#alien breeding

"Gods, Vir…" Kenna whined. Her hands, fisted in the bedsheets, clenched again as her lover withdrew his long, thick, forked tongue and ran it slowly up through her inner folds. He'd been feasting on her like this for nearly an hour, "savoring her nectar," as he put it.

The mandibles on either side of his jaw, vestiges of bygone generations of Kithrace, had been a surprise the first time he'd gone down on her. "Some human women find this… unsettling," his rich, low voice rumbled. The smirk on his lips and in his deep indigo eyes issued a challenge and warning at the same time. But she hadn't found them unsettling. Gods damned convenient was what they were. Once he had spread her thighs and then parted her slit with the two large fingers of one hand, the firm, diminutive protrusions framing his jaw comfortably spread her labia, granting him unprecedented access with that marvelously skilled forked tongue of his.

Not only could he hold her pussy open to him as long as he wished, as long as she would allow, but it left his hands free to explore, which was precisely what they were doing. He cupped her breasts with each hand, pinching and pulling her nipples to mimic the way the fork of his tongue was teasing her clit. With each gentle tug, the friction of his tongue and fingers on those most sensitive parts of her had her writhing madly.

Viratas chuckled, the vibration of the sound tickling her oversensitive skin. "Are you ready for more, beloved?" he asked. Gods, just the sight of him as he lifted his head from her nethers was enough to undo her. The first time he had eaten her out, he had made her so wet that her slick had dripped, literally dripped, from one of his mandibles. The shine of it on his pale blue skin, that same wicked smirk and glint in his eyes as he licked his lips and crawled up her body to kiss her was a mental image she went back to again and again when she was missing him in that way.

Kenna struggled up onto her elbows to see him better. She would never tell Viratas this, but a break from his tongue, just long enough for him to settle his massive frame above her, was exactly what she needed. A gentle relaxation of the tension he'd been steadily building, and building and building, just for a moment, so that she could fall into him and with him completely was what she needed. She nodded, and he shook his head, tsk-tsking at her.

"You know our rule, beloved. Let me hear you say it."

"You've been sucking my soul out through my pussy for the better part of an hour," Kenna complained. "Don't you think it's a little late for verbal consent?"

Vir sighed, resting his chin on her pubic bone. "Anything less than enthusiastic, verbal consent…"

"…is a no," Kenna grumbled. "Fine, yes. Please. Viratas Dori'maan, please, with sugar on top, would you please please fuck me until I can't remember my own name?"

"I was hoping for something a little more romantic." Vir's grin broadened as he rose to his knees to leave wet, sticky kisses in a trail up along the ridge of her pelvis and over her stomach. His weight settled easily against her, heavy and comforting, as he bracketed her shoulders with his elbows. One large hand cupped the top of her skull as he stroked a sweat-damp lock of her blond hair back off her forehead with his thumb. "Li'raahn," he murmured. Kenna didn't know much of his language, just enough to get by, and it was mostly professional language and context. But she did know this word. He'd whispered it into her ear hundreds of times. He had cried it out amid a string of unknown profanities as he reached his orgasm, and kissed it against her forehead as she fell asleep in his arms. It was the Kith word for "love."

He took his time, kissing softly against her temple, suckling the lobe of her ear, nuzzling against her jaw. All the while, his hips shifted slowly against hers, letting her get used to the feel of their weight and pressure, to the length of his cock slotting neatly between the folds of her sopping wet sex.

Kenna couldn't hold back much longer. She linked her fingers behind his neck, over the hard carapace that ran like plated armor from the top of his forehead down to the small of his back. Her legs wrapped around his hips as she rocked with him, trying to coax the head of his cock lower, to let it notch into her opening and pry her open for him with a stretch that she welcomed and craved.

WhenVir's lips finally found hers, Kenna met them with a searing, sloppy kiss. As she plunged her tongue into his mouth, tasting the sweet-salty bite of her cyprine fluid on his lips, she thrust her hips upward, forcing the flared head of his cock past the ringed muscle of her entrance. Their twin groans of pleasure harmonized, his providing the baritone to her alto. He liked to be still when he first entered her. Vir liked letting her stretch around him - liked feeling the whisper-soft flutterings of her vaginal muscles as they relaxed to accept his girth with the glacial slowness with which he filled her until the head of his penis pressed against her cervix and she could take no more of him.

But Kenna wanted none of that soft, respectful lovemaking. He chuckled darkly against her neck as she writhed under him, thrusting her hips up, all but shoving him deeper into her body. "It seems I am my own worst enemy," he grunted between burning kisses. "Have I worked my little love into such a lather that she can't wait for me?"

"You had your chance to be slow and soft, Star Man," Kenna growled as she took the skin just below his jaw between her teeth and bit. He groaned his appreciation, his hips thrusting down hard against hers. The force of his full length driving deep into her punched her breath out in a lewd gasp, silencing any further snark. Pain flared, sizzling through her brain for just a second until it melted into the delicious sensation of fullness taking his cock brought. He kept his weight on her for a few more seconds, stilling her hips until he couldn't stand the lack of friction any longer.

Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the ridged shell over his shoulders when he withdrew nearly half his length before pushing back into her. The high, keening whine she made had been concerning at first, when he was still learning all the sounds of pleasure she made. Now, many months and many sessions later, he strove to pull that sound in particular from her long, slender throat. She made that sound when he hit exactly the right spots within her to have her body flexing and clenching wildly, chasing her release. Another withdrawal, another deep thrust, and the tension in his own abdomen had coiled tightly enough that he couldn't stop himself from rutting deep into her every time her hips rose to meet his.

"Kenna, Kenna, please.." he muttered against her lips, chasing them with his to kiss her again and again. Kenna nodded, her forehead resting against his. "Yes, yes, gods… I'm close, so close," she babbled. He liked watching her come, liked the desperation he saw when she kept eye contact with him while her body overrode that sharp, ever-busy brain of hers. Seeing her lose herself to pleasure he had caused never failed to bring his own release on. But he knew he couldn't let it happen this time.

