Cosmic Kinks

It has been months since that first fateful encounter. You'd walked away from that experience unharmed (outside of a few scrapes and bruises, thank the gods), your body purring and an ache still lingering between your legs. But you'd also walked away with something else, too, something you hadn't noticed right away, and certainly hadn't expected. Your belly, once flat and firm, is now swollen with the fruit of that night—though no one in the village suspects that your womb holds anything but the consequence of a human indiscretion.

Today was supposed to be just another trip to the forest to chop wood. Despite the advancing state of your pregnancy, you're not about to depend on others to take care of you. You still work your small farm, still bring down game and tan their hides for leather, still maintain your homestead… even with a monster's litter squirming in your womb, making everything twice as difficult. As if in defiance of that infuriating, distracting, entirely too-fuckable creature, who'd slaked your lust yet left you parched for more.

You'd been venting your frustrations on a growing pile of deadwood, hacking and splitting branches into smaller pieces, working up a sweat. Then, like a phantom borne from the depths of your most private thoughts, the wolf appeared.

It started with a familiar tickle at the back of your neck, the inkling that something stared after you, unseen. Then came the rustle of leaves, the cracking of twigs, the sounds of a predator stalking without much care for stealth. A predator that didn't care if it was caught.

You turned to toss another small log on the pile and spotted the werewolf crouched at the edge of the clearing, its coarse fur shining in the sunlight. Its nostrils flared to catch your scent, just before its intense gaze dropped to lock on your torso.

You usually keep the large, rounded mass of your pregnancy concealed beneath a loose tunic, but out here, deep in this hushed, imposing forest, you'd stripped yourself bare to the waist while you worked. There was nothing to block the wolf's widening eyes from sliding over the subtle curves of your chest, the soft flare of your hips, and especially the exaggerated roundness of your expectant belly.

Refusing to be shamed or intimidated, you snarked.

It lunged.

You struck.

And now it lies under you, its massive chest heaving, heat radiating off its fur, its throat bobbing against a finely-honed blade for a second time. The tension between you is drawn just as taut, just as sexually charged, as it has ever been, dominance teetering on a precipice of hostility and hunger. You probably shouldn't have bested the wolf the first time, and you certainly shouldn't have now, not with your center of gravity all messed up, but you did.

Why did the beast let you win? And why does winning please you so?

The wolf's eyes flicker down your body, that gilded gaze lingering almost awestruck on your large, swollen abdomen. It lets out a soft, huffing whine, something twitching against the underside of your belly, and you suddenly realize what's happening.

Its cock, thick and already hardening, is pressing against you.

"Oh, so that's how it is," you say, letting your voice drop somewhere low and dangerous. Your emotions have been all over the place ever since you'd let this creature pump you full of its pups, and it's about time that it got to experience the full brunt of them. How dare it tease you with the best fuck of your life only to leave you bereft? How dare it disappear after a single tryst, only to show up mere weeks before you expect to whelp? How dare it be here now, throwing itself before you like a feast before a starving man?

You should be furious. Instead, a tendril of desire curls to life in your core, a dying ember fanned suddenly to life.

"You did this to me," you hiss, pushing the hatchet even harder against the wolf's throat. "And then you disappeared. I looked for you, you great bloody beast. Now you think you can just stroll right back and take whatever you want? Again?"

The wolf's lip curls, revealing a maw full of razor-sharp teeth, and its body tenses all at once—then it twists, bucking you upward with a violent heave. The hatchet falls from your hand, and you have just enough time to duck as its wide jaw snaps shut where your face used to be.

You roll to the side, your momentum sending you tumbling through leaves and loam, the pair of you a jumble of raw strength and wild noise. Wickedly sharp claws rake at your side, but only hard enough to leave welts—like its owner is reminding you of what it can do, rather than attacking with the intent to maim. You retaliate with an elbow to its ribs, a blow that lands solid and earns you a shocked whuff. That gives you just enough of a window to grab a fistful of fur at its scruff, and you twist, wrenching the creature's head sideways.

"You damned mongrel," you growl, shaking the wolf like an insolent pup. "I'm not just some bitch who'll roll over and let you mount me."

For a second, those luminous eyes alight with something akin to delight, just before the wolf throws itself back into the fray, twisting and snapping, hot breath washing over your cheek. You throw your increasingly ungainly weight aside, ignoring the discomfort in your lower back, and both of you continue to crash through the detritus in a tangle of muscle, fur, and rage.

But still, at no point do those wicked teeth or claws come near your gravid middle with any intent to harm. Once, the wolf manages to get a paw against your belly and shoves, but without much force, as if even in the midst of this fevered scuffle it knows better than to strike at your gravid abdomen.

That thought shouldn't please you as much as it does.

You should be scared out of your mind, honestly, locked in a brawl with such a deadly creature, but a heady cocktail of adrenaline and hormones pours through you in a frenzied rush. Sweat and grit stain your bare skin, glowing from both your pregnancy and the heat of the battle. You're caught in a wild, persistent match, wondering who will yield first, who will expose their soft belly and throat in a show of impossible trust, yet your trousers are absolutely soaked with the evidence of the need this inspires.

