father to your unborn pup.

Apparently, it was a semi big deal, as Ap-tui is the Firstborn of his bearer’s bloodline. Bhu’kei explained that, essentially, Firstborns split from their bearer’s clan when they bear or sire a pup of their own. This results in the Firstborn creating their own clan, one adjacent to their bearer’s, and in Yautja culture the position holds some weight.

It also surprised you to learn that, up until now, Ap-tui had not sired a single pup. Strange, considering he’s an elder Blooded warrior, not quite as old or experienced to be considered an Elder, but certainly no Youngblood. He should have already had many sucklings since accomplishing his Chiva, and learning that he didn’t— and that yours would be the first— filled you with a sense of pride.

Your baby with him would begin his clan with strength and status. Arrangements would need to be made, certain rites and bureaucratic agreements, but those could be saved for the future. You would give him his clan.

For now, you simply wrap your arms around Ap-tui’s torso, his corded muscles hot and strong under your arms. You kiss his shoulder.

“He also told me that’s very important.” You continue, and you kiss his reptilian-like mahogany hide again. This time, Ap-tui turns his head to look back at you, mandibles relaxed but set. His eyes look troubled.

“I am… conflicted.” He admits, and it must take all his strength to swallow his Yautja pride, if only for that little confession. You hum, and take a couple steps around him to settle yourself on his lap. Your hands rub at his broad pectoral muscles, fingers purposely catching on the twine-like string of his netted outfit.

Ap-tui looks away, jaws flaring and pulling tight rhythmically. You stare at his face, then at the scar he has that runs jagged across the crown of his head— One he received on a hunt when searching for a gift for you. The kiande amedha th’syra sits on the trophy wall in your quarters back on the hunting party’s ship, as do other gifts from the others.

“Mm. I could tell.” You reply, placing one of your hands on the side of his face. Gingerly, you turn his head so that he faces you directly, thumb rubbing lazy circles on the bone of his eye socket. A slow smile pulls the corners of your mouth up, and Ap-tui watches with hawk-like precision as your cute pink tongue wets your bottom lip.

He meets your gaze, your ooman eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“What troubles you?” You murmur, leaning in and kissing the scales above where his quad-rhythm heartbeat resides. He can tell you are trying to seduce him to wheedle out his deepest concerns. Ap-tui shivers a growl, heat settling in his bones, and he has to resist the urge to flood the yurt with his dia-shui.

“I do not want to risk you.” He confesses, running a gentle claw down the side of your face, admiring your soft, plump flesh. Ooman faces have always been captivating to him: The way you wear your emotions— blatant and raw and unforgiving.

“You’re not.” You kiss his palm as it comes to cup your cheek, and smile, “None of you are.”

Ap-tui is still hesitant and stubborn.

“Gestation may leech you.”

“Maybe— Who knows?”

His large paws trap your waist, claws brushing your skin, causing goosebumps to pepper your flesh.

“Birth will be disastrous. Perhaps fatal.”

“Isn’t it always?”

You cling to Ap-tui like he’s your lifeline. His dia-shui permeates the air, honeying it. The glaze of your arousal drives him wild. His pupils dilate to eclipse his fiery irises. He cannot help himself when he asks,

“Would you do it again? Bear our pups like a lou-dte kale?”

“Yes.”

You did not leave Ap-tui’s yurt for nearly two days.

—

The beginning months of pregnancy really only made your body fatigued and your mind sluggish. You found yourself sleeping far more often, usually clocking out well before the sun set past the horizon. This was usually in tandem to sleeping in until Ta’kaa or Th’chi awoke you to either let you know your mates would be going on a kv’var, or to just get you out from your bed of furs.

The latter usually resulted in them receiving the brunt of your sour mood and cold shoulder— A feat genuinely impressive, considering the lengths you’d go to shirk them.

Until, of course, you came to them in near tears, apologizing profusely and requiring many assurances. They would purr for you until all the wetness from your eyes dried. Th’chi especially did not like seeing you cry.

It was another can of worms pregnancy hormones opened: Mood swings.

—

You’re sure that this may be the angriest you’ve ever been.

The day could not be going worse: Th’chi wakes you at the asscrack of dawn, he doesn’t even bother helping you fix a fire for your breakfast, and then teases you to no end like he usually does, but this time he’s crossed the line.

Fury— molten hot and rising— boils under your skin. Such an intense anger you have to clench your hands into fists. You’re shaking.

“What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?” You growl through grit teeth, each word holding a venom that Th’chi is surprised you have within you, but he pays it no mind. It’ll take more than an angry oomani-di to threaten him. So, he only chortles, lilting his head. His eyes are mirthful, and you want to bash his face in.

“I said: You are rounding out impressively considering it’s only your forth month of gestation.” Th’chi says simply, poking the swell of your belly. Truly, despite only being four months along, you easily look as though you may be six. A side effect of carrying a fetus that’s almost too big for your womb.

That doesn’t dispel the fact that Th’chi is standing before you, a shit-eating look in his eye, and telling you that he thinks you’re fat. You already have been struggling with your changing body and self image. Th’chi only confirms your fears.

“I must also say, your thighs are fattening nicely as well.”

Th’chi must know he’s digging his own grave. He’s not this stupid. Or maybe he is. You’re starting to not care either way.

Bhu’kei has enough sense to stay put on the opposite side of camp.

Ta’kaa, Ap-tui, and Van’chaa have made themselves scarce. Faintly, you recall Van’chaa muttering something about an impromptu kv’var and cursing his younger brother’s name.

This is Th’chi’s mess.

You take a deep breath.

And then Hell breaks loose.

—

By the time you’ve finished your rant, you’re panting, hot in the face, and immediately regretting every word that came out of your mouth. Th’chi looks shocked, his shoulders set, and your heart breaks further when his eyes go stony and hard. He growls lightly, then pivots on his heel and stalks off, clearly upset.

Bhu’kei is looking at you, incredulous, but he only snorts and shakes his head. A pang of regret makes your heart clench behind your ribs. Oh God.

Salvaging whatever remaining anger you have, you turn on your heel and wander off to Ap-tui’s yurt that is halfway across camp. You don’t look back.

The second the yurt door closes, the heat of your anger completely dissipates and leaves you cold with shame and regret. Embarrassment, almost as liquid hot as the wrath before, comes crashing down on you. Immediately, you want to run back out and jump into Th’chi’s arms and tell him over and over how much you love him.

“Oh my God.” Your head falls into your palms, hot tears finally breaking through and wetting your lashes and hands. You said some absolutely heinous things to your mate, words that you made sure would sting. Sniffling wetly, you lower yourself on the edge of Ap-tui’s nest, wringing your fingers in the fibers of the fur beneath you. 

Part of you wonders if you should just stay here until the situation blows over. Another, louder part of you screams to tell you to suck it up and go apologize. A few minutes pass as you let yourself cry some more and ponder. The louder part wins: Shame is a powerful beast.

You rise (an action becoming harder and harder with your swelling middle) and make your way out Ap-tui’s yurt.

—

Hesitant steps take you to Th’chi’s personal yurt that sits adjacent to Bhu’kei’s. Said Yautja is where you last saw him, his midnight hide blending him into the dark metal of his yurt. He dips his head when he sees you and whickers in support when you stall in front of Th’chi’s door. His golden eyes are soft when he says, “Go to him. He needs only your presence.”

You smile sadly and nod, placing one hand atop the door’s biometric scanner and the other on your belly. The door opens and you step inside the yurt. His space smells like home.

When you spot Th’chi lounging on his bed, tears bubble up and spill over again, and he only clicks and opens his arms to you. You bound over as fast as you can, practically tossing yourself into his arms. He’s warm, and his chest begins to rumble with purrs— Calming, like the way that Yautja males do for distressed females.

“‘M sorry.” You mumble against Th’chi’s chest, “I dunno what came over me.”

He chitters, smoothing a palm down your hair like he’s petting you. His hand cradles the back of your skull and holds you close. Th’chi has dealt with the wrath of Yautja both in combat and in mating— Your spat was nothing short of amusing to him. Sure, your words had been hurtful in the moment, but he knew that none of them reflected your true intentions.

“Such fire, little mate.” He teases, tusks tickling your tear-stricken cheeks, “Our little sain’ja.”