Vir's thoughts waded through the lust-drenched swamp of his brain until he found the words. He stilled his thrusting, pinning her with his hips and pulling a frustrated little whine from her. "Will you do it, Kenna?" he asked. Kenna blinked, vainly searching her own memory for some clue as to what he wanted. "Will you be mother to my brood?"

It was as if he had thrown a bucket of cold water on her.

Vir had asked her the last time they had sex, and truthfully, she wasn't sure he was serious about it. When he growled out, "I long to see your belly rounded and full of my growing young," she thought it was the hot, dirty nonsense people sometimes said during sex. It had been hot. So hot that she had begged him to fill her as her moans shattered into a guttural scream and her vision went blank for those few, blissful seconds of orgasm.

"N-now? You're seriously asking me this now?" she panted, already knowing from the earnestness she saw in those dark eyes that he was indeed asking her to fundamentally change her life with his cock rooted deep in her cunt. But was it so awful? Had she not found herself considering it, fondly even, when she spotted one of the Kith children onboard in the mess or when she passed the other human/kithrace couple in one of the passageways?

"It's now, or two years from now when my cycle returns." His voice grew softer, quieter with each word. It wasn't fair. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew he should have swallowed his embarrassment and spoken to her when they were both sober and clear-headed. He was half-resigned to her rejection, already planning on finishing her, and then excusing himself to the w.c. to take care of his own needs and watch another clutch of his eggs, unfertilized, swirl down the toilet.

"Yes," she said, and he almost didn't hear her over the sound of his shame and regret. Kenna's hands slithered up to cup his cheeks and guide his eyes back to hers. "Yes, I will," she said and pulled his face back down to hers so she could kiss him slow and sweet.

"But I…" he began before she ran the tips of her fingers along the soft verge where the hard keratin plate on his head met the soft skin of his forehead, and she shushed him. His eyes closed as he tilted his head into her touch, humming.

"I love you, li'rhaan," she whispered against his lips, tightening her thighs around his hips again. If his faintly insectile face could look dopey, it certainly did as his grin spread across his lips. "I want this," she went on, her soft kisses growing hotter again as they landed on his cheeks, along his jaw, just at the sensitive base of the fold of skin that protected the opening of his ear. "I want you to give me our young."

The throaty noise that left him came from deep within his seldom-used secondary lungs, another relic of a time before his species had interbred with humans, when the wings that usually hid beneath the hard-shelled carapace on his back would have been iridescent and large enough for flight. Those wings fluttered free now, buzzing softly with excitement as he slowly began rebuilding the firm, deep thrusting rhythm he'd interrupted. Kenna purred beneath him, her legs eagerly clamping around his hips again as her libido, momentarily shocked into silence, leaped back, stronger than before.

"You will be the most beautiful mother," he growled, making the soft, little thrusts he knew made her claw at his back and say the most profoundly filthy things he'd ever heard a woman, human or kith, say. The pressure in his lower abdomen shifted slightly as he felt the first of his eggs descending into his cock, and he pushed deeper, letting the firm, round egg within him massage her channel while he aligned himself with the opening of her cervix. Another firm push, and she gave a sharp cry, her arms and legs shaking around him, tears springing to the corners of her eyes.

"It's all right, it's OK," he soothed, stroking her hair. The precum he secreted would dull the pain and soften her opening soon, but it couldn't banish the look of anguish on her face soon enough. At last, her breathing slowed from the rapid irregularity of pain back into the heavy, almost languid pace of pleasure.

"How am I doing, boss?" she asked, her eyes dreamy. Her hips wanted to move, to keep up the friction against those sensitive spots within her.

"You're doing so well for me," he cooed, brushing his thumb affectionately along her lips. "But I need you to stay still for me. Can you do that?" Her eyes clouded into a pout that made it hard for him not to chuckle at. "Don't worry," he said, replacing his thumb with a soft kiss. "You'll have enough stimulation. I promise."

As soon as he finished speaking, the first of the eggs made its way into his channel, pulling a surprised yip from Kenna as she felt it sliding down through him. The egg was probably about two to three inches in circumference, enough to put a delightful pressure on her most sensitive spots as it passed on to press against her cervix with an oddly pleasurable stretch until it passed through into her womb. This was a feeling that was wholly unique, that had her moaning deeply and her toes curling as the next egg pressed into her. Again and again, each egg that pushed into her womb had her whimpering, her orgasm so close, and yet, she was still unable to tip over the edge.

Vir pulled back onto his knees, his eyes roaming over her sweaty body to settle on the now softly rounded mound of her lower abdomen. He stroked his hands down from her breasts to her stomach, pressing gently over where he still nestled inside her. Stars flared behind her eyelids at the pressure, the elation of being so full, so close to release. He seemed to realize it too, as he twisted his hand around so his thumb could slip between the flushed, puffy lips of her cunt to brush roughly against the hard bud of her clit while he resumed pumping his cock into her. It took only a few strokes to have her screaming his name as her hips stuttered and she shook all over. His own release soon followed, forcing him to collapse back on top of her to seed her full and fertile womb.

When he disengaged from her at last, Vir settled behind her, making that soft, purr-like sound against her neck that he always made when they were both sated and wallowing in the afterglow. She liked nestling under his chin, feeling small and safe in his arms as he held her. This time, instead of cupping around her breast or tucking under her ribcage, as one of his hands usually did, it curled lightly over the new swell of her belly, stroking comforting nonsense patterns into the firm flesh beneath his palm as she drifted off to sleep.

---

Steve grunts. He’s sitting slumped back against the cushions, looking almost as tired as the girl. “Look, I love you and everything, but are we sure we’re ready for this?” He looks pointedly at the female as if to say, And enjoy more of this bliss? “There’s always adoption.”

Bucky snickers and goes to set the containers of food on the kitchen counter. “That’d cost more than three breeding slaves.” 

Steve blows air out between his teeth in unhappy agreement. “Right. I guess that’d kind of defeat the whole point.”

“‘Patriots Populate’,” Bucky quips, making air quotes around the tired Federation slogan. “Don’t worry. Children aren’t hard to raise, just to make.”

