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Chapter Text

The present for the Warlord was picked perfectly. A prize he captured himself - among the countless soft-skinned prey that had scattered and screamed before his onslaught, you were the anomaly. You were the one who did not run. You had simply… stood. Amid the carnage and the scent of blood soaking the earth, you were a statue of terrified defiance, tears carving clean paths through the grime on your cheeks, your body rigid with a shock that looked remarkably like courage. It was that stillness that had stayed his paw. That had made the Warlord lower his plasma caster and regard you not as another piece of moving meat, but as a puzzle. A trophy of a different kind.

You remembered the blur of what came next in fragments, sensations without context. The deep, guttural click-click-chitter of a language that sounded like stones grinding together. The surprisingly careful but firm grip of younger, eager Yautja as they secured you. The cold, sterile air of the ship replacing the humid stench of the battlefield. Then, the deep, dreamless sleep within a translucent coffin.

The first thing you were aware after waking up was that of the water - not like any water you’d known. It was silken and slightly viscous, lapping at your skin in a warm, rhythmic pulse, carrying away the last traces of your world. They, the silent, red-eyed attendants, were not shy. Their multi-taloned paws were efficient and impersonal, scrubbing every inch of you with a thoroughness that was neither gentle nor cruel. The young ones anointed you in a lotion that hummed with a soft, blue-white glow, sinking into your pores and leaving your skin feeling strangely fortified and smelling of ozone and something metallic.

Then, came the crafting of the offering.

Your human clothes were gone, deemed ruined, unworthy. But the aliens had not discarded everything. A few scraps of your former life were saved - a strip of leather from your boot, a torn piece of your shirt, the zipper from your jacket. These were not for modesty, but for symbolism, tied around your wrists and waist like bindings, a constant, tactile reminder of the origin you were about to loose. Against your skin, they layered bits of polished, unfamiliar armor - a curved pauldron on one shoulder, a gauntlet of woven, fibrous metal on one forearm. It was a mosaic of their culture imposed upon your form, a promise and a prison sentence written in leather and Yautja steel. You were being dressed for a presentation, and the audience of one was the most terrifying creature you had ever seen.

The final two pieces were brought forth. The first was a collar, fashioned not from rough-hewn metal but from a strangely beautiful, obsidian-like composite. It was cool as it was fitted around your throat, clicking shut with a sound that was far too final. It was not tight enough to choke, but its presence was absolute, an unbreakable seal of ownership.

Then came the leash.

A single, heavy link of dark, polished alloy, attached to the front of the collar. From it, a length of supple, braised wire-whip descended. The Yautja handling it did not rush. With an almost ritualistic precision, he guided the cool metal down the center of your body, over the smooth skin between your bared breasts, your stomach, and lower still. You stiffened, a silent gasp catching in your throat as the leash was drawn deliberately between your legs, where you were left bare and vulnerable. The alien attendant gave a slight, testing tug, and the wire slid against your most sensitive flesh with a maddening, slick friction.

“Ah!”
It was the first sound you’ve made in what seem to be ages and the Yautja click-clicked between themselves. They have never heard such such soft, human sound before. Every tiny shift of your hips, every clenched muscle, only served to intensify the sensation that created the links of chain burried between your lower lips, creating a desperate, throbbing awareness that was impossible to ignore. So you moved, with the rest of it following like a serpent’s tail, your head hang low as you tried to fight the unwanted pleasure coiling deep in your belly.

Finally, you’ve arrived at his chamber. The walls were not rock, but the interior of a massive, living ship, ribbed and organic. And at the far end, seated on a throne of fused bone and technology, was the Warlord.

The name Grendel King seemed more than fitting.

He was larger than you remembered, a mountain of muscle and menace. The trophies dangling from his armor clinked softly as he shifted. His own mask was off, set aside on a pedestal, and his face - that terrible, mandibled visage—was exposed. His eyes, deep and ancient, found you immediately. They did not glow like the others'; they seemed to absorb the light, pools of blood and darkness that held a terrifying, keen intelligence. He was a nightmare from which you did not want to wake. The very sight of him, this terrifying, magnificent warlord, should have horrified you.