Thankfully, his disregard for your outburst and comforting words lends to your tears to stop so profusely flowing. One of his rough thumbs smooths across the arch of cheek and wipes away the tears. Th’chi has never understood why and how oomans leak from their eyes (seems incredibly inconvenient) but he hates when you do.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.” You can’t help but say again, kissing his sternum. Th’chi only purrs louder, the velvety rumble beckoning your now exhausted self to sleep. You press closer to him, shifting in his lap as he grabs a fur to toss around your shoulders.

“I forgive you. Words spoken in the heat of anger often lack substance.” He replies, mandibles quivering when you place kisses to his chin. Th’chi will never admit it out loud, but he loves and desires your kisses like no other. He especially loves when your weird fleshy lips press against his face.

“I said such terrible things, Th’chi. I don’t know if I can forgive myself.” You murmur between soft pecks you leave on his slate blue skin, around the quills that grow from his collarbones. The hand he has on the back of your skull trembles almost imperceptibly before moving to grip your chin. Th’chi holds you as if you are glass.

“A Yautja female would never even entertain the thought of apologizing to a male. Even if she’s wronged him. Little mate,” Th’chi guides your eyes to look up at him, “You are more precious to me than the kv’var. You show yin’tekai in being here, with me, sharing my yurt and bearing my kin.”

Th’chi’s canary yellow eyes bore into yours. They look like twin suns.

“I love you, you big dope, y’know that?” You blubber after a stretch of silence, tears falling down your cheeks again, and this time Th’chi understands this wetness to mean you are happy.

He still doesn’t like it, so he purrs even louder to calm you down. You fall asleep only minutes later.

—

The mood swings began to taper around the time other parts of your body began to really feel the pregnancy. It was difficult to be distracted with your haywire emotions when your back started to hurt at all times, you were thirsty and hungry at all times, you peed a lot, and your ankles and hips were sore (and not the pleasant sore from having sex with one or more of your Yautja).

Not to mention the bowling ball that sat in your belly. The pup was big, heavy, and it was active. Your organs started to feel like punching bags. Especially your bladder, which is what your pup seemed to favor jabbing a foot into. It also liked squirming around when you slept, so the lack of sleep was fun.

And then there was the debacle with your breasts. It seemed that your human pregnancy hormones went into hyperdrive to compensate for the Yautja pup growing in your womb. The pup would need thrice the amount of milk as a human child once it was born, and the moment you entered your approximate second trimester, your already tender breasts ballooned to sizes you thought unimaginable. 

At first, it was difficult to reconcile your new, curvaceous bosom— Often you found yourself weeping at the sight of your engorged chest. Your swollen, flush tits hung nearly to your waist on either side of your round belly, nipples darkened and pointed straight to the floor. You missed your old breasts, and mourned the fact that they’d never be the same again.

Not to mention that they were awfully heavy, like two pendulous dumbbells that pulled at your upper back muscles. It was enough that your ankles, hips, and lower back ached, but your breasts added your shoulders to the list too.

—

“I can’t look at myself!” You sob into Van’chaa’s netted chest like a baby, blubbering about how much you hate your new figure, and that it makes you feel and look ugly. Van’chaa doesn’t say anything, only patting your head with a gentle paw as you weep against him.

He is desperately confused— Yautja do not suffer the same body issues as oomans do, and he thinks that the near-obsessive paranoia that you display about losing “your figure” is ridiculous. Of course, he would never tell you that directly, especially in the... tender mindset you’re currently in.

You are pregnant, carrying a Yautja pup— a future hunter to an apex predator race. Not to mention a Firstborn of a strong clan. That should bring you honor and respect. It should not bring you despair.

“Little mate,” He decides to coo, nuzzling your hair with his tusks, “No tears. Pregnancy is honorable, and it gives you status. You are like Paya.”

You sniffle, listening to his words and recognizing that Paya is the Yautja deity, and that any form of comparison is a big deal, but your self-image has still been utterly shattered. Confidence that you once had in your body has fallen to the wayside. You tell this to Van’chaa, and he chuffs, then stands up. He looks expectantly down at you, offering his hand, which you take to stand with still a lot of effort.

“Come.” He replies simply, and he starts walking off in the direction of the common yurt, the biggest one in the center of camp where your hunters store miscellaneous goods or shared objects. You walk after him, slowly and with a hand planted on your aching back, ignoring (for now) the hungry look Ta’kaa gives you from across the clearing.

Van’chaa stops at the yurt’s door, opening it and gesturing for you to step in first. You do, keeping your wary gaze on your mate as he strides to the opposite side of the hut, pulling from a wall compartment a sleek black box. Van’chaa strides just as confidently back to you, placing the box in front of you. He opens its top with a click of its latches, like a chest.

The direction of the box prevents you from seeing what Van’chaa is digging for, and you’re about to walk over and see for yourself when the midnight blue Yautja reveals four silver items in his paws. They look like mini gauntlets, obviously made for your human body, but they don’t seem to have any weapons or fancy technology attached.

“Remove your coverings.” Van’chaa rumbles, and the request has you recoiling. The simple white cotton dress you’re wearing really has no special connection to you, but it was one of the few articles of clothing you had. Plus, it was flowy and loose enough for your seemingly ever-growing body and covered up your Problem Areas quite effectively.

“Why?” You ask, shuffling on your feet and Van’chaa can smell your apprehension. He clicks and tilts his head to the side, his long, rubbery black tresses falling past his shoulder. 

“Do you trust me, little mate?” He asks, his low, gravelly voice is tender, like the way it gets when he reminisces to you about his bearer on nights when you’re both tipsy on c’ntlip. It’s the same voice he uses when he confesses his love for you under the blanket secrecy of midnight. Van’chaa reaches and cups your cheek in his palm, marveling at how his hand dwarfs you, purring.

“Yes.” You whisper, smiling softly and turning to kiss the palm of his hand. Van’chaa trills in delight, and withdraws his hand to pick up one of the metal cuff-like objects. He holds it out towards you, clicking.

“Then remove your coverings.” He says simple, and with a long, somewhat shaky sigh, you undo the tie at the front of your dress and bare yourself in one swoop. Van’chaa sees the apprehension and disgust towards your own body flash on your face, and once again he is so confused as to why you think so poorly of your own flesh.

He can’t help but marvel— Ooman physiology has always intrigued him, though he’d never admit it out loud. There’s something about the way your oomani-di body is so close to a Yautja female, similar in its curves and decidedly female traits.

And your specific ooman-ness draws him in further. Van’chaa always secretly admired your even, smooth skin, the softness of your plush flesh, your legs and thighs… Admittedly, it had taken him some time to get used to your strange, and by Yautja standards, ugly face, but now he looks forward to it each morning he wakes. He cannot imagine life without you.

Pregnancy does nothing to change his mind on this. If anything, watching your belly swell with pup and your breasts become milk-laden has been… titillating. It arouses some deep intimate, primal fire in his core— One that drives him to the edge (and sometimes over) of desire and back.

Van’chaa wants to lick the taut dome of your belly. He wants to feel you squirm and pant below him, wants to watch those bloated tits of yours bounce in time with his thrusts. One day, he wants to mate you until his seed takes hold. Then he will watch you swell again with his pup. The thought has him relaxing his mandibles.

“Van’chaa?” Your quiet pry pulls him from his reverie and makes him realize that he’d been flooding the air with his dia-shui. You’ve taken notice, as you’ve come to recognize the earthy musk, and your eyelids are now drooped halfway, lustful.

“Wrists. Ankles.” Van’chaa growls, ignoring (for now) the heady scent of your arousal that permeates the air around you. If he glances down, he’ll surely see the slick ambrosia dripping from your cunt. Van’chaa decides today is an exercise in self control. He all but tosses the cuffs to you.

—

The strange cuffs lock around your wrists and ankles firmly, yet gently. When you test one by flexing your arm, the metal seems to have some uncharacteristic give. It feels breathable and acts more like leather than steel. You go to ask Van’chaa why exactly you’re wearing them, when he presses a button on one of the cuffs.

You yelp as netting flows from all four cuffs, racing over your body like water on rocks. It’s very similar to what the Yautja wear beneath their armor, the same black thread-like material. But you can tell it’s stronger, more durable, and somehow it even provides you with some warmth. It must be temperature regulated in some way.