“She was so angry,” Steve worries out loud. “How do we know there isn’t something wrong with her?” 

Bucky leaves the question unanswered and comes over to sit on the opposite couch facing Steve and their newly-acquired terran. “She’ll calm down,” he decides. “They always do.” Steve purses his lips and continues to look the girl over critically. Bucky can see the distaste he has for her tattoos, so he decides to quash that before it even gets going. “Lasers,” he drawls. 

“An extra expense.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, because he’s the one who’s always a stickler for profit margins, not Steve. He can tell when his husband is angling for something, and he refuses to take the bait. “Half this system is primitive,” he says. “Any female we’d get out here would likely have them. It’s an easy fix, babe. Just be glad there aren't any on her face. You should see some of the ones down in cargo pop."

“She doesn’t even speak our language.”

“That’s what they chip ‘em for.” He stretches sideways to reach for the domicile’s datapad, navigating on screen. “Here. You want a standard Federation accent? or ‘exotic lilt’?” Steve glares at him, and Bucky shrugs and taps the screen. “‘Exotic lilt’ it is.” He glances at the girl’s slack neck to check that her implant’s receiving properly. The little blue light shows faintly through her skin, indicating that it is. “There,” he says, tossing the datapad aside. “She’ll have it down pat by the end of the day, I bet.” 

Steve scoffs. “Great. She can curse at us in a language we actually understand.” 

“Well what would you suggest, a gag?” Bucky snaps, losing some of his patience. “I don’t think they’ve worked out how to erase a native language yet, unfortunately, so unless you want to have her tongue removed … ?” Steve shoots him another reproachful look, and Bucky stops being gross (they’re slavers, but they’re not those kinds of slavers). “She’ll be fine,” he insists. “Can’t expect miracles on the first day.” 

Steve hesitates. “Look ... Maybe we should reconsider. Get someone once we’re back.”

Bucky groans and shuts his eyes. “Steve, no.”

“A centralized system would at least have—”

“Humongous fees and inner rim taxes that we can’t afford!” he snaps, not interested in having this discussion again. He gestures down at the unconscious girl on the floor. “Bruce did a full genetic mapping. A high compatibility breeder—that’s what you said you cared about, and Bruce says they’ve got the highest genetic match he’s seen in years.”

“Right!” Steve argues. “So we’ll be making great profit on this haul. Enough to afford—”

“Steve!” Bucky leans forward, pissed. He jabs his finger at his husband. “You may have forever to do this, but I don’t. My eggs are on a fucking timetable.”

“I know that,”

“I’m not letting your anxiety issues fuck up the plan again,” he says tersely. “Now I agreed that the eighteen months to get out here would be worth it for what we’d save in costs, but we’ve got half a year left on this haul, and then it’s the same eighteen months back to Federation territory. And I’m not getting any fucking younger. How many more times do you think I’m even gonna go into season?!” He regrets being sharp as soon as he sees how pinched and sad Steve’s face gets in response.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes, looking down. “I … I know. You’re right.” 

Bucky sighs. If he’s being honest, part of his anger is really with himself. He’s the one who decided to focus on his military career for so many years, after all. He’s the one who wasted his youth taking marching orders on little more than dewy-eyed idealism, buying into all the bullshit, all the Federation’s propaganda of speciestic pride and civic duty, honor and glory. And where had that gotten him? What has it gotten him? Not what he’d thought. Or to be fair, maybe he never even really did think that far. Fervor will do that to a fool. Two decades spent traveling from one edge of the galaxy to the next, racking up rank and reputation with the IDF, and now come to find out it doesn’t even really mean much. Not in the grand scheme of things, anyway.

Having his mate, building a home and a life, starting a family line that he can cultivate and be proud of, a legacy that he can watch prosper into something bigger than himself, something better than what he had, and all while he grows old with the man he loves. That’s what really matters. What good is a life spent seeking prosperity if you have no one to pass it on to? 

These past few years, he and Steve have put all their energies into this venture with the Guild; buying the Scythe and bagging ten-million-credit contracts, embracing the entrepreneurial spirit, entertaining that universal boyhood fantasy of playing explorer and making big things go ‘vroom’ in space. They’d long ago agreed to put off starting a family so that they could have those types of adventures, go out on that limb, live that dream. Always forging ahead with the same, ignorant notion maintained: that they have all the time in the world to settle down.

Seven solars ago it had felt that way. But Bucky’s almost forty now, and finding a young, compatible female to be their carrier isn’t the only concern anymore. As the egg-bearing parent of their breeding pair, Bucky’s got an expiration date that Steve simply doesn’t. And sometimes he gets frustrated because it seems like Steve conveniently forgets that. “Sorry I snapped,” he mumbles anyway, rubbing his face tiredly. “I shouldn’t have.”

“... So, Banner said it’ll definitely be today?” Steve checks, his way of making peace.

“Next thirty-six hours was what he said this morning.”

“But how long do you feel like it’ll be?”

“Less than eight,” Bucky admits, dragging his hands all the way down his face. “Probably tonight, if the way my balls feel is any indication.” Steve chuckles and makes a dirty remark about them not needing to wait for the terran to wake up, to start having fun with each other, but Bucky waves him off, because he really does feel close, and he doesn’t want to waste his surely-dwindling egg supply on a fucking blowjob. 

That’s another big reason why he doesn’t want to scrap the terran girl and start over. He’s in season for the first time in over ten months, and he’ll be ovulating very soon. If he and Steve return the slave, if they don’t grab their window this time, well … Bucky will officially have to wait until he is forty-two solars old and back in the inner rim to even attempt to become a father again (assuming that he could even afford to acquire an inner rim slave in the first place, which is doubtful). Even if it wasn’t, there’s still the matter of time. It just seems silly and wasteful to let this chance pass them by when they already have a highly genetically compatible breeder, bought and paid for, right here to serve as their carrier. 

Steve inhales deeply and sends Bucky a soft look. “Hey,” he says. “I love you.”

Bucky smiles back. “Love you too.” 