Instead, it made your cunt clench around nothing, the feeling amplified by the chain pressed hard against your clit while you kneel.

The cold floor seeped through the scraps on your legs. One of Yautja spoke, his voice a series of rapid, respectful clicks and growls. He gestured to you, then bowed his head low. A silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Grendel King did not move.

His gaze was a physical weight, traveling over the scraps on your wrists, the alien armor on your shoulder, the lotion that made your skin gleam in the low light. He took in every detail, every contrast they had so carefully constructed. One large, clawed hand lifted and beckoned. A single, deliberate gesture.

Come here, little one.

That was a voice coming from your collar – must be the built-in translator. The voice was male, deep, gravely, something you vaguely remember hearing while being in stasis – or maybe, imagined hearing. The hunters behind you gave you a slight nudge. This was it. The moment you had been prepared for. You rose on unsteady legs, the greaves feeling suddenly heavy, and walked the last few steps to the foot of the Bone Throne, alone. You forced your eyes up to meet his. He studied you for a long, endless moment. Then, a low rumble started in his chest. It wasn't a click or a growl. It was a sound of deep, profound satisfaction. The rumble of a predator who had found something truly unique among a galaxy of prey. One claw, sharp enough to eviscerate you with a twitch, extended. He did not touch your throat. He did not touch the armor. Instead, the cool, sharp tip of it came to rest with impossible delicacy under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more into the light, forcing you to hold his galactic gaze.

Pretty prey.

The other large paw curled around the chain and gave a firm, testing tug. You pressed your lips quickly together to muffle your whimper. His mandibles twitched as he moved his head, tasting the air, sampling the scent your reaction had unleashed - a pheromone-laced cocktail of fear, shame, and unwanted, dizzying arousal. It was something sweet. Something so, so human. And it was all for him.

Crawl.

The command was a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in your bones. He didn't yell. He didn't need to. He patted his own powerful, armoured thigh, the gesture casual and utterly demeaning, all while his grip on the chain remained, a constant promise of the sensation another tug would bring. The younger Yautja fled the room, their backs never turned to Warlord, though his eyes were focused on you as you settled on his thigh – it was big enough that even you, the girl well fed, soft and plump were feeling small.

Pretty, pretty prey. Not running. Good.

The Yautja seemed to appreciate the contrast of his armor on your human form, so his touch moved lower, over the swell of your breast, and his thumb - a thick, powerful digit—brushed over your nipple. The touch was deliberate, a slow, circling pressure that made you jolt, the peak tightening instantly under the foreign, rough touch. A sound, half-gasp, half-sob, caught in your throat. He stilled, his mandibles flaring. He was tasting the air again, drinking in the scent of your body’s helpless response and there was that maddening rumble again. His grip on the chain tightened minutely, a warning and a promise all at once, holding you perfectly in place as his other hand continued its conquest. It slid down the soft swell of your stomach, the claws tracing feather-light, threatening paths over your streatchmarks – battle scars of your own indulgence. Everywhere he touched, your skin burned and prickled with a terrifying, unwanted sensitivity. Finally, his large palm came to rest possessively on the bare skin of your hip, his thumb stroking slow, hypnotic circles into the dip of your waist. He owned every inch of you, and this deliberate, detailed touching was his way of signing his name. He leaned in closer, the heat of his body enveloping you, the click of his mandibles near your ear. The translated word was a soft, guttural command against your very soul.

Mine.