In addition, the net outfit must work in a way that provides support, as the usual pull on your back from your breasts and heavy belly is noticeably lessened. For that, you are eternally grateful.

... However, the net bodysuit— like your mates— acts more like a birthday suit than much else and does very little in the way of modesty. It practically leaves you half naked, though the netting over your crotch does seem to be a bit denser. The same can not be said for your breasts— the netting on your bloated tits and puffy nipples is exceptionally light in comparison.

“Van’chaa, what is this?” You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest and internally wincing at how much squishy yield your rack gives. He only chitters, those deep-set blue eyes of his shining in what you can only describe as mischief. You watch as his paws disappear back inside of the box, reappearing with a tiny, bird-like skull in hand.

You don’t recognize what animal it may be from— Earthen or otherwise— but you watch with bated breath as Van’chaa, in a way that can only be described as sacred, attaches the skull to the netting at the center of your chest. It sits atop the shelf of your cleavage, a centerpiece for what’s to come.

Van’chaa continues to decorate you, lining bones of all sorts on your hips in alternating patterns, always using sterling white ones. Before he pulls away from you, he adorns your neck with a bone necklace, clicking softly as he does. It’s like he’s whispering prayer, like the necklace of ivory and claws is as if you’re being bestowed a crown.

“Van’chaa...” You breathe, still taken aback at how tenderly and religiously your mate dressed you in items that his people would wear. He secures a leather-like cloth around your hips that ties below the bones on either side. The fabric covers your crotch and backside, giving you at least some modem of modesty. It’s not much, but at least you feel less nude.

Van’chaa pulls away from you, trilling. He’s elated, eyes bright and proud of his handiwork. Then, he visits the box again and this time pulls out a larger, thin item. He sets it in front of you, the glint of its surface catching the light— and your reflection.

It’s a mirror. A long, full body mirror that captures you in all your fat, pregnant glory. 

Body covered in fishnet netting, adorned with bones, dressed in leather; You honestly believe this is the most beautiful you’ve felt in a while. Your new body is complimented and spotlighted in this outfit, belly and breasts and all. The slopes and curves of your figure are hugged in a way that doesn’t make you want to look away.

You also notice, for the first time, how beautifully glossy your hair’s become. And the healthy glow on the apples of your cheeks. You look at the strange, bird-like skull on your sternum.

You look like a Yautja.

Van’chaa chuffs beside you, and you break your gaze from your reflection to see him offering you a pair of tiny sandals. The soles look to be made of thick leather, but the ties seem to be a softer material. When you take them from him, it all clicks in your mind.

“Van’chaa... did you make this all for me?” You ask softly, staring at the shoes in your hands before glancing back up at your mate. Van’chaa dips his head once in response, his electric blue eyes alight like lightning. His dia-shui is unavoidable and unignorable.

“Thank you.” You breathe, sighing in content when Van’chaa sweeps you up into his arms and deposits you onto his bed. The plush furs are soft and support you well. Your core is so hot at this point you nearly whimper. The air is glazed and thick and it’s like breathing in honey. Van’chaa situates himself above you, his tresses fall on either side of your head and he leans in close.

“Would you like me to show my thanks?” You coo, kissing the pink flesh of his flared mandibles, meeting his eyes when you lick up one of his tusks. Van’chaa growls in warning. He sees your coy play and calls you on it. One of his paws grips your thighs and spreads you for him. The leather flap is easily moved out of the way and it’s then you notice there’s an opening in the netting at the base of your core.

Easy access, you suppose, and all other thought escapes you when your mate snarls and presses the tent under his loincloth to your aching pussy. His other hand slides up your belly, then cups one of your breasts. Van’chaa squeezes, and you moan.

“Please fuck me.” You gasp, gripping his bicep when his claws toy with your nipple. The bones you wear click together like wind chimes. You say again, desperate and horny and feeling beautiful: 

“Please.”

Van’chaa happily obliges.

—

Another milestone you pass during the duration of your pregnancy also has to do with your breasts. Seemingly, they just don’t let you catch a break. Aside from being heavy and bouncy and literally swaying while you walk (despite your new clothes), they’ve also begun to leak.

You lactate for the first time in front of Bhu’kei, right as he’s about to perform the routine health screen on you. Just as the light flickers over your belly (where the pup had been doing flips as of late) you feel... wet. A dampness made itself very known on your chest, then spread.

“Oh my God!” Bhu’kei’s attention snaps back to you at your incredulous remark, and he is met with the sight of you pinching your nipples between your fingers. Thick droplets of milk still leak past and he notices the trails on your belly. Your face has gone ashen and hot at the same time. Bhu’kei recognizes this as mortification.

“You have started your lactation. This is good.” Bhu’kei states with a swift nod of his head and turns back to your scan. Speaking of good, all of your vitals are also stellar. The pup is stable as well. Bhu’kei is content at this knowledge.

“I’m fucking leaking!” Your voice raises an octave and Bhu’kei watches as you scramble to find a cloth to press to your bosom. When your fingers leave your nipples, a white spray occurs that has you yelping and pinching them again, Bhu’kei clicks in amusement, but you shoot him a withering glare.

“Not. Funny. I can’t go around dripping milk everywhere.” You frown, skin feeling moist and sticky from your milk that’s left trails on your belly. You want to wipe it up, but your fingers can’t leave your nipples. Though... the longer you’re pinching to stop the flow, the more your breasts begin to feel... tight.

More so than usual. Like the pressure’s building. Experimentally, you release one of your sensitive nipples and the torrent of milk is powerful enough to spurt from you like a faucet. Your jaw drops.

Bhu’kei whickers, impressed.

The pressure cedes, and when pinch them again, it begins to grow.

It seems your stuck between a rock and a hard place.

You look to Bhu’kei, and your eyes are pleading. You pout, “What do I do now?”

—

The solution Bhu’kei ultimately recommended was unorthodox. 

Usually, pumping milk would’ve been an affair saved for after the pup was born, but you started lactating and profusely leaking so early on that it needed to be done. Plus, you and Bhu’kei did not want you to risk developing mastitis, which would be just the cherry-on-top to your pregnancy.

The issue was, the Yautja didn’t have any suitable equipment to perform the duty of pumping, so it had to be done manually. At first, you were able to squeeze your breasts rhythmically, draining milk into large glass vials that would be frozen and stored for later, but your hands soon tired.

So, with the help of your mates, you pumped milk.

—

“Bhu’kei! Bhu’kei! Bhu’kei!”

The only word your mouth seems to know is his name. Your pussy throbs with need, clit aching for contact. Bhu’kei is planted firmly behind you, but he won’t concede and fill your dripping core with his cock. Instead, he rests the hot rod between your ass cheeks, teasing you by thrusting lazily.

It’s all so much. You can hardly breathe. His dia-shui is suffocating in the best way possible. Bhu’kei’s hands are working magic on you.

Large paws alternate the respective tit they squeeze, drawing long streams of milk from your chest. He tweaks and pinches the stiff peaks of your nipples like he’s toying with them. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced— Strange, yet natural, yet absolutely dirty.

You hazy mind and glossy eyes focus enough to process that the glass vial is nearly halfway full. The session is far from over. You don’t want it to end.

It’s almost humiliating. You’re being milked like a fucking cow. But you have Bhu’kei, nearly rabid with horniness, all-too-enthusiastically rutting wildly between your thighs as if he’s experiencing his rut. Hell, maybe he is. You might just be tempting enough to speed up the waiting time.

It became apparent very quickly that lactation did not sway any of the hunting brothers from gladly warming your bed. They fought over who got to help you pump, and the winner, often bloody and bruised, would be bolstered enough to claim you in the middle of camp.

You whine and moan, and Bhu’kei finally relents and on the next thrust the tip of his cock catches on your weeping slit then sinks home. You wail with pleasure, eyes rolling back as Bhu’kei stretches you in one fell swoop. You grip his wrists, feeling the tendons beneath your hands work. Milk is drawn from you. Your face is flush with heat, your hair sticks to the nape of your neck and temples, sweat gathers beneath your belly and the junctions where you are propped on a pile of furs.

“Bhu’kei!~” You bay his name like a wounded dog, high pitched and airy, and he starts to thrust with fervor. He snarls and growls, gripping your tits firm, but remembering to perform the job. Bhu’kei won’t admit, but it’s becoming harder and harder to focus on aiding you with pumping when your tight, hot cunt is stretched around his shaft.