They both look down at the slumped form of the female. “At least she’s pretty?” Steve says, and Bucky hums in agreement. He’d been the one to pick her out, while Steve was away dealing with cargo transfer and playing diplomat with the locals. He’d given Steve’s physical preferences more weight than his own, though Bucky thinks their female is attractive, too. There are no obvious morphological differences between their two species that he can see, at least not beyond the superficial.

He lets his gaze drag over her assessingly. She’s naked, save for the temporary shift garment that they give all the slaves so that they don’t have to go around butt ass naked during transport day. It’s sleeveless and covers her from shoulder to shin, but it’s still easy to assess most of her body through the thin, biodegradable fabric. Sometimes there will be minor physical differences in the populations that they trade in, especially out here on the outer rim. But so far Bucky’s seen hundreds of these people, and the only trait of note that he can pick out is the greater variance in coloring. Unlike Steve and Bucky’s people, these terrans range from very pale, to very dark skinned. They have many more shades of hair, and some of them even have red hair! The one Bucky’s picked out has a variant of it, her mid length hair bearing a rich, auburn shade that reminds him of the peeling ironwoods in fall, back home.

“Didn’t think they’d be so small,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, me neither. Makes sense though, with the higher gravity and all.” Bucky thinks he can remember their own females being a bit larger than this one, on average. Though it’s been a long time since he’s seen one. “Do you remember your Oma?” he asks Steve.

“Not really. I was three.” 

Bucky hums sadly. He’d been seven. “I think they were bigger.”

“Well, Banner swears she’ll be a great fit.” 

Bucky snorts at the double entendre, and after a moment of being a prude, Steve laughs too. “That’s what the drugs were supposed to be for,” Bucky says, still peering at her as he waits to see if she’ll stir anytime soon. He’s starting to get a little anxious over how long she’s been unconscious. “How long’s it been since she conked out?” Her breathing seems normal …

“Not long. Maybe three, four minutes before you got back with the food?” 

He frowns when he estimates that he’s been back in their quarters for an additional three or four minutes now. He thinks about calling down to ask if everything is going okay with cargo pop. “The fuck dosage did Banner work up?” he grunts. With the genetic profiles so isolated out in these more primitive systems, they’ve had to reformulate the cocktail for virtually every new population they harvest from. But even still, it’s usually just a matter of very minor adjustments for body mass. The female currently drooling onto their couch cushion isn’t that much smaller than those of the last haul, but …

“Did he say how long they gestate for?” Steve wonders.

“Nine months,” Bucky says, and Steve guffaws.

“Jeez. They’re like rabbits!”

Bucky snickers and agrees. “She might go to twelve or thirteen with one of ours.” It isn’t uncommon. Other than immune rejection, the only significant worry with using alien carriers is if the female’s womb can stretch enough to accommodate their young. Even with drugs to facilitate the process, Bucky knows how lucky it is that their kind is able to breed so flexibly. The genetic profiles have to be similar of course, and the process only works with gestational carriers. Something about the cross-species gametes is incompatible. Fertilization never works out. But for carriers, outsourcing works just fine. 

All of a sudden, the girl on the floor stirs a little, which eases Bucky’s concerns about a possible overdose. Steve makes a surprised noise and then looks excitedly at Bucky. “She moved!”

“Yeah.” Bucky relaxes further back on the couch as both he and Steve continue to watch her. She scrunches her face sleepily, still not awake yet. It’s kind of cute. She opens her mouth wide and gulps in air, making a weird noise. Bucky raises an eyebrow and Steve looks alarmed.

“What is that? What’s she doing?” 

“I dunno.” 

She doesn’t wake up after doing the gulping thing. She merely sighs. A moment later she does it once more, and Steve whines worriedly. “We should call Banner.” 

Bucky refrains from rolling his eyes. “She’s breathing fine, babe.” 

“How do you know?” Steve argues. “She’s gasping for air. That can't be ... that can’t be good.”

“She’s not gasping, she’s gulping.” 

“Call Banner.”

Bucky’s already pulling the datapad back over and pointing it at the female to take a short video of the gulping the next time it happens. It’s like a big, long gulp, followed by a harsh, fast sigh. “Take a chill pill, hon,” he drawls, tapping the screen for an analysis of the footage. He reads the information that the AI generates, and reports out loud to his still worried mate: “It’s called yawn. It’s normal. Not a sign of illness or injury.” 

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what it says. Says here that it can indicate fatigue.” He scrolls down farther, reading the information that’s come up on their terran. “‘Yawn’, he murmurs, testing out the word. “She’s doing a yawn. It’s normal for the species.”

“Which is?”

He scrolls back over the analysis, skimming for taxonomy. He’s aware that the planet is called Earth, but he isn’t sure what the terrans themselves are called. (Earthians? Earthers? Earthlings?) “Here.” He says when finds it. “Hu-man.”

“Oh.” They both look down at their slumped female, thinking the same thing at the same time. “Hu-woman?” Steve guesses.

“I don’t think so.”

“Hew-MEN,” Steve pronounces.

“HEW-men,” Bucky corrects, then second guesses himself and tries it out a couple different ways under his breath (“Hew … hoo … hew-men. Hew-min … ) “HEW-men,” he decides. “It’s definitely HEW-men.”

“Hu-man,” Steve says, pronouncing it the way that Bucky’s settled on, and Bucky nods in agreement. “Human.”

“Terran,” Bucky mutters.

In all honesty, these people aren’t too dissimilar from the last population they sourced, except for that these ones really are “terrans” in the true sense of the word, having been completely planet-bound up until their system’s colonization just a few generations prior. Theirs is presently a pre-digital society, due to some sort of energy weapons disaster that took place over a hundred solars ago—Or at least, that’s what Bucky’s cultural liaison had told him when she’d handed over a strange mask for him to wear. They were cumbersome, but purportedly mandatory for survival at the planet's ground level.

(“A disaster of our own making, I’m afraid. Happened back in my great grandparents’ generation. All major cities went black, industries down for decades, soil contaminated four inches deep. It essentially threw us back into an early industrial age—for civilians, leastways. Not like here on base. We’ve made good progress with farmland and infrastructure, but there’s still a long way to go.”)