While you were perched on his thigh, he retracted his paw, watch, he said – as he moved the codpiece of his armor aside. His arousal emerged, hard and formidable, a testament to his species' terrifying biology. It was thick and lengthly, the color of dusk-warmed stone, and etched with subtle, intriguing ridges that seemed to pulse with a slow, internal rhythm. A faint, musky scent, ozone and spice and pure, undiluted male, washed over you, making you shudder, making you wonder, clenching with a hot, slick ache. Your mind, traitorous and dizzy, spiraled with forbidden questions: How would it taste? Metallic? Spiced? How would the textured ridges feel dragging against your palms, your tongue, inside you? You leaned forward, a moth drawn to a lethal flame, your body moving on its own accord, driven by a need you barely understood. A low, warning growl halted you instantly.

Not yet. You break. Later, when you are worthy.

With that, the codpiece slid back into place with a definitive click, severing the hypnotic sight. The denial was a physical blow, leaving you trembling on his thigh, aching and empty, more captured than you had ever been. The chain between your legs felt heavier than ever, a constant, aching reminder of the reward you had been deemed unready to receive.

You will taste the palm which will feed you. Then the mouth which you will learn to obey orders from. Then, only then, you will be allowed to fuck yourself on your chief.

You knew what that meant. How he will use every part of his body on you before granting you the privilege of being a vessel of his vitality. He yanked the chain aside, fast, cruel motion, tips of his fingers slipping between your glistening tights to find you soaking.

You humans are always so wet.

He clicked, but the translator purred his words in your ear. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pushed one thick digit into your tight hole, pleased rumbling chuckle escaping him as he felt your walls squeezing him in return. The thought that even his one finger filled you so completely made your heart skip a beat. Forgetting about being scared, you grabbed his shoulders, the bone armor biting into your palms as you grinded helplessly.

Slowly, torturously, he began to move his finger, a shallow, pumping motion that focused entirely on that first, intense stretch. The ridge of his knuckle dragged against a spot deep inside you that made your thighs tremble. With a soft, wet sound, he withdrew almost completely, only to push back in, a little deeper this time, a little harder. The rhythm was merciless, each stroke stoking the coil of heat in your belly tighter and tighter. You were panting now, little whimpers falling from your lips with every thrust of that single, devastating finger. His thumb, rough and demanding, found your swollen clit and began to circle it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, mimicking the cruel, perfect tease of the chain.

Such an eager little thing. So tight for one finger. You will sing for me when you take your chief. You will scream your worthiness.

He began to move then, a slow, deliberate pistoning of that immense finger, curling it slightly to stroke a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each thrust a promise of the terrifying, glorious fullness to come.

And come you did, squeezing him more, your head falling back with a loud, submissive wail – the lotion that aliens rubbed in your skin amplifying the sensations almost to infinity. No man, no toy, no hands could ever make you cum so fast or so intense. You trembled violently, held upright only by his unyielding arm and your own desperate grip on his armored shoulders, utterly broken and remade by the terrifying, magnificent creature who owned you.

His finger left your clenching cunt as he observed the slickness of your shameful release. A forked tongue flicked it out.

A taste of prey. Clean it.

You grabbed it with both hands, your tongue mimicking his movements, but more. You were blissed, sore, utterly fucked and in love with your new king.

And he, apparently was very pleased with his new toy.

Chapter Text

There were no days. No nights. Just rituals, lots of them. You clung to the familiar ones like lifelines in the dark, repeating the words like a prayer. Eating - human. Bathing in the silken, alien water - human. The dreamless sleep - human, human, human. The true rituals, the ones that carved away at the person you had been, were designed with a single purpose: to bind you to the Warlord. They were a systematic dismantling of your futile resistance against the new reality - being his pet. And with each beat of your heart, you were drifting closer to it.

He would make you accompany him to ‘meetings’ - gatherings in roaring, torch-lit halls that were little more than arenas for bloody beatings. You stood at the edge, a silent, adorned shadow with chain between your legs, and watched him dominate, dismantle, and destroy any who challenged him. He was always the winner. The air would be thick with the coppery stench of Yautja blood and the guttural cheers of the clan praising their leader. After, he would stride toward you, a mountain of victorious fury, the bones dragging behind him and clinging to his feet. His massive paw, now slick and stained with the sickly green of his foe's lifeblood, would reach for you. He didn't just want to mark you. He wanted you to understand, deep in your marrow, that his victory was your victory. His strength was your protection. The burn of his enemy's blood was a badge of his dominance, and therefore, your own.