Things devolve to the point where you're not sure if you're fighting or fucking anymore, but frankly, you don't care. Something about the way the wolf's claws skim your skin in the midst of your struggle is primal yet careful, almost reverent, only threatening when they could so easily shred your flesh. Its cock, fully out now, juts slick and red between its powerful legs, leaving streaks along your thigh. You're too furious, too hungry, to care that the wolf can see how much you desire it, can smell it, can probably feel the slickness soaking through the fabric when it presses too close.

The bastard should know what it's done to you.

Its next assault leaves you scrabbling for purchase, feeling the sharp prickle of brambles at your back. A ragged, almost animal gasp tears from your throat when the wolf finally pins you, forearm to your chest, claws dimpling the flesh just above your pounding heart but not breaking the skin. You snarl up at it, refusing to flinch, even as the weight of its body presses your back into the damp earth and threatens to coax surrender from your bones. The wolf hovers above, its teeth bared in a victorious grin, the thick press of its unsheathed cock hot and insistent where it nudges the underside of your pregnancy, but the savage side of you refuses to let the beast taste triumph.

It's too busy savoring its victory to notice your fingers curling around the haft of your hatchet.

The wolf's eyes widen in an exhilarating blend of excitement and outrage as you hook your leg, expectant middle shifting with surprising agility as you twist your hips, and sweep its paws out from under it in a move born of years spent wrestling siblings twice your size. It's on its back again before it has a chance to retaliate, the edge of the blade held just shy of that vulnerable spot under its jaw. The werewolf freezes, its whole body going rigid beneath your straddling hips. Your belly rests squarely over its torso, a hulking, pendulous orb that's a stark contrast to the wolf's own.

There's a beat of silence (the first since this frenzied dance began) broken only by the agitated gasps that wrack your lungs. The wolf's tongue lolls from its open mouth, panting raggedly as it waits for your next move.

You can't help yourself. The second you've caught your breath, you're grinding down until you can feel its shaft slide along the wet, shrouded seam of your opening.

Oh.

A shiver ripples through your body as you do it again. And again. Each pass of that hard length against you leaves your eyelids fluttering in pure, unadulterated pleasure, the kind you haven't felt since the last time you'd subjugated the werewolf like this. "Hells," you whisper to yourself, rocking over the werewolf's erection like it might simply breach the barrier of your trousers with enough insistence.

You almost don't notice its claws creeping their way toward your waist, but the moment they tentatively curl over your hips, your eyes snap back into focus.

"You're not in control here," you say, hoping that the firmness of your voice isn't belied by your obvious arousal. "I am. So if you wanna do this again, you're gonna have to do what I say, and take whatever I decide to give you."

Claws drop away from you to flex futilely against the ground. The wolf's ears flatten and its breath hitches, but its body doesn't resist—if anything, its pupils dilate further in lustful anticipation. There's a thrilling power in seeing it, a force of magically twisted nature, something that should have eaten you alive, instead shuddering beneath the weight of your will and body.

The instant its muscles go slack beneath you, your hips resume their deliberate dance.

It's been far too long since you last felt the werewolf's magnificent length pressed against you, or a cock of any kind, for that matter. Though every part of you aches to impale yourself on it immediately, to feel it stretch you open and fill your aching emptiness, you want to make this encounter last.

So you move with unhurried zeal, letting your weight settle and grinding down until that velvet heat is pressed exactly where you want it, the length of the wolf's shaft trapped and throbbing between your slick body and the battered fabric of your trousers. The pressure is exquisite, your aroused glans swollen and desperate for friction; each pass of the wolf's dribbling cock along it spears through the fading adrenaline haze of battle to draw a ragged gasp from your lips.

Sweat beads along your brow, and you toss your head, strands of mussed hair clinging to your temples and neck. Your body moves with raw desperation, all pretense abandoned as you work your hips over the beast beneath you in search of your own release. Why shouldn't you be selfish, after it'd left you high and dry with its unexpected litter? You chase the friction, the pressure, until your legs quiver and threaten to give out entirely.

The hatchet is all but forgotten where it lies against the creature's throat, little more than a weight to remind the wolf of your tentative pact. Instead, you brace your hands on the wolf's chest and sink your fingers into its thick pelt, clutching at the fur to keep your ponderous form balanced while you start to frot. Each grind paints a sticky trail along the inner seam of your trousers, the wetness of your need and its slippery precome mingling and soaking into the rough fabric.

Yet through it all, you never break eye contact, not for a second—meeting the wolf's gaze as though to dare it to break your accord. The beast merely watches, mesmerized, as you rut yourself on it, claiming it, conquering it, using it for your own pleasure.

"Who's a good boy?" you mockingly croon, your hips bucking and jerking as you drive your passion higher. "Too bad you vanished the last time I gave you a little 'treat'. Not sure…"

Your eyes roll back in your head, the next lurch of your hips bringing you almost to the edge.

"Mmhm, not sure you deserve—"

You can't even finish your taunt. You grind down hard, the werewolf's cock sliding along the veiled furrow of your opening and catching against you just right. Every surge of pleasure feels heightened by each movement of the great, bulging mass of your womb, the extra weight sending waves of pleasure through