That’d been yesterday, Bucky and his crew making all of the requisite diplomatic stops at the first and then second docking stations. Their guide, herself an expat of the planet, had explained the history and conditions on the ground: how over ninety percent of humans now live primitively, and never travel off-world in their lifetime.

Maybe that’s why their new female threw such a tantrum, Bucky thinks. In his experience, fear is the biggest driver of anger. Fear of the unknown. The language download should help greatly with that. Or at least he dearly hopes so. The girl had been so destructive before, and with a ship that always seems to be managing to fall apart in seven different ways, Bucky doesn’t take kindly to having any of his personal shit unnecessarily broken. He regards her where she’s sitting slumped on the floor at Steve’s feet, body leaning against the couch and her head lolled on the cushion next to Steve’s knee. “I’m gonna call the doc,” Bucky decides. “Just to be safe.” If nothing else, he needs to know if this is happening to the entirety of cargo pop.

Steve moves his knee to gently nudge her. Her face twitches again, but other than that she doesn’t stir. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Bucky uses the datapad to call his chief medical officer. Once he has Banner on holoprojection, he indicates their human and explains her reaction to the drugs. “She's been out for almost ten minutes. But like I said, she’s twitching now, so …”

Through the display, Banner scratches his head. “Yeah. We were seeing the same thing down here. I thought maybe the gauge was off and we’d just over-gassed them. But if it’s happening via injection too, then it’s an overall dosage miscalculation. I’ll fiddle with it.” He apologizes sheepishly and reassures them that their newly-acquired female should be back to normal soon. 

Steve asks if they’ll be able to breed her that day. “Should we wait?” he worries, nudging her lolling head with his knee again. “I mean … are the drugs still doing what they’re supposed to?”

“Once she regains consciousness the prep should still have taken effect,” Banner advises. “Just make sure she’s physically receptive. It’ll be easy to tell. Their females have similar arousal responses as ours do … Erm, did. It’s mostly the males that differ.”

“Differ how?” Bucky asks, then sits there with increasingly rising eyebrows as Banner tells him that human males have no designations: no eggs, no barbs, not even knots.

“Wait, what?” Steve squints. “But if they don’t have designations … I mean … Then what even are they?”

“Human males are sperm-bearing only. They fertilize the eggs.”

“But you just said they don’t have eggs,” Bucky re-checks, confused when Banner affirms it. “So they’re all alpha?”

“Well they don’t call themselves that, but essentially, yes.” Banner nods. “Sperm-bearing.”

“Then how the fuck do they reproduce without omegas?” Bucky wants to know.

“They have two party reproduction. The females are egg-bearing, and they carry the pregnancy. They do both.” 

On the other couch, Steve makes a fascinated sound. “Weird!” He and Bucky spend another moment wrapping their heads around that notion. “But … it won’t hurt her, right?” Steve checks again.  Bucky rolls his eyes but says nothing. 

“No. Everything’s formulated to enhance the arousal response— minimize strain, optimize the womb for implantation, and loosen the pelvic structure,” Banner promises. “Their females really are very well suited to it. I was just telling Barnes the other day. It’s the highest interspecies compatibility I’ve seen in quite some time.” 

“Hence why we just bought five thousand units,” Bucky says pointedly, looking at Steve. “You see? She’ll be fine.”

Outside of the holofield on Banner’s end, someone in the room calls out. Banner speaks with the person off screen, then announces to Steve and Bucky that he has to go. “Call me if you have any problems,” he says distractedly, then the holo cuts out.

That’s when the girl begins to blink her eyes open. Bucky can’t help but tense up a little bit, anticipating another tantrum like before. But he relaxes as a minute passes, and then two, and she becomes fully awake and doesn’t start yelling. She lifts her head, sits up straight, and does another one of the gulps—the “yawns,” this one much more intense than before. She looks around the room and pouts once she sees Steve and Bucky sitting there watching her attentively, but at least she remains calm.

Bucky’s shoulders untense. Thank the Makers. “Welcome back,” he says, making sure to speak slowly and clearly. “The medicine we gave you made you fall asleep for a few minutes. But the doctor says you’ll be fine.”

Her eyes go wide as she realizes that she can understand what he’s saying. Bucky smirks and waits to let her process that, before he figures that he should also let her know, “You learned it while you were sleeping. It’s called Federalese.” Again, she frowns, clearly not understanding how that’s possible. She even looks a little disturbed. Given what he knows about her primitive culture, Bucky isn’t entirely sure that terms like “download” or “nano-neural” will help explain it any better. So instead he tells her, “It might feel difficult or awkward for a day or so, but the more you hear it and use it, the easier it’ll come.”

“H-how?” she says, and Bucky thinks: Aw, her first word. (Hey, at least it’s not a swearword. Small blessings.) “How … how, is, this … poss-ible?” she stammers.

“We have a lot of technology that you won’t ever have seen before,” Bucky explains. “But Steve and I will teach you.” The female whips her head to look at Steve, realizes how close she is to him, and scoots her butt away on the floor by a few inches. It’s cute.

Steve offers her a smile and a little wave. “Hey. I’m Steve.” (They’ve already done introductions, but she’d been deep in histrionics at the time, so. Probably worth repeating.)

“And I’m Bucky. We met at the Mile High. You remember that?” Bucky isn’t entirely sure that she will. He’d been present when they woke her up, but she’d been awfully disoriented at the time—not atypical when being decanted after any length of time spent in suspended animation. Frankly, if Bucky had been sourcing from anywhere other than the Mile High, he would’ve found their use of stasis pods to be suspect, and would have worried about legitimacy of sale. It’s prohibitively expensive to keep slaves in suspension, the only real reason to do so typically being illegal poaching; keep the product quiet until a sale’s been made and the buyer’s well off world. But the Mile High Club is nothing if not a reputable dealer, well known for their quality product and pristine business practices. The club’s managing Collector, a Mr. Taneleer Tivan, had happily given a VIP tour of the pods, showcasing both the quality of his stock and the high standards of the operation itself. He’d been quick to supply all appropriate documents as well, handing over proof of sale, consent to enthrallment, and the pertinent federal and local registration codes as soon as they were requested.