He had other ways to show his dominance.

You will taste the palm which will feed you.

You didn’t so much as tasted it. You felt it. Everywhere. He would brush your hair, which had grown longer, thicker, and more lustrous from the rich, alien meats he provided. His fingers, each one capable of shredding metal, would trail through the strands with an unnatural, hypnotic gentleness. They would map the new, fuller curves of your hips and waist - his doing, all of it, a testament to his ability to reshape you from the inside out. His touch left behind not pain, but a trail of shivers and faint, pink scratches that tingled for hours. He could spend cycles like that, with you perched on the solid, armored plane of his thigh, as he scanned enormous, glowing data screens filled with star charts and battle reports. And all the while, just… touching you. Tracing the line of your spine. Cupping the nape of your neck with a possessiveness that made you weak. You would sit there, wet and aching and empty, the chain between your legs a constant, cold reminder of the release he withheld. The frustration was a live wire under your skin, and you had no way to protest, no right to refuse the touch of the hand against your will. The protests had died in your throat, replaced by a breathless anticipation for the next scratch, the next possessive grope, the next silent, searing moment of his attention.

It was a sweet, slow torture. But was it now against your will?

Then the mouth which you will learn to obey orders from.

His hunger for violence, for power and obedience almost matched the hunger for sex. The first few times he had tried to eat you out were a clumsy, brutal exploration. It had been messy and wet, a confusing tangle of pain and overstimulation from the rough, unfamiliar texture of his tongue and the threatening proximity of his teeth. It had satisfied him then, you think - the simple act of domination was enough. But the Grendel King was a master of his craft, in all things. And he learned. Oh, did he learn.

Yautja did not have soft, human lips for gentle kisses. Their mouths were gaping maws of powerful muscles, teeth, and a tongue that was far too long, too clever, and textured like rough velvet. Now, he used it with a devastating, learned precision. He held you with one massive paw, your legs draped over his broad, armored shoulders as if you weighed nothing. His forehead was pressed against your soft, rounded belly, a strangely intimate anchor, while his maw was buried between your thighs. The low, wet sounds of his work filled the silence, punctuated by the soft, click-clicking of his mandibles against your sensitive skin, a vibration that sang straight to your core.

Another, the translator on your neck growled. Give me another nectar.

Nectar. Your orgasm. Your wetness. You’ve lost counts of how many times you came for him. Your body was no longer your own; it was a wellspring for his satisfaction, and he was a thirsty god.

The broad, flat of his tongue, rough as worn leather, dragged a slow, heavy path from your entrance all the way up to your oversensitive clit. The motion was deliberate, a claiming sweep that gathered your wetness and made you cry out, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the bone armor of his back. Then the focus shifted. The tip of that same tongue, surprisingly deft, found the tight, throbbing bud of your clit and began to circle it with a relentless, rhythmic pressure. He fed from you, the deep, rhythmic purr in his chest vibrating directly into your core. You could feel the slick evidence of your own pleasure coating the hard plates around his mouth, his mandibles flexed gently against your inner thighs, the subtle movement creating a vibration that resonated through your entire body.

Just as the first shivers of an impending climax began to dance up your spine, he pulled back. Before you could even whine about it, one thick, powerful digit thrust inside you – just like it did when you first presented for him, all shivers and fear. And yet, you didn’t got used to it, though craving the stretching, the burn, the dominance of a single digit. Your cunt, slick and ready, accepted him rather easily, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion despite your mind sending signals of pain. While you were still adjusting to the first, the blunt, insistent tip of a second finger pressed against your tight entrance. There was a moment of resistance, a plea dying in your dry mouth. With a slow, relentless pressure, he worked it into you, the two digits spreading you open, stretching you wider than you had ever been.