Mating you is always like this: Soft, raw, and wet like the humid jungle around you. Bhu’kei doesn’t even consider taking you to his yurt like he did earlier, the low growling and pointed glares of his hunting brothers around him is far too satisfying.

He catches the stare of Ap-tui and purposely gives you a sharp thrust that has you gasping just to spite him. His cousin flares his mandibles, his own dia-shui flooding around him. The same can be said of the others as well, all the Yautja males bristle and pace like ravenous wolves wanting a bite of the ripe flesh before them.

Bhu’kei understands fully. You are beneath him like prey, spread out and whining and quivering... How could anyone not find you tempting?

“Her cunt is sweet. Tight and soft and wet. My cock is blessed.” Bhu’kei teases the hunting party and a chorus of roars and growls lifts the air. You’re too far gone to comprehend it. Bhu’kei slides the blunt of tusks down the side of your cheek, trapping you beneath him. His cock works in tandem with his hands.

“Come for me.” He urges you, whickering into your ear. Tears of pleasure roll down your cheeks. It’s all so much. Bhu’kei draws back, then thrusts and hits the special, spongy part inside your cunt.

You orgasm so hard you pass out.

The pumping session had to come to an end.

—

In general, your pregnancy had relatively few hiccups along the way. Most of the time you and your mates spent preparing for the upcoming birth, stocking enough food to last so that none of them had to leave your side until well after you’d given birth. It was something you wanted, just time with them and your new pup for a little while.

Thus, the days were often long and unexciting. You and your mates either fucked or slept or ate. They would take turns leaving for a couple days to replenish more food. The Yautja would sometimes fight one another for entertainment, and to keep their abilities sharp.

In the waning months of pregnancy, however, something eventful did occur.

You were nearly nine and a half months along when your party received a visitor. A Yautja ship appeared out of the blue, snapping your mates into action. They suited up in full armor, on edge.

Apparently, it’s bad form to intrude on occupied hunting territories without an invitation (which your party never gave) or asking first (which they never did). So when the ship landed, your already peeved Yautja were downright hostile towards whoever was bold enough to invade their space.

Ap-tui was particularly pissed, being the hunt leader and all. You had never seen him that bristly before.

But then the most curious turn of events happened.

The ship's docking bay opened to reveal a very tall, very tough looking, very female Yautja.

—

The female didn’t even introduce herself. She disembarked her ship and immediately threatened your mates.

She told Ap-tui none-too-kindly that she desired to hunt on these hunting grounds, and that she hadn’t been aware a party had already established themselves on the planet. Understandable, considering the hunting ship is cloaked, and your mates hadn’t exactly contacted the clanship to let them know where you were.

The reason being well... you.

Ap-tui and his hunting brothers, while not entirely neglecting to tell the clan matriarch and clan leader about your existence (they knew you were their oomani-di), hadn’t disclosed yet the fact you were expecting. That was a hurdle that was something of an unspoken agreement. It would be... complicated, to say the least.

The Yautja female didn’t seem to care, nor did she intend to spill secret for you and your mates. She only wished to hunt on the grounds, which Ap-tui agreed to, in spite of Th’chi’s objections. He didn’t like the idea of sharing.

He silenced himself when she threatened to remove his spine.

And then her attentions turned to you.

—

“You mated with an oomani-di?! They are so small and weak!” The Yautja female chortles, though her tone lacks any maliciousness in her words. It’s more as if she teases the males, trying to poke fun at their— admittedly— strange choice of mating partner.

The jab makes Ta’kaa stiffen, but he holds his tongue. Smart male. You don’t really want to see this absolute powerhouse rip him in half.

“She is strong in spirit. Brave and honorable enough to carry a Yautja pup.” Bokei replies, pounding a fist on his chest then pointing to you. You offer him a soft smile, patting your round belly. You carry a Firstborn Yautja pup, and it is honorable.

“Hm!” The female chuffs, and then her stare zeroes in on you. It’s different than before, when she had stared in aghast amazement. This time, her expression is completely unreadable, making you feel nervous under her intense violet eyes. You practically feel it as she roams you up and down.

It makes you protectively cover your middle with your arms. Any honorable Yautja would never harm an unarmed, pregnant female— regardless of species— but you can’t attest to the character of this Yautja. Your mates sense your unease, and Van’chaa who stands closest to you begins to purr softly. She seemingly ignores him.

“What is your name, oomani-di?” She asks, and you have to swallow with a dry throat before tentatively giving it to her. She rolls your name on her tongue a couple times, trying it out and clicking her long tusks together as she does. 

“I am Ni’ja.” She stands taller, her waist length, dark green tresses swaying like devil’s ivy, their tubular lengths decorated in metals of all sorts. In particular, your eye catches a band of what looks like rose gold near her temple. It has a green gem in its center. She pounds a fist against her chest, above the twin bumps of her bosom.

You know Yautja females are similar in their anatomy to humans, but something about seeing such a... large woman feels surreal. And Ni’ja is very recognizably female, her wide hips and tapered waistline can attest to that. Though like her male counterparts, she’s incredibly muscular— You can see the power of her in the corded muscles of her legs and arms.

Briefly, you think of your own body and its lack of definition in favor of squishy flesh. Bhu’kei tells you that he and the rest of your mates find you exotic. Any thought of negatively comparing yourself to Ni’ja flies out the window.

“This is your first pup, is it not?” Ni’ja asks, crossing her arms over her chest. You pull yourself from your thoughts and nod, rubbing a hand up and down your belly. The pup inside your womb kicks in response, as always.

“Yes. It’s Ap-tui’s.” You reply softly, still wary of this visitor despite the fact she’s not attempted to maim you. Yet. You shake the thought from your head. 

“No. The pup is yours. The male is only a means to an end.” Ni’ja states firmly, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of Ap-tui. To your surprise, he doesn’t respond in the way you think he’d would— a snarl and maybe a harsh quip back— instead, your mate only bows his head.

Huh, you think, glancing around and seeing your other mates are likewise morose. All of them are a relatively wide distance from Ni’ja, heads bowed and gazes lowered. It’s like her very presence is something to be revered and respected. Maybe even feared.

You think about all that they’ve told you about Yautja females, the matriarchy, and the honor and deference males must pay to females. It’s like you finally understand the culture after seeing it in action. Yautja males really do keel to the females.

“I have experience in birthing and rearing pups.” Ni’ja says, her loud voice carrying in the air. She whips her head to shoot Ap-tui a challenging glare then says, “I will remain here to hunt and teach the oomani-di my knowledge.”

It is not a question, but a command. Ap-tui only nods.

You gulp.

—

The first handful of days is tense. Ni’ja runs the camp like a dictator. You’re equal parts impressed and worried.

Eventually, your mates find themselves and start retaliating to Ni’ja. She does not take it well. Fights occur and Ta’kaa ends up with a broken arm. That’s when you decided to step in: Enough was enough.

“Ni’ja!” You bellow, and catch the attention of the seething female. She gives Th’chi’s neck one last squeeze before she drops him to the ground. Your mate coughs, sputtering for air. Ni’ja stomps up to you, violet eyes blazing, and she looks almost as though she’d 

But she stops. You are pregnant. She will not touch you. She cannot touch you.

“I’ve had enough of this. Do not boss around or fight or harm any of my mates any longer.” You hiss, trying to look as intimidating as possible, though you know you’re probably failing severely. It’s tough to make yourself look scary when you’re half naked in a net suit with leaking tits and huge belly. Not to mention your balance, you nearly tip over when Ni’ja gets in your face.

“They are your males? You keep them?” She asks, mandibles clicking with thought. The questions are a bit... perturbing, but you don’t think you have much of a choice when you answer firmly, “Yes.”

Ni’ja whickers low in her throat, straightening to her full height. A thoughtful expression settles on her face, and her clawed fingers come up and scratch at her chin. You nearly grin at the almost human mannerism.

“I also keep a male. He is called Rath’ju-dha,” She ponders and you think the situation has blown over until she continues cheerily, “So I will not challenge you for yours!”