When the female sitting in front of them gives no indication that she remembers their initial meeting, Bucky changes tack. “The freighter that came in yesterday? That was us.” He pats the seat of the couch he's sitting on and gestures around the room. “This is her. The Andromeda Scythe.” 

The girl narrows her eyes at the mention of the Scythe. Bucky’s aware that most terrans have no love lost for off-worlders. Life on planets like this one isn't very nice to begin with, and then on top of that, relations with colonial authorities can tend to be rather … tense. Understandable, given that in the outer rim especially there are typically only a few outposts per planet, stations which serve as the only real point of contact between the natives and the rest of the galaxy. It’s very possible that this female only sees two or three transports passing through a year—and that’s assuming that she even lives within view of an orbital docking path. Planetary outposts like those on Earth are managed by either skeleton crews of low-level Federation grunts who fucked up badly enough to be demoted all the way to the outer fucking rim, or by ex-mercs who have nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of primitives on their ruined planets, overseeing order on the ground and liaising with whatever freighters pass through for trade. There are usually only between six and a dozen docking stations per outer rim planet. Earth has only two, which says a lot about how badly its natives fucked it up a hundred solars ago. 

“We’re not with the military,” Bucky tells her, figuring that this might ease her opinion of him (and of Steve, though Steve’s obnoxiously gifted at getting new people to like him). Bucky shakes his head back and forth pointedly. “Steve and me? We’re not IDF.”

The female does at least seem to consider this as a positive thing, as her scowl doesn’t get any worse. “Not … Federation?” she asks, still learning how to move her tongue around the unfamiliar words.

“That’s right. Not Federation.” He thumbs over at Steve, then at himself. “We’re completely independent, free merchants with the guild. You know: the FTG?” (No need to tell her about their respective six and seventeen year careers with the IDF.) He points over at the garish sticker that Steve had happily slapped on the domicile’s wall, right after they’d first bought the Scythe, its three big letters declaring them independent of the Federation’s commerce authority. “You understand?” he says, when she doesn’t respond. “We’re tra-ders. Mer-chants.” 

She presses her lips together and gives a curt little nod. “Yes. I understand.” 

“Okay. Good.” From the opposing couch, Steve shoots Bucky a ‘be nice’ look. Bucky shoots him back a ‘what? I am being nice’ look.

Meanwhile, the female has begun looking around the domicile more completely, turning her head this way and that, ostensibly curious, though she curls her lip in a way that Bucky reads as disdain. Eventually, after a long moment of both Bucky and Steve anxiously waiting for her to say something, she sniffs and asks, “We’re on your spaceship?” 

Bucky tries hard not to smirk or laugh at her. 'Spaceship'. Terrans’ language for things they don’t understand can tend to be amusing, is all. “Yes," he says. “Our ship. The Andromeda Scythe.”

She spends another moment thinking. “And … where-are-we going?” she asks, stringing her words together a little faster now, Bucky’s pleased to note.

“On to the next system,” he tells her. “Right now we’re still docked in the lower troposphere.” 

“On Earth?” She snaps to attention. “You mean we haven’t left yet?” 

The way her face is brightening isn’t a good sign, so Bucky points at her sternly, ready to put a stop to any idea she might have about making some sort of ridiculous escape attempt. “Hey,” he warns, “I paid good money for you, and I’ve got all the documents that say I did. You’re chipped, you’re here, and that’s that.” He softens some at her pout, but still insists, “No more tantrums like before, acting like we just scooped you up outta the forest while you were frolicking and picking berries, or whatever it is you terrans do.”

“Terrans ...” she repeats, frowning as she processes the word. She returns to glaring at Bucky, reminding him that she’ll have downloaded close to the full catalog of their language by now—including the less than flattering meanings that some words can hold. “That’s a slur,” she says.

Bucky scowls. “It’s not a slur. It’s a—” he hesitates when he sees Steve giving him another look. “Okay, fine,” he concedes. “It can be a pejorative I guess. It can be. Doesn’t mean that it always is. And I didn’t mean it that way.”—Except for that he kind of did, the main implication of “terran” being that a person is somehow uncivilized, unlearned, or backwards. Primitive at best, simpleminded at worst. (Bucky resolves to try and stop using it from now on.) He grunts and pushes up from the couch. “Well, I’m hungry. You hungry?” He goes into the domicile’s kitchen to heat up the food he’d grabbed in the canteen. He’s still half hard (like he has been all day), and his nuts feel like they’ve gone three rounds in a boxing match at this point. The fact that he’s not currently balls-deep in something hot, wet and tight is making him grumpy. He returns with the food and hands the female a container, and Steve another, returning to the opposing couch to open the third one for himself. 

The female stays seated on the floor, using the coffee table as a dining surface. She opens the lid of her container and peers at the food inside dubiously, giving it a thorough sniff test and poking at it a few times with the utensil. Eventually she deigns to take a cautious bite, and whatever she makes of it, it must exceed her expectations. Either that, or she’s just very hungry, because she digs right in after that first taste. Bucky and Steve share a look that’s equal parts relief and amusement, and the three of them eat in what Bucky chooses to interpret as companionable silence.

He does notice the female glancing curiously around the room a couple of times (and at him and Steve, when she thinks they aren’t looking). She’s much more relaxed than she was before she passed out, and Bucky's got to imagine that Banner’s drug cocktail has more than a little to do with that. The prep is meant to help things along in that way, after all, relaxing and arousing the female’s body so that it can accommodate the sexual process, be successfully impregnated. No longer is their newly-acquired breeder raging around the domicile like a lunatic. She’s calm, and exhibiting a few signs of arousal that Bucky recognizes from having seen the drugs at work before. Her skin is flushed all along the base of her neck and her collarbones. Her nipples poke against the cheap material of her garment, pebbled into little peaks, and she seems to be squirming uncomfortably from time to time. In a very distinct manner. 