The stretch was exquisite agony.

“Please!” you gasped, a sweet hoarse sound.

“I-it’s too much… d-don’t, don’t move them… I can’t- can’t fit---”

You will.

You could feel every ridge of his skin, every minute movement as he began to piston his fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm, scissoring them slightly with each withdrawal. He was preparing you. Methodically. Violently. For the final, terrifying, and craved invasion you knew was coming – if not now, then later, when you would be left alone to finger yourself and cry about your shame in a pillow when you’d realize it was not enough. Your body could do nothing but surrender to the brutal, opening rhythm.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” you gasped, every single nerve screaming of how humiliating it was, how good and how terrible at the same time. The broad, leathery palm of the hand that was fucking you rolled forward, pressing the base of his fingers firmly against your swollen, throbbing clit. The effect was cataclysmic. Your body, already taut as a bowstring, arched violently against his hold. A broken, wordless scream was ripped from your throat as the pressure on that sensitive nub, combined with the deep, internal stretching, sent you careening over the edge. It was not a wave of pleasure but a detonation - a white-hot supernova that obliterated thought, shame, and memory, leaving only the raw, shuddering fact of his possession in its wake. Your walls clamped down around his invading fingers, milking them in a series of frantic, helpless pulses. You moaned. You babbled. You thanked your chief, your Warlord, your king for what he did to you.

He did not fetch a cloth to wipe the evidence of your pleasure from his maw or the slick residue gleaming between your thighs. Instead, he simply stood, adjusting your limp form effortlessly, and draped you over one immense shoulder as if you were a prized game. The world swung dizzyingly, but you were too spent to care. He carried you through the torch-lit corridors himself. Your blurred vision caught glimpses of younger Yautja, who stopped and turned their massive heads to watch the Warlord pass. A chorus of low, guttural click-click-clicks followed you -a mix of approval, of simmering anger, of raw, undisguised lust. They could lust all they wanted. The scent of the Warlord on you was a boundary as solid as a fortress wall. To lay a finger on you was to sign their own death warrant, and they knew it. You had no idea what they said. You were fucked out, mindless, floating in a haze of endorphins and utter submission. You nuzzled your face into the mighty, corded column of his neck, where the scent of ozone, spice, and your own essence mingled. A soft, continuous sound rose in your own throat, a purr of pure, contented belonging.

It was the sound of a creature who had finally found its place.

The sound of the pet you had always been destined to become.

Chapter Text

There was nothing to cling to now. No need to, actually. The words human, human, human no longer held meaning. The memory of Earth, Earth, Earth faded away, an echo from a life that belonged to someone else. You saw it so clearly now. Humans were messy. Weak. Pathetic in their frantic scrambling for dominance they could never achieved. Yes, your beautiful, fragile biology remained with you. You were still human. But the spirit, the will, the very core of what you thought that meant, had been completely erased, scoured away by the relentless tide of his presence. In its place was a profound and simple truth: you were Grendel’s pet. His one and only. His chosen. His almost beloved. The final barrier, the last great terror, was the one you had both been circling since the beginning.

You had dreaded the moment he would finally choose to fuck you properly. The memory of his thick fingers, the terrifying sight of his full arousal, had haunted your dreams and waking hours alike. It was a constant, humming need. It was the silent prayer on your lips when you watched him train, the secret ache between your legs when he looked at you with possessive hunger. You had been prepared, stretched, and claimed in every way but one that mattered. The emptiness inside you was a void that only he could fill, a shape that was molded specifically for him. Never in your life, in either of your lives, had you wanted something so much. The fear had not vanished; it had simply become the finest spice on the tongue of your anticipation. You were ready. You were his. And you were desperate for your King to finally, finally, make you whole.