Deep down, you understand fully what she meant, but the thought makes you feel ill. It’s not uncommon for Yautja females to fight one another over mates, much like males. The difference being that Yautja females near exclusively fight for the lifemates of other Yautja females. They are the only ones allowed to do so.

“My mates are mine. This is my camp.” You say firmly, and your voice only wavers a little bit, mostly from withheld anger. Ni’ja is both infuriating and marvelous. You want to punch her in the jaw as much as you want to gush over her.

Ni’ja meets your glare with amused eyes. She takes your demand lightly, which should infuriate you more but you just can’t find it in you. All the fighting has led to you missing dinner at a reasonable time, so now you’re hungry. And your feet hurt. And the pup is kicking at your bladder again.

Ni’ja stands down with a click of laughter.

—

After your stand-off with Ni’ja, if you can even call it that, she toned down her attitude towards your mates. All she really wanted to do was hunt. The grounds were appealing to her, so she no longer lingered around the camp ordering the males around.

Your mates were not pleased whenever she would reappear after a day or two with a large catch in her claws. It didn’t help that she flaunted her kill and skinned it right in front of them. Van’chaa nearly challenged her when she gloated about the pristine whiteness of her new th’syra.

Oddly enough, the company of another female after being surrounded by so much testosterone (or whatever the Yautja equivalent is) was much needed. You hadn’t realized how desensitized you had gotten to a bunch of rowdy, unruly men until Ni’ja was there to set them straight. Her energy was also much more relatable, regardless of her different species.

And the fact she was over 9 feet tall. It’s really more the principle of it all.

She never told you directly, but part of you caught on that she might feel a similar way. From what you’ve gathered, Yautja females tend to lead even more solitary lives: Often staying away from the clanship, hunting alone, and only really having stable company if they were rearing a pup. In fact, most Yautja females only acquainted themselves with the males during mating season.

You assumed Ni’ja was much the same, though her mention of this Rath’ju-dha character had piqued your interest. Though you never got to ask her much about him, as she was always more focused on pounding the knowledge about Yautja pups, 

—

“... Pups are wily and uncontrollable. Corporal punishment is necessary. Don’t be swayed from cuffing them or tugging their tresses.” Ni’ja has been droning on for so long that you’re brain’s started to ache. She went through practically every aspect of rearing a Yautja pup, from birth to early childhood and even into adolescence.

Apparently, labor and birth is virtually the same as a human’s. As is bonding with and nursing the newborn. You dreaded the idea of pushing out the big pup inside you from your very underprepared cunt, but you also wanted so desperately to hold them close to your chest. The idea of finally ridding yourself of milk in a productive way through nursing also appealed to you and your aching tits as well.

“How many pups have you had?” You decide to butt in, desperate to just change the flow of the conversation, even if it’s minutely. Your head is stuffed so full of information, you need the relief. Besides, your pup is doing flips in your womb again, so the question was definitely influenced.

Ni’ja narrows her eyes and regards you with interest. She thinks you may be challenging her on her knowledge, perhaps seeking to know the number of pups she’s born to assess if she really knows what she speaks of. Ni’ja chuffs.

“I have born 11 successful sucklings; 8 males and 3 females. Only 5 survived their Chiva. I am proud of my warriors.” And when Ni’ja said that, you could tell. Her violet eyes lit up with a passion, obviously very pleased that a handful of her pups survived long enough to become Blooded. 

Even if that handful is less than half.

You wonder about her… approach to motherhood in the privacy of your head. Part of you wants to press on the other six of Ni’ja’s pups (Does she miss them? Did she love them?), but you feel that asking would be inappropriate, maybe even disrespectful. Instead, you ask about other practical things.

“About delivery... is it, like, really bad? Should I be preparing myself?” You inquire, looking down at the massive dome of your belly and internally shivering at how big your pup is gonna be when they decide to come out. The answer is, obviously, yes, but you want to hear it from the perspective of someone who’s had kids before.

“The pain is great, but ultimately unimportant.” Ni’ja waves a dismissive hand, a gesture you’ve noticed she favors, “The payoff of a healthy pup is worth it.”

When she says that last bit, something in Ni’ja’s eyes shadows. Like the shutters slam shut, if only for the briefest of moments. Though before you can comment on it, she snaps back to her usual tough, authoritative self.

“I think that’s something humans have in common with Yautja; Most mothers only ask that their baby be healthy, and that labor is worth it in the end.” You smile at her, and she chuffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Indeed.” Ni’ja rumbles, sharply dipping her head. For the first time since Ni’ja pulled you aside to start your “mothering lessons”, a silence befalls you both. It’s comfortable, though you watch Ni’ja’s firm expression be overtaken by a pensive look. Her violet eyes look... sad. Almost. Some foreign Yautja emotion equivalent.

“Always prepare yourself for the worse.” She states, and she says it like she’s admitting a confession, her voice so quiet that you almost have to strain to understand her. Ni’ja doesn’t look at you when she continues, “Paya is sometimes cruel.”

The ache in her voice is blatant, tangible. You swallow thickly, unsure of what to say or do. You know offering comfort will probably be interpreted as you recognizing her “weakness” and be met with anger, but your heart bleeds at how melancholic Ni’ja sounds.

You wouldn’t really consider her a friend, but she probably just confided something so secret in you that you feel almost honored. Yautja are not ones to speak so delicately to another. Nor are they emotional creatures.

“Thus is the rule of the nature.” You agree carefully and solemnly, shifting slightly on your pile of furs. The position you’ve sat in for so long has started to make your hips hurt. Even though you’re not looking at her— purposefully messing around with your seat in order not to— Ni’ja’s heavy gaze bores into the side of your skull.

Silence, again.

“Oh!” You jump when Ni’ja suddenly thunders, “I have almost forgotten something!”

Curious, you look back up at her and she seems to be back to normal. Her violet eyes are bright, and she lifts a hand and causes her long tresses to sway again. She points an accusatory finger at you.

“Your pup will be greedy. He will desire milk without regard for your time: Be prepared to not relinquish your breasts for weeks.” Ni’ja chortles, then leans in and pokes one of your tits, causing you to yelp and jolt back. Ni’ja seems to jump back as well, straightening to her full height in shock. Then her surprise morphs into amusement.

“So soft! Oomani-di are so weak!” And as Ni’ja begins to laugh, you do too.

—

Ni’ja takes her leave after four weeks. Over that time, you imagine she’s taken plenty more th’syra to line the walls of her trophy room. She doesn’t even say goodbye, but you manage to wake up in time to see her ship dart out from the planet’s atmosphere, then disappear as it’s cloak engages.

Your mates are elated, though they don’t say it out loud. It’s quite amusing.

By this time though, the new main focus became the fact that you surpassed 10 months of gestation. Ni’ja’s visit and occupation had really made you forget that your pregnancy is very close to nearing the end. Easily, you are further along than most human females ever get, though for Yautja gestation, you still technically have 2 more months to go.

The original plan was induction. At 10 months, the number was gaged to be a safe golden area in which the pup has stayed as long as it could in your womb, while also being safe (for them and you) to be removed. The pup would then be 2 months premature, which Bhu’kei admitted may result in some growth deficiencies later on, although he’d be completely fine otherwise. 

Though 10 months rolled around and there were no new cries of help from your body, and scans revealed the pup to be still growing and with a strong quad-heartbeat. You didn’t want to induce. You could hold out.

—

“I’ve been fine for 10 months now, what’s the issue with only a couple more?” You cross your arms over the swell of your belly, trying to pry a real answer out of Ap-tui. He growls, spreading his mandibles and shaking his head. His tresses swing wild over his shoulders, metal adornments clicking together.

“It’s not wise. Inducing now would be safer.” He hisses, roughly bring the whetting stone down on his dagger’s blade, causing sparks to fly. You blow a raspberry— Childish, you know— and narrow your eyes at your mate.

“Bhu’kei said it was okay!” You crow insistently, pointing to where said Yautja converses with Van’chaa. In all honesty, that was an opinion that you had to whittle out of the resident healer as well. At first, Bhu’kei had been just as opposed to the idea of not inducing labor, but you pointed out that you were doing fine and had no new negative symptoms either.

In fact, you felt better than ever. Sure you still ached, but it was overpowered by a stronger sense of empowerment you felt. You could carry your pup for the next 2 months, you were sure of it. 