Good, Bucky thinks. They need to get this show on the road.

Bucky throws the trash from their meal away and leaves to check in with the ship’s crew before turning in for the evening. He heads down to the cargo bay to make sure the new stock is settling in without issue. Usually, the Scythe carries an even split of male and female down in the bay, as laborers are almost as marketable as carriers, but this haul is heavy on females due to the high breeding compatibility of their two species. Morita and Jones still have a ton of them sequestered over to one side for parasite decon, but other than that, everything looks to be in good shape. 

Next, he heads to the med bay for a brief discussion with Banner on all the procedures they’ll need to do over the course of the following months, in order to optimize this new haul’s market value. Chipping and language downloads are priority one, of course, followed by grooming, and then dental. Bruce breaks the bad news that Bucky already knew was coming, and tells him that precisely eighty-one percent of the slaves have prominent tattoos that’ll need removing. Apparently it’s a big part of the humans’ culture, which is why such an unusually large proportion of the females are marked. Bucky gripes over all the synth tissue they’re going to have to burn through (that shit’s expensive), but he knows it’s necessary to get the slaves up to industry standard. They only have one regeneration cradle on-board, so they’ll need to get started right away. If they’re lucky, they’ll have it all done by the time they’re back in the Andromeda system. 

“Just do the prettiest ones first, I guess,” he tells Bruce. That way if they run out of synth tissue, they’ll at least have optimized the best units for sale. True to form, Bruce wants to know “what metric” he’s supposed to use to determine which of the females are prettiest. Bucky rolls his eyes and tells him that Monty and Jones know the metric. “Gods, so much money,” he laments about the tattoos.

Bruce cheers him up by promising that the superior reproductive compatibility will more than make up for it, with how much they’ll be able to charge per unit. And that, at least, is a bright note that helps improve Bucky’s mood. As is the fact that, once he arrives back at his and Steve’s quarters, it’s immediately apparent that Steve is making progress with their female.

He’s coaxed her to come up and sit beside him on the couch, instead of on the floor. “Buck,” he says when Bucky walks back in. Bucky stops short at the sight of them sitting so close to one another. Steve has even put his hand on her shoulder gently. “This is Raelynn,” he says. Bucky must make a face without realizing it, because Steve gives him a warning look that clearly communicates: Do not fuck up all my hard work, Pal, and he says, “People close to her call her Rae.” He looks down at her and gives her a small smile (Which she low key even returns! What the fuck? Bucky will never understand how Steve does it.) “She says we can call her that, right Honey?”

Raelynn/Rae nods a little, her eyes flicking from Steve, over to Bucky, and back again. “Yes,” she says quietly. “Rae is fine.” 

Bucky goes over to the couch and sits on her other side, putting her firmly between himself and Steve. Testing the waters, so to speak. “Well then, I guess it’s nice to officially meet you, Rae.” She doesn’t really seem to want to make eye contact with him just yet, but she at least shoots him a small nod, along with a glance that notably doesn’t involve any suspicious or angrily-narrowed eyes. Bucky counts it as another win. He clears his throat as he sits there and tries to think of a delicate way to ask if his husband has gotten around to telling her what she’s there for yet. “Um, so … did you two talk much while I was gone?” He looks to Steve from over the top of her head to check.

Steve gives the world’s barest perceptible gesture, more a clenching of jaw than a true nod. That confirms what Bucky suspected, since the girl’s speech is more steady and confident than even since he left to go check the ship for the night. “Okay,” he says, licking his lips, excited and nervous. He can’t comprehend how she’s still being friendly if the talk about her being their carrier has already happened, but Steve does have a knack with people that Bucky’s always lacked. Bucky decides to trust that. “So, um … do you have any questions for us?” he asks, figuring that to be a safe way to ease into wherever the discussion left off in his absence.

She bites her lip for a moment, then asks, “Where are we going? After here?”

He inhales deeply, glad that the first question isn’t about the sex that's in their immediate future—not that he isn’t willing to talk about it, but he’s pretty sure that Steve’s the one who should broach that topic, if it hasn’t been broached already. Bucky nods and tells her, “Departure’s tomorrow at 0800. We have a few more stops, in nearby systems, then we refuel and start back home.”

“Home,” she echoes. “What’s that?”

Bucky opens his mouth, about to give a definition of the actual word “home," but Steve catches her meaning better than he does and says, “We’re from the inner rim, Honey. A place called Kho.”

“That’s your planet?” she asks. 

“Mmhm. It’s nice. Developed, but still with lots of green. It’s the capital of our system: the Andromeda system.”

“One of the founding twenty-seven,” Bucky thinks to add, but then tenses at the abrupt change in Rae’s demeanor. 

She stiffens and looks up at Steve in something like betrayal. “I thought you said you weren’t Federation?” 

“We’re not.” 

“But he just said—”

Bucky cuts her off by placing a hand on her wrist, which gets her attention. “Hey, no. I meant we’re not Federation officials. Not Intergalactic Defense Forces, not Commerce Corps. We’re free agents with the guild, sure, but we’re still citizens." 

Her mouth works as she fumbles for a rebuttal. “But you said … I mean, I thought … the IDF is—”

“IDF’s the military,” Bucky stresses. “We’re not military. We are Federation citizens, but Sweetie: most of the chartered universe is. Virtually anyone who isn’t a terran—” He cuts himself off right after the word escapes. “Erm, sorry. That is to say, anyone who isn’t in the outer rim systems is a citizen.”

“Yeah,” Steve encourages, as Rae visibly relaxes. “It’s a huge umbrella, Honey. Quadrillions of people. Being a citizen’s not a bad thing.” 

“Oh. I guess … I guess I don’t know these things,” she admits, with a hint of bashfulness to her if Bucky isn’t mistaken. Though that could just be more of her arousal response, the same flush and squirming evoked by the drugs.