One night, you woke up with a gasp from the sound of brutal clash. The doors to your chamber, which usually slid aside were brutally smashed open, hanging crooked on their tracks. A silhouette obscured the lights of the corridor - the devil himself, descending upon you. The King moved with a heavy step and something was wrong. Terribly wrong. A thick, dark fluid dripped from his shadow, splattering on the polished floor with a sickening patter. It wasn't just blood; it was viscera, clinging to his armor in glistening strands, as if he were physically melting, shedding the remnants of some unimaginable violence. It wasn’t his. And he made no motion of wiping it out. You didn’t fumble with covers to hide your nakedness. That instinct was as dead as the world you came from. Instead, your hand flew to your chest, pressing against the frantic flutter of your heart, as if you could physically hold it inside your ribs, afraid he had come to claim it for his trophy wall.

His bio-mask obscured his face, a frozen, terrifying visage, but you could feel the weight of his gaze behind it. He was a nightmare painted in gore, and he was still walking toward you, closing the distance between the carnage he had wrought and the sanctuary of your bed. A low, guttural sound emanated from the translator on your neck, its voice a bloody rasp in the silent room.

Are you afraid, little one?

You were. You were so afraid. But it wasn’t for yourself.

“Are you… are you hurt?”

You asked, not sure if he could understand you. And something in him changed. The powerful, demonic presence… vanished. The brutal giant, the Grendel King, the Warlord who was towering over your bed like an avenging god of war, seemed to... deflate.

And he knelt.

It was not a graceful movement. It was the heavy, bone-weary descent of a mountain settling. The armored plates of his knees hit the floor with a solid thud that vibrated through the deck. He was still colossal, still covered in the evidence of a slaughter, but now he was at your level.

…No.

In that single, vulnerable syllable, spoken from his knees, you understood. He had come to you. From the bloodshed and the chaos, he had walked through the bowels of his ship, past his entire clan, to your bed. He had come to the one place, the one creature, that would look at the monster drenched in gore and ask not if it was a threat, but if it was in pain.

He wanted to be comforted. The Yautja wanted to look at something he created, not destroyed. And that was you. A low, almost panted breath hissed from between his tusks as he tore the bio-mask from his head, letting it clatter to the floor, forgotten. His golden eyes locked on yours and in the moment, the realization hit you once again – this was it. He wanted to have you with the adrenaline of the hunt still coursing through his veins, with the blood of his enemies fresh and cooling on his armor and paws. He wanted the most primal mating possible, a raw fusion of his violence and your surrender, to confirm his victory and his creation.

Slowly, never breaking his gaze, you lowered yourself from the bed. Your feet met the cold floor, but you felt only the heat of his stare. Your hands, so warm and soft against the plumpness of your own body, began to trail a deliberate path. From the cold, alien collar around your throat - the first symbol of his ownership - down over the gentle swell of your breasts, which had grown full under his provision, over the rounded softness of your stomach, a testament to the feasts he provided. You were showing him. Not just your body, but the living, breathing proof of his dominion and his care.

Good. You understand now. You understood from the very moment I saw you, pet.

He moved with the grace of a predator unleashed, pinning you to furs on bed. The hard plates of armor dug into your softness, but the pain quickly went away when his tongue started to lick and probe you – all over you. It lapped at the hollow of your throat, tusks scratching the line of your collar, the hard muscle washing over the curve of your breast with a rasping pressure on a nipple that sent jolts of lightning straight to your core. He was tasting you, cleansing his palette of battle with the scent and salt of his creation. Your body betrayed you utterly, responding to this brutal grooming with a pathetic, eager hunger - in mere seconds, you were dripping. A broken, pleading sound escaped you, your back arching more of yourself against the rasp of his tongue, begging without words for the joining you both craved.