“Bhu’kei is hulij-bpe and a kha’bj-te.” Ap-tui snarls as tosses down both the blade and stone. He follows the trail of your finger only to send his cousin a deadly glare. You roll your eyes, a grin that you can’t help sprawls across your face. Yautja males and their hardheadedness.

“First, be nice. Second, I have shown no negative symptoms— aside from the usual ones— this entire pregnancy. Clearly, my body can handle it.” You don’t mean to, but a very clear pout settles on your face. Ap-tui glances back at you, takes in your frustrated expression and round middle, then chuffs.

“Fine, female, it’s your decision.” He has the gall to roll his eyes at you, so before he can stand and leave, your hand shoots out and grabs a crimson tress. Fingers wrap tight and unforgiving around the tendril like appendage, and Ap-tui growls when you pull. His nerve endings ignite from pain and pleasure.

Rarely do you resort to a more Yautja method of winning an argument, but Ni’ja may have taught you a thing or two about “taming your males”. Pulling on the tresses acted as a very good persuader. You grin wider, keeping Ap-tui’s tress pulled taut.

He snarls as he’s forced to lower to his knees, glaring daggers at you. You giggle softly, stepping closer to place your other hand on his shoulder. His body heaves under your touch, his mandibles flaring as he pants. His pupils consume his blazing irises.

“Good boy.” You purr, finally releasing his tress and kissing the sloped crown of his head. Ap-tui whickers, his beefy arms coming up and wrapping around you. He marvels at how his hands nearly span the width of your back. You kiss his mahogany scales and quietly say, “It’ll be okay, y’know? I’m your little sain’ja, aren’t I?”

Ap-tui clicks his tusks together in mirth, relenting and nuzzling the column of your neck. You sigh as his mandibles run down to your collarbones, sensually grazing your delicate skin. Ap-tui, forever gracious, treats you to soft nibbles along your shoulders, then lower to your chest.

“Ap-tui.” You say his name as his long, forked tongue teases a nipple. One of his paws grabs a fistful of your ass and thigh, the other holds your waist. He secures you against him, mindful of your swollen belly, bearing all your weight for you. You grip his shoulders, then paw at his tresses, wringing your hands deeply within them until you grab near the base of his skull.

You tug, and Ap-tui roars and devolves into rolling clicks. You’ve struck the sensitive nerves at the bases of his tresses, forced him to release his dia-shui. You catch his scent and moan, eyes fluttering shut as Ap-tui begins to purr.

“Little mate.” He rumbles, lowering you until you lay sprawl beneath his muscled frame. Ap-tui clicks as he mounts you, shoving apart your plush thighs with his knees. You’re not able to look down and see past your rack or belly, but your suspicions are confirmed when the telltale stiff hotness of his cock presses against your dripping core.

Even though the session’s just started, you’re already wet beyond belief. Hell, you have been for months now. The near constant fucking and pregnancy hormones sets your body into hyperdrive with need.

Ap-tui squeezes one of your fat tits and you gasp, bucking your hips. He kneads it, careful of his claws, rolling his thumb in fast, tight circles over your sensitive nipple. Pleasure runs rampant all over your body, shooting bursts straight to your core. You wish you were able to reach around your belly and rub at your throbbing clit.

“You light my blood on fire, little mate.” Ap-tui hisses, sensing from your gyrating hips and whines that the special bud above your slit needs attention. He obliges, and his other paw dips between the apex of your thighs to press at your clit. You moan, strangled, when he presses down. Ap-tui notes that your core is drenched, your slit and labia glistening and raw and leaking slick.

He also notices your cunt bulges. You are so heavy with his pup your body strains to keep it in. Ap-tui almost loses his composure and seeds himself.

“I will take you now. You tempt me too powerfully.” Ap-tui states, and you barely process what he says when the thick girth of his cock sinks home. You wail, pussy stretching wonderfully around his length. You mate snarls, and sets a brutal pace that has his ballsack smacking wetly against your ass. He uses one hand to lift your hips and drives down.

The squelching is obscene, loud, and the yurt’s door is open to let in the nice breeze, so everyone is able to hear it. Ta’kaa is the first to show up at the door, leaning against the frame, but Ap-tui roars at him and your mate leaves. Not before flaring in mandibles in anger, however.

You wail and moan and grab at Ap-tui, fingers catching the quills on his chest, the flexing muscles of his forearms. Eyes bleary from tears, you grab a tress and pull, setting Ap-tui off yet again into a roar and rabid clicking. His pace picks up— brutal, unrelenting— hips pistoning his fat cock deep into your core. The tip kisses the gummy nodes of your cervix, causing you to shriek like a mad woman.

“Fuck! Ap-tui! Ap-tui!~” You cry his name, back arching, and you take your neglected breast in hand to toy with yourself. When your shaky fingers brush your nipple, you find it puffy and wet. You’re lactating. Your fat breasts bounce and milk is being spilled out of them. Ap-tui leans in and licks the milk away. You scream his name.

“Good little mate. Making milk for my pup. You will feed it with your swaying bosom nicely.” Ap-tui growls the dirtiest things in your ear, starts telling you how excited you breastfeeding will be, that he’d want to take you again and again whenever your milk overflows. It’s all so dirty, but so sexy. You want it. You want it bad. You’ll be a good little lou-dte kale for your mates.

You feel your orgasm approaching, steady and quickly. Your cunt shivers and clenches around Ap-tui’s cock and he feels it— Hard. He has to center himself and focus, lest he seed you before he wishes to. Ap-tui increases his efforts, thrusts like he’s fucking for his life, palming your breast and child-swollen belly, and rubs even tighter circles on your sensitive bud.

It’s enough, and your orgasm seizes you, making you see stars. Your high pitched wail resonates the walls, and carries out the door. Ap-tui keeps your high prolonged as he doesn’t relent, roaring and snarling at the sight of your squirt gushing around his cock, escaping your stretch hole each time he pulls back.

Your a mess of your own fluids, your release and milk, and after several long, drawn out pumps of his cock, Ap-tui feels his balls pull up and he roars. His spend shoots liquid hot against the opening of your womb, painting your insides with his seed. He pistons through it all, mandibles flaring and muscles flexing, all while releasing spurt after spurt of his sticky spend.

Once he’s finished, your body goes lax. Your mind is blank. All you can do is pant to catch your breath and feel the hot wetness of your cum, milk, and Ap-tui’s cum between your thighs. Some of it even splattered up onto the underside of your massive belly.

“Good little mate. Little sain’ja.” Ap-tui begins to purr, and he pulls back, cock springing from your too-tight hole. You whimper, your cunt’s been rendered raw, swollen, and sore. But the good type of sore. You almost seek more of it. Ap-tui cages himself above you, boxing you in. It’s then you realize your eyes have been squeezed shut.

You open them. Ap-tui is directly over you, his tresses fall around your face like a curtain. You blink back tears, and they roll down your temples. Your hair is plastered to your face and neck with sweat. Ap-tui purrs louder. He enjoys making a mess of you.

“Perhaps induction can be saved for a later date.” He rumbles, placing a heavy yet gentle hand on the bump of your belly. Ap-tui’s paw his warm against the drum taut skin, and you smile tiredly when he traces a stretchmark with a fingertip. The pup kicks then, and you groan softly as Ap-tui chuffs.

“I enjoy this feature on you far too much to give it up so soon.” Ap-tui clarifies, and you give him an incredulous look. He clicks in laughter, his eyes reflect mischievousness like his hunting brothers, then he shrugs.

“We like seeing you fat with pup, waddling around because you are so heavy.” He chortles as he lies down next to you, propped up on an elbow. Your cheeks warm and with some effort you manage to turn yourself onto your side to face him. You smack at his chest.

“Ap-tui!” You scold, but laughter laces your words, “Seriously?!”

“Of course.” Your mates replies simply, lilting his head and continuing, “Part of our enjoyment comes from watching your belly weigh you and breasts swing.”

You think back to all the times you’ve taken walks with your mates. It was to keep as active as you can so that you don’t lose too much strength from being too sedentary. 

Even before your pregnancy, the Yautja, with their long legs and enhanced speed, easily left you in the dust. They’d often either walk slower or wait for you. Now, with you slowed to a very stereotypical pregnant waddle by the heavy baby in your womb, their intermittent waits became more frequent, and much longer. 