Bucky gives her wrist a comforting squeeze. “Hey. That’s okay, Hon. Really. Just wait till you see it. There’s all sorts of technology and conveniences. I think you’ll be amazed. We have so many comforts and entertainment. Things you’ve never even dreamed of.” When she doesn’t look sure about it, he says, “I’ll show you some videos tomorrow. You’ll see. It’s much nicer than what you’re used to here. You’ll have a much better life there.” 

As per freakin’ usual, out of the two of them, Steve is the better conversationalist. 

He’s somehow able to salvage the conversation from Bucky’s—unintended but disastrous—insults to Rae’s home planet, and when the girl starts to notice her own increasingly aroused physical state, he pulls her into his arms and gives her a hug, reminding her that she’s just fine, that this is just the expected effects of the medicine, like they talked about. Just something that’ll help her feel good the whole way through.

“What’s wrong with me?” she whines when it intensifies, burrowing against the front of Steve’s sweater in embarrassment as the effects of the prep ramp up. “Nnnh. I feel … mmnn.”

Bucky and Steve share another look from over the top of her head. Their girl may be new to spoken Federalese, but the universal language of hot, bothered, and squirming female communicates loud and clear everything that she isn’t saying. “That’s your body getting ready,” Bucky reminds her gently, daring to place a hand on her back. “Remember how we talked about the way it would make you feel?” 

“Mmh … hm.” 

It comes out as more of a whimper than the “mm-hm” she probably intended, but Bucky gets the gist. She doesn’t shirk him off when he slides his hand up her back to her shoulder, nor when he begins a comforting little rubbing motion there, so he scoots in closer and leans against her from behind, joining in the hug that Steve’s already giving her. She shudders in their combined hold, but it’s quite obviously in enjoyment rather than displeasure. Bucky noses into her strange, ironwood-colored hair, inhaling at her pulse point and wondering if the lightly floral scent is innate to her species, or just something she’s rubbed into her skin. “Rae?” he prods gently. "Do you want to talk a little more about what’s going to happen?” 

By now she knows that she’s there to be their carrier. They’ve explained that much, but none of the biology has been mentioned. None of the specific points of their … anatomy. Bucky knows she’s still assuming it’s her eggs they’ll be fertilizing. “You can ask questions,” he reminds her, grazing the shell of her ear with his lips and relishing the shiver he feels travel through her slight frame. “Anything you want,” he whispers, mainly just to get another shiver out of her when his hot breath hits her ear.

“We want you to feel comfortable,” Steve coaxes.

“And not scared,” Bucky agrees. He chances a kiss to her neck, and she makes a soft, enjoyable noise. “Nothin’ to be scared of at all. Cause we’re gonna take such good care of you, Sweetheart.”

She sighs, having gone much more lax against Steve’s front in the past few minutes. Steve signals to Bucky that they should cool it for a sec, in the goal of getting a real answer out of her. Bucky grunts but agrees, sneaking a hand to the front of his pants to rearrange himself. It’s been unpleasant all day, but now he’s actually hard. He gives himself a rough squeeze through the fabric, telling his poor, suffering balls to hold in there. Steve, meanwhile, has encouraged Rae to sit back a little. She’s still practically in his lap, and soft as a noodle, but he manages to get a tiny bit of eye contact out of her. “Talk?” he checks, nodding in encouragement. 

She makes a shy noise of assent, followed by a nod and an “okay” that comes out muffled, because she’s already burrowed her face back into the knit of Steve's sweater. From over her head, Steve and Bucky share a fond look, and together they pet her back and begin to explain the differences in their species’ breeding habits. 

It takes a little while. She stops them several times, not upset about anything, but certainly confused, needing to ask clarifying questions. She seems most flabbergasted by the notion of egg-bearing omega men, but not at all by the fact that two men would be husbands—Which really perplexes Bucky, because why the hell would two men marry if they couldn’t make babies together? 

She expresses amazement at the concept of a third carrier sex, which is one of the confusing bits that she winds up needing to ask several questions about. Bucky bungles it on his first try, but then watches his mate take over, and falls even deeper in love as Steve seems to intuitively know exactly what to say. He explains it to her in terms that she can understand, which is that sperm and egg come from the two male parents—the alpha father and omega mother—whilst the female Oma, who lacks gametes, carries the growing baby inside of her womb. 

“Huh,” is all Rae says, with an adorably astounded little expression. “That's ... huh.”

She asks why they don't just breed with their own kind, and that prompts Bucky's explanation of what happened on their homeworld that so necessitated this cross-species sourcing for carriers in the first place. He leaves a lot out, purposefully softening the story of the plague that ripped every man, woman, and child of Kho’s oma parent away, over thirty solars ago (“Thirty-three solars, this next rotation. Gods, I can hardly believe it’s been that long”), and emphasizing how there have been countless families formed with compatible species in the generation since, just as happy and healthy as can be.

She seems very reassured when they tell her about how well her body will be suited to safely carrying a healthy Khomeini pregnancy and bearing their young, and she really brightens up once she understands that she’s to remain with them to be their female mate and act as de-facto oma for their children: the primary caregiver.

Bucky holds his tongue, but he privately thinks that it’s utterly rotten that she’d thought they were actually going to use her for her womb and then not let her raise the baby after that (wtf?!). Apparently, it’s a practice that the human terrans have, and Bucky thinks—again, privately and with more than a little disdain—that Earth culture really is backwards and brutal. No wonder their little savage had been so tempestuous in the beginning! She’d been expecting to be used and discarded!

He and Steve both happily tell her how it will be quite the opposite, explaining how she’ll live in their domicile on Kho with them, which has a lovely garden and courtyard, and rooms that she can decorate for their young. When they inform her that theirs is a healthy ecosystem without the same problems as her planet, and that she won’t have to wear a rubber mask when she goes outside, she gets even more enthused and wants to know all about their planet and its history. They promise to show her as many videos as she wants tomorrow, but first thing’s first: they need to breed her tonight.

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Kinktober '24 entry for: Different Species | Oviposition | double penetration in one hole

@anyfandomdarkbingo

Square O3: mating

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Square N1: the collector

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Square I4: Mile High Club

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Square O1: futuristic AU

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Square G5: Older Omega x Younger Alpha

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