The Grendel King leaned back and his paw tore away the cod piece of his armor. You had taken a good, long look at his cock before, you’ve dreamed if it, you’ve wondered how it would feel. You had studied its formidable length, the intriguing ridges, the pulsating, alien life of it. With one paw, he held your legs higher, despite your pitiful whine and he positioned himself, the blunt, broad tip pressing against your soaked, desperate entrance. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking, far surpassing the preparation of his fingers. A choked cry was torn from your lips as he began to push, the thick, ridged length of him parting you with a slow, inexorable pressure. More. And more. And even more.

Your eyes rolled back, your nails scraping uselessly against his armor as your body struggled to accommodate the invasion, the burning, glorious fullness that was both agony and ecstasy. He was sheathing himself in the warmth he had created – and he growled, when you, his good pet, fitted it all.

Feel your warlord, little one.

His massive hands locked on your hips and he began to move. He wasn't thrusting; he was using you. The Yautja lifted your body with terrifying ease, only to drag you back down the thick, rigid length of him, forcing you to take him deeper with every descent. You were a living sheath, and he was moving you along his monstrous blade. Your moans and cries were no longer your own - they were a symphony he conducted, each one violently wrenched from you as he impaled you again and again. He hit your cervix with a impact, as if he sought to penetrate that, too, and yet, there was no shredding pain, only a deep, resonating pleasure that blurred the lines of your sanity. A slick lubricant seeped from his cock, generously coating your ravaged insides. It muted the pain but amplified the pleasure, as if it was specifically designed to make you take all of him, to make you crave this specific, brutal fullness.

“Ah! Ah, y-yes! P-Please, my king, my warlord! Y-you’re fuckin’ me so good – please, please, please don’t stop!”

The human profanity seemed to be understood even by him. He responded with clicks your translator failed to deliver to you – in rasping gasps, in guttural roars of animal finally having his mate. Your back arched and he held you upright, driving his massive hips onto yours. Each thrust was a piston of pure, unadulterated power, the ridges of his alien length stroking every hidden, desperate part of you with a devastating, dragging friction. The world dissolved into the scent of blood and sex, the sound of his roars and your sobbing pleas, and the feeling of being utterly, wonderfully ruined, remade entirely for this single purpose: to take him, to welcome him, to be the vessel for his savage and glorious vitality.

You felt the change in him first - a deep tremor that ran through his massive frame, a tightening of the powerful muscles cording his back under your scratching hands. His thrusts became harder, deeper, more possessive, burying himself to the hilt within you, as if seeking to fuse your very souls together.

MINE!

The translated roar was a final, definitive claim that shook the room.

And then it happened.

You felt the first hot, thick pulse deep inside you, a flood of his release. It was more than anything you could have ever imagined, a seemingly endless torrent that filled you beyond capacity. A sharp, overwhelmed cry burst from your lips as your own climax detonated in response...

But he was not finished.

The release continued, a powerful, unyielding surge. Your eyes, hazy with ecstasy, drifted down your own body, and a shocked, delirious, wanton gasp escaped you. There, on the soft, rounded plane of your lower stomach, a subtle but undeniable swell pushed outward, distending your flesh. It was a visible bulge, a perfect, taut curve created by the immense, hot load he was pumping into you, a physical testament to the sheer, impossible volume of his claim. He held himself there, buried to the root, as the last powerful jets filled you, his body shuddering with the force of his own release. The sight of your slightly swollen belly, marked by his essence from the inside, seemed to please him on a primal level. A low, satiated rumble vibrated from his chest as he looked down between your joined bodies, at the visible proof of his ownership. You collapsed back onto the furs, utterly spent, feeling the hot, heavy weight of his release within you, the gentle ache in your belly a permanent reminder of this night. He did not withdraw, but settled over you, a heavy, protective, and possessive weighy, still burried, still holding you but. His massive head lowered beside yours, his breath warm against your ear. You were his. Utterly, completely, and now, physically, undeniably so. What would happen next didn’t so much as mattered when the exhaustion of your collision took you over and you welcomed the darkness that swallowed you whole.