It clicked now when you realize that they put greater distances between them and yourself just to watch your body jiggle with each step. And they’d done it, because they liked seeing you heavily pregnant.

Often, the walks ended in a quick fuck on the forest floor, where your Yautja mates would snarl and growl from above you as they took you like a dog. Their paws never leave your belly. It all makes sense.

And, God, you enjoy it too. 

“Ap-tui...” You start, cheeks hot, meeting his sharp gaze with lustful eyes. Your chest heaves, breasts rising and falling. Ap-tui watches as you purposely move your arms in a way that squishes them together, creating an impressive cleavage line. His purrs drop an octave and his claws dig into the furs below you.

“Fuck me.” You command, rolling onto your back and spreading your legs again.

Ap-tui descends upon you.

You reach 12 months. It’s exhausting, but it’s finally happened. An entire year of pregnancy. It’s surreal.

It feels like your body has reached its limit. Your belly is crowded, full and taut, a large dome of pup and flesh that hangs low. It forces you to hunch slightly, and when you stand or walk you have to support the stretchmark-laden underside with your hand. It often astounds you at how heavy the girth of your middle is, how you feel your pup shift and press against your hands when you rub it.

The same can be said of your breasts. They hadn’t grown too much in the remaining month or so, but they certainly got heavier. Even the “milking sessions” (God, the term makes you feel like a cow) every other day, it did nothing to relieve the ache in your shoulders and back your drooping tits caused.

You promised yourself that once you give birth to this pup, you’re treating yourself and laying on your stomach. It’s been too long, and your back has earned the reward.

Overall, you feel so big and heavy and full that you’re tired all the time and sleep constantly, but in sharp contrast you’ve begun to go through huge nesting stretches. Instinct screams at you to prep for the upcoming arrival, and you get so restless that you’re equal parts exhausted and energetic.

Sometimes, you’re so antsy and fidgety that you arrange then rearrange your pups nest over and over again. Like your mates’ beds, the “crib” is really just a dip in the ground padded by furs and downy feathers. Although the one for your pup is much smaller, only able to hold the newborn that’ll sleep there, curled up. Pups, almost like kittens, will squeeze themselves in tiny spaces for the first year or so until they inevitably co-sleep with their bearer, much like humans do.

It’s hard to get sleep on the days when nesting becomes your main priority— because you just have to make your pup’s space perfect— that your mates have to bribe you to their beds. Usually it involves some level of seduction and a promise of sex (of course, very careful sex by now), but sometimes they’re able to guide you away, forcing you to succumb to your sleepiness.

—

“Come now, little mate.” Th’chi purrs, grabbing you by your forearms. You sigh, forcing yourself to drop the furs in your hands. He’d been trying to pry you away from your pup’s nest for hours now, beckoning you to go to sleep. The luar-ke had risen from the horizon, glowing proudly at the peak of the sky.

“I know, I just...” You try to argue, weakly gesturing at the unfinished, disheveled mess that you’re attempting to make into a nest, “It needs to be perfect, Th’chi.”

You know deep down that you’re being fairly illogical, the nesting drive is hyperbolizing the state of the tiny bed of furs, but it’s hard to remind yourself of that. Your pup needs a nest, it isn’t finished, and you’re becoming upset. Th’chi scents your rising distress and whickers.

“The furs are some of the finest, I should know because I took their beast’s th’syra.” He states, nuzzling your cheek with his mandibles. You make a whining groan in your throat, gesturing at the nest again. Before you can protest with the same excuse he and all your other mates have heard near daily now, Th’chi swoops you up into his arms.

“Th’chi! You bastard! Put me down!” You shout, smacking him on his brawny chest and shoulders as he transports you bridal style to his yurt. He only clicks in amusement, playfully snapping at your hands with his mandibles if they get too close. It has you gasping and laughing, pinching his tresses in retaliation.

He growls when you do, narrowing his bright yellow eyes at you as his pupils eclipse them. You smirk knowingly in his arms, gliding a gentle hand up and down his chest. His quad-heartbeat thrums beneath your palm. You wink. His grip on you tightens possessively.

When Th’chi finally sets you down in his bed, he’s already begun emitting his dia-shui, to which you gladly accept his advances.

It’s a long night.

—

A week later, it wakes you up.

Your abdomen tenses, a tightness that pulls the breath from your lungs and has your eyes snapping open. Any remnant of sleep vanishes from you in an instant. The tight feeling intensifies, turning painful, and you can’t prevent the soft Oh! from escaping you.

Laying beside you, Bhu’kei wakes to your startled gasp. Immediately, his eyes dart to you, how you’ve sat up in bed, how you grip your belly. He can see your abdominal muscles work, your womb distorted as it flexes to expel the pup inside it. The wide-eyed, pained look on your face tells him everything else. Sweat perspires at your brow, already your body is anticipating what’s to come.

“Mate.” Bhu’kei states firm, pulling your attention from the white hot pain to him. You whimper, panting, turning your attention to him. The contraction ceases, receding like the tide. It leaves you tingling and throbbing. You swallow.

“I think it’s time.” You whisper a hoarse reply, and like clockwork or coincidental magic, wetness gushes from your core, soaking your thighs and blanket in warm, semi-clear liquid. Then another contraction thunders through your hips and you yelp.

Bhu’kei roars to alert the others.

—

You shriek into Ap-tui’s chest, sweat rolling down your temples, dripping at your chin. Your wet eyebrows cinch tight together, tears form at the corners of your squeezed-shut eyes. Another brutal, merciless contraction squeezes at your abdomen, your uterus forcing the mass of your pup down— down against your taut cervix.

At the brief interlude of the contraction waning, you manage to gulp in air before another seizes you— Stronger, longer than the last. You wail in crescendo, your lower core ignited; Stabbing flames. You push.

Your cunt bulges, vulva swollen and burning, the crown of your newborn beginning to emerge from your slit. You can feel the squirming mass of your pup slip down. It’s excruciating. His head threatens at the cradle of your sex.

A scream tears at your overexerted throat, tears rolling down your hot face. Bawling, you press your cheek as flush as possible to Ap-tui’s abdomen, like being close to him will give him the strength he possesses. Strength you need, strength that is so so hard to upkeep, and you exhaust yourself, pushing subsiding.

You’d been deadlocked in active labor for six hours now. Contractions had started three before that. It’s become more and more difficult since.

“Keep going.” Faintly, you hear Bhu’kei encourage, and it manages to jumpstart you into the next contraction. Groaning loudly, you heave and push with all your might, the burning of your sex a motivator to get. This. Pup. Out.

Your hands grip Ap-tui’s biceps like there’s no tomorrow, so tight you’re sure you must be splitting his mahogany hide with your nails. If you are, he pays it no heed, only purring and occasionally clicking out a reassurance. He holds you in position— a low squat optimal for delivery, bearing most of your weight for you— and his steady presence is necessary.

A large paw comes to rest on the low of your trembling back, and you recognize it to be Ta’kaa’s. The weight of his heavy palm is centering. You cling to his warmth. 

It’s hardly enough to dispel any of the pain, but he’s so important to you. They all are.

All around you— screaming and squatting on a pile of old furs strewn about the floor, pushing out a bowling ball from your womb— your mates stand in support, chittering and rumbling amongst themselves. Sometimes Van’chaa will pace or Bhu’kei will run a scan or Th’chi will offer you words of encouragement. They are all hyperaware, antsy and restless on their feet. Ap-tui is the only one completely still, he is your rock.

But they’re all there. That in itself is transcendent. 

Yautja males do not linger during the gestation of their pups. Yautja males do not stick around for the births of their pups. Females do not allow them to. They evolve to mate, then move on. Yet here are your mates, aiding you with delivery, having waited the whole time.

They wait and watch their oomani-di win her Chiva.

The pup has dropped lower, his head a firm and foreign object breaching the opening of your core. He’s so large, and it feels like birthing him is splitting you in two. You push with the unforgiving contraction, attempting to make allies with it, and screaming into Ap-tui’s belly. The pup shifts, and its the strangest sensation of your vagina being stretched to the limit and the pup exiting your womb.

“Little sain’ja.”

One of your mates purrs, you’re too focused on the feeling of the head passing your labia to make out who.

“Strong little mate.”

