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Soul's Mark

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At night, their home was dark – a small fire burning in the center of the large single room gave the only light, but it was enough for just the two of them. Christopher stirred against his new mate, and then shifted to sit closer as he turned off his tablet and set it aside. “Are you happy?” He asked quietly; “Does this please you?”

Drawn out of his studies, Wikus looked up at him and made a conscious effort to nudge their long legs together before answering; “Of course. It is… confusing, but good.”

Christopher nodded, taking away his mate’s tablet with a determined intent. “It has only been ten days since we arrived… you are still learning our ways.”

“Yes.”

Silent a long moment, Christopher took his time inhaling Wikus’ scent – the strange reminder of Earth fading to be replaced with a dulled but familiar and arousing perfume. “You have no name…” he said curiously, tracing his tentacles over the fresh marks he had carved with his own claws – identifying Wikus as “teacher” and “mated”.

“I have a name.” He said with a chirp of laughter, leaning close.

Christopher turned his head to look him in the eyes, letting their feelers trace against each other to draw out the tender arousal between them. “You have a human name. Poleepkwa cannot say it.” He had learned, passing time in his long journey home before returning to Earth – forcing his throat and tendrils to flex with hissing sounds that formed something almost like “Wikus”.

Considering the thought, Wikus let his claws trace over Christopher’s shell – scraping gently along the dull nerves almost like a caress. “Would you name me?”

He clicked several times; forming the word Wikus recognized as “love” and then added a short growl before doing it again, slightly faster. “That is good.”

Wikus copied the sound, echoing it with Christopher several times before laughing; it was the Poleepkwa word specifically for the once-human Wikus. “It is like ‘love’.” He spoke slowly; saying his own name again right after.

“To me you mean love.”

Warming inside, Wikus nodded against him. “It is a good name.”

Letting the fire die down, they nuzzled against each other in turn – affection, Wikus had learned, was not uncommon between mated prawn as a way of sharing their scents and marking each other. After nearly an hour, Christopher growled tenderly; “Tonight we will bond.”

“Bond?” Wikus asked, hesitating as a tentacle stroked over his exposed maleness. It was unexpected and sent a shiver rattling along his back as small jolts of pleasure teased at him. He was lost, but not without a guide. “You… you mean sexually?”

His tone soothing, almost a purr, Christopher answered; “More than that.”

Growling low in his throat when the touch shifted away, Wikus closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment at the easy arousal. “I don’t understand.”

“Breeding is physical…” he explained, taking Wikus’ wrist once more and turning it out to him before drawing his sharpest claw hard over the more tender section of his armor to make a fine, white line. “Mating is a bond…” He crossed the line twice at an odd angle and then looped them together before letting him go – his personal sigil; “my soul is yours.”

When he opened his eyes again, Wikus stared at the marks – comprehending as best as he could what his mate was saying. It was a promise, possibly deeper than a promise even. Christopher held out his arm to him, turning it with the obvious intent of offering himself. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Your scrawl,” Christopher answered with a guttural churr, “you will mark me.”

Shaking, his own claw not as sharp as Christopher’s, Wikus made a hesitant line on the chitinous skin – following it a second time to deepen it. When his mate chirped encouragingly, he made his second scratch with more conviction, a diagonal line that stopped at the deep vertical before angling back up into an arrow. “Like… like this?”

Christopher nodded as the lines were made deeper and then lifted his arm to point the arrow toward his heart with some amusement. “It is perfect.”

“My…” Wikus breathed deep, lowering his gaze to the almost nonexistent space between them on the floor, “my soul is yours.” He was prepared for the crush of Christopher’s arms around him, but not the overwhelming sensations tugging at him – ripping him apart inside as his mate seemed to hold him together. Soul mates. Was it fate that had brought them together after everything he had done? Was there some cosmic plan to make him the one that the alien MNU named Christopher Johnson had been waiting for? A short round jug was pressed into his hand and he didn’t need the growl of “drink” to open it and consume the remaining half of the syrupy, sweet liquid.

Clicking his new name softly, Christopher pushed up off the floor – lifting the smaller male easily in his strong arms to carry him to their nest. The pod was tight inside, and warmer than it had been before as their heat mingled. Pressed tight behind Wikus when they crawled inside, his embrace loosened to stroke tenderly over his mate’s body and he asked; “Are you frightened?”

“Yes.” He admitted with a nearly silent chirp. He was terrified, but he didn’t want to stop – not when it had already gone so far. He was Poleepkwa now, he was Christopher’s mate. “I am a little now.” He shifted back against him when he felt the unexpected drag of something fleshy and yielding against his opening.

Christopher had bided his time; he had been patient by what Wikus understood of their norm and made sure that he understood what would be expected of him when the time came. “Are you uncertain about this?”

He shuddered slightly, the teasing arousal making him feel dizzy and warm all at once; “Will it hurt?”

Cooing, Christopher squeezed an arm tighter around his mate, “I will be gentle.” The term was relative, of course, but were he to be rough there would be a good chance Wikus would not survive the encounter and that was not acceptable. “You are safe.”

The reassurance calmed him somewhat, but there was nothing that could prepare him for the sensation of the thick organ pushing easily inside his aroused passage. With a shrill growling cry, the small pod took on the sweet scent of the mating ritual – leaving his senses throbbing with each hard push against him.

There were no words, no need for words, only the rhythmic grind and dig of Christopher’s body against him as they coupled long into the night – his seed filling him again and again until the sticky wetness dripped between them and they could no longer push against each other.

“My soul is yours.” Christopher growled in a soft, sleepy tone.

Wikus tried to move, still feeling the pulsing length inside him, only to collapse meekly against his mate. “Yours,” he churred easily; “mine too.”