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Not much of him is human anymore.
His humanity is shredded like the blankets beneath them: reduced to rags and tattered ribbons. He has language, but the sounds to which his overwrought body is reduced are more akin to animal grunts than anything that a human would make, too deep and gravely to be misconstrued as a man. All of his differing instincts coalesce and merge into one swelling, bursting desire to rut and fuck and thrust and claim, and he wants to, needs to, let the feeling course through him and drive him faster and harder until his body surrenders to the relief he craves.
Not much of him is human anymore.
His teeth ache, on the precipice of sinking into flesh but not quite, settling on her skin with shaking restraint; a knife hovering over the quivering limbs of a snared rabbit. His claws are a twitch away from puncturing the unblemished stretch of canvas beneath him, pulled taut over the scaffolds of brittle bone and pitiful resistance. The tendons vibrating through his hulking neck and shoulders strum with each helpless noise she lets loose, one small pluck away from snapping altogether. Blood sears through his veins in a pulsing shudder as he watches her eyes send a silent, desperate plea: to stop or finish her off.
Not much of him is human anymore.
He does neither. He hovers in the gray space between killing and mercy, in the pleasure he inflicts without ceasing. A paradox much like himself– neither beast nor man, but something threaded with the worst of both, in the common ground where the two sides of the coin overlap in their vices and sins, instincts amplified and traits blurred into an unrecognizable smear of life in its rawest form. I bring that out in her, too, he thinks as her head falls back and her back arches with a strength so powerful he struggles briefly to maintain his hold on her body.
Not much of him is human anymore.
The taste of her euphoria makes his hind legs quiver from the self-control required to remain still instead of ripping out her entire abdomen for him to grind up and force down his throat. His stomach waits restlessly, hot and empty, torn between wanting to fill and wanting to be filled. His fur is damp with sweat– both hers and his, mixed together in an intoxicating musk that floods his nostrils and rakes its claws against his brain, screaming mine, mine, mine, and it terrifies him that he can’t distinguish if that means mate or prey. Her cries reach his ears and it takes all of his energy not to tear his head away from her, look skyward and howl, guttural and deafening.
Not much of him is human anymore.
Only the love is human when he looks at her; it’s what prevents him from digging his claws into her bones and fucking in as far as he can go. It’s what holds him back from licking up the length of her body– he stays where she wants him– and what keeps his jaws from slamming shut around her skin and muscle and sinew and bone. It’s what keeps him human, what’s been keeping him human, he understands as she clenches hard around his tongue; such a small, frail thing but with enough power to hold back his base instincts. A wrongly placed paw would crush her ribs; a stray claw could effortlessly slit her pale throat. But here she is, baring herself fully to him like an offering, coming for him like it is in her nature.
Not much of him is human anymore.
But when we’re like this, he realizes with a jolt as she looks up at him, dark eyes feral and unrecognizable and small hands on his horns pulling him back inside her–
Not much of her is human anymore, either.