Another one of your Yautja says, and still you’re unable to name who it was because now the pup becomes snagged on it’s shoulders. You freely start bawling harder, shaking. He’s stuck. You can’t push him out. He’s just too big. You’re too weak.

“Go, mate! Push!” 

“I— ugnh— I c-can’t— Oohhh.” You whimper, and you’re so overwhelmed and delirious with pain that you start to wish your mother was here. She’d be able to help you and relieve your pain. She’d know what to do and say with her nimble hands and comforting voice.

A small part of you even wishes Ni’ja were here too. She’d knock some sense into you.

“It hurts.” You choke, and the paw on your back presses down, firm. You focus on it. Ap-tui’s skin is hot and he rumbles with purrs. They’re calming.

“You have passed the head. Only a few more pushes for the body.” It’s Bhu’kei that speaks, you’re lucid enough now to recognize his timbre, and you shake your head. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t...

Another contraction. This time slow and long and rolling through your lower half as steady as a wildfire. With the pain, you push until your thighs quiver— all that you can do. You push until your knuckles go white against Ap-tui’s scales, until you feel the distinct burn of the pup’s shoulders exiting your labia. The white-hot pain has you screaming, choking.

Another push, and you pass the shoulders. Another, the body.

And suddenly— so suddenly— it’s over. 

You look down. Your vision is blurry and your head throbs. 

Between your knees, upon the furs Bhu’kei and Th-chi had laid out for your childbed, lies a tiny Yautja.

—

It’s as if time has simply stopped. All you can focus on is the tiny Yautja you’d birthed.

The robust, masculine cheers of the Yautja males go entirely unheard by you. With heaving breaths and tremendous effort, you let go of Ap-tui and shakily sit back on your bottom. Your core burns, but the squirming pup between your legs, still connected to you by the umbilical cord, causes you to forget the pain completely.

You reach for your pup. You recognize he is male. His skin is hot to the touch and soft. Covered in amniotic fluid and blood, it’s hard to tell but you’re able to see he has the same coloring as his sire: Mahogany. When you lift him, he is heavy and healthy. All you can see, hear, and feel is the wailing newborn pup you’d brought into the world. 

His piercing wails sound almost bird-like, like a metallic-esque twang that warbles in his tiny throat and gummy jaws. Nubs of tuskless mandibles sporadically open and close around his tiny pink mouth. A small tongue sits inside. His eyes are squeezed shut, not to open for at least another few days. Tiny paws search the air, desperate and needing.

He needs you. He wants you. Your pup squirms in your arms, and he is yours. 

It’s like you can’t breathe. The love and adoration you feel suffocates you.

“Hi.” You blubber, your voice choked in your throat. Your pup wails and warbles, his tiny body presses against the soft flesh of your bare chest. His face turns towards your breast, and immediately his tiny mouth begins to make sucking noises. Tears roll profusely down your face. He knows you’re his mother, and he wishes to nurse.

“Let me help you.” Ap-tui stabilizes you into a more comfortable seated position, while Bhu’kei delicately moves you so that he’s able to reach your pup. You nearly protest and pull your pup back flush against your chest, but Ta’kaa rubs his paw in circles on your spine.

“I need to cut the umbilical cord.” Bhu’kei says, and you’re starting to come back to your senses and nod. You meet his eyes and smile, offering Bhu’kei the pup. He takes him in his hands as if you’ve bestowed him something holy, and while the pup wails in distress at being parted from your breast, he doesn’t panic. The cord is cut, and your pup returns swiftly to your arms. 

“He wishes to suckle. He searches for your teat.” Van’chaa rumbles beside you, having crouched down to be closer. He purrs in content and stares at the pup in amazement. Ta’kaa is at his side, one hand still rubbing your back, and looking much the same.

In the cacophony of birthing and celebration, your racing thoughts about how exactly you’d breastfeed your pup comes to mind. As you guide his searching, tiny pink mouth to one of your nipples, you adjust to lift your breast.

Before he had been born, you worried over how you’d be able to feed him with his mandibles in the way, but it seems all those concerns were all for naught. Your pup's jowls spread wide, then press flat against the skin of your breast. His mouth is immensely hot, almost furnace-like. And then, he latches, and your entire world changes.

Your suckling starts feverishly at your left breast, not necessarily tugging at your nipple, but definitely working it. It is the strangest feeling ever. He makes little content noises that sound incredibly human, and it takes everything in you to not burst into tears again, lest you disrupt your nursing pup.

You opt to kiss the sloped crown of his head, and he grunts. You kiss his working jaws, and he grunts once more, a tiny paw pressing against your chin. You kiss him again, and he purrs.

“Look at him.” You murmur, your soft voice almost overshadowed by the loud purring of all your mates. Ap-tui and Bhu’kei begin to clean your body with wet rags, wiping away blood, sweat, tears. They are especially careful of your throbbing sex. The pain is nowhere near as great as it had been during birth, but you can tell you’re going to be feeling it for a while.

You just hope you didn’t tear.

“He’s perfect. He’s perfect.” You recite like a mantra, kissing your pup worshipfully over and over again. In front of you, Ap-tui clicks with pride. He had done well. His seed both worked and the pup meets your satisfaction. There is no possibility of abandonment.

“What should we name him?” You ask, marveling at how much the pup consumes despite just being born. Ni’ja hadn’t been lying when she said that he’d be nursing from the very beginning.

“That is your decision.” Van’chaa rumbles, clicking to Bhu’kei when he notices you grimace in pain. Nursing your son had been distracting you fully from the smaller, lingering contractions that signaled your placenta passing. It hurt like reopening a scab, sharp and brief. With some more reassurances, you barely have to push for the afterbirth to leave you.

—

The pup nurses for another hour before finally drinking his fill and falling asleep at your breast. It takes a few tries to detach his suction from your nipple, but when you finally do, Ap-tui takes the pup in his hands so you can dress yourself. You’d been naked for the entirety of labor and delivery, nearly ten hours, and as much as you adore your net body suit, you seek out your flowy cotton dress.

The feeling of fabric is comforting and reminds you of home, of Earth. The melancholy you feel for your planet doesn’t strike that often, but having just given birth to your Yautja son on an alien planet... Your mind is a bit frazzled.

And so the dress helps. Sleep probably will too. 

You take the pup back from Ap-tui— who’d been crouched and watching like a hawk the little thing sleep, as if he’d suddenly wake and bolt— and place him in his crib of furs and downy feathers. Even though you’re exhausted and only want to pass out (on your stomach), it’s surprisingly hard to place him down and to... leave him.

Ta’kaa has to remind you that your bed is only feet away. The pup sleeps soundly, and five Yautja hunters will protect you both. You hesitantly agree.

Now, in your bed, your mates fighting for space around you, you sigh into the furs beneath you. Your body throbs, not too badly thanks to the medicine Bhu’kei gave you, and the inkiness of sleep creeps at your vision. You lazily look to your pup, who’s only an arm length away from you.

He sleeps curled up into a tight ball, tiny mandible nubs closed and his eyes shut tight (as they will be). His chest rises with soft breaths, and if you really focus you’re able to hear tiny purrs come from him. 

“Well,” You pause to yawn, “I want to give him a Yautja name. Something strong.”

Your mates whicker in happiness. Admittedly, they had been bracing for you to give the pup some weird, too ooman name. Thankfully, you seem to share their fondness of good, normal Yautja names. Which isn’t to say that they think your name is weird or abnormal— Yours is special to them, of course.

They take turns nuzzling you and caressing you with their paws, each one murmuring their thanks. The yurt is alight in soft whickering and purrs.

“Khu’eon.” Ap-tui offers the name when it pops to existence in his mind, dipping his head in reverence to you. Males never get to name the pups they sire, so he knows he’s walking on unknown ground. If he were to encroach so brazenly on a Yautja female’s right, Ap-tui would be slaughtered.

But you are not a Yautja female. You are an oomani-di and his lifemate. He is your male as much as you are his female. He and his brothers and cousins are your equals. When you smile over at him— your eyes exhausted and your face still hot and wet with tears— he knows that you’ve approved this choice as well.

“Khu-eon it is.”

The males erupt into another round of victorious roars and slamming the fists to their chests. A new hunter has been brought into the world, named, and will be trained to be an apex warrior like his sires.

Khu-eon startles awake and begins to wail.