Her hands perfectly circle his waist like they were always meant to be there. Granted, they're big hands, but it still counts. Thumbs meet at the center, just above his navel, clawed fingertips cupped against the small of his back. He weighs a good sixty pounds more than her, but she's stronger still, raw unnatural power where he's soft and human.
Miskwi smiles, and it's all teeth. Every part of her seems to fit wrong, too much crammed into too little. Even after so many months, it still sends his pulse racing, instincts screaming like prey cornered by a predator — except that this predator knows how to play nice. Wants to play nice. "You smell good," she rasps, low and harsh.
"Is that a good thing for me?" he asks, half teasing and half earnest. He can't say back that she smells good: she doesn't, hints of earth and the cloying scent of rotten meat clinging to her emaciated frame.
The laugh she makes grates like stone on steel. "Favorite," Miskwi says simply, leaning in and sniffing deep like an animal scenting blood on the wind and anticipating the taste of wounded prey. To her, he must smell like a feast, an exercise in self-restraint. Tender human flesh, full of blood and warmth and everything she needs to keep her hunger at bay, if only barely. But Wendigos are greedy things, and Miskwi's human is hers, to hold and not to eat. Even when the insatiable hunger gnaws at her like a parasite and all she can think of is warm marrow and bloody flesh, he is safe.
A soft sigh drifts from his lips as he rests his head against Miskwi's chest. It isn't comfortable, bony and perpetually cold, but he doesn't mind. His hand cups one of her breasts, driving a guttural moan from her as he thumbs at the pert nipple. The Wendigo is as greedy in bed as she is in the forest hunting prey, and with an idle snap of her jaws and a backwards shove onto the mattress Miskwi cuts his teasing short.
"Give. I want," she snarls, hips grinding down against his. A wet tongue laps at his neck and snakes along the hollow of his throat. She wants so much, and she can never have enough, not of food and not of his human tenderness and affection. Not of anything. Miskwi's voice rasps in his ear, low and full of need, and he wraps his free arm around her narrow shoulders, pulling her close to him. She's hungry and desperate for it, and she'll take what she needs and nothing less.
Taking his cock in hand, the Wendigo woman gives him a gentle stroke, thin clawed fingers careful on his skin. He shudders beneath her touch, goosebumps breaking out on his arms, and she laughs. "Want to fuck," Miskwi rasps, nails scraping his thigh. "Fuck. Want."
He chuckles, sliding a hand down over her ribs. The Wendigo woman is a hard thing, lean muscle and sharp bones, but there's a softness beneath those surfaces, and he likes to remind her of it now and again. His hand snakes down to the plush folds of Miskwi's pussy, slowly thumbing at her clit. The little nub throbs against his touch, eager and needy as arousal already begins to trail down her thighs. Her jaws snap again, but her protest is cut off at the head when he pushes two fingers inside her, curving them for maximum sensation. Fingers drag slow through the slick heat of her channel, moving deeper and deeper until Miskwi's whole body shakes with the pleasure of it.
"No more teasing," Miskwi hisses, teeth grinding together. "Need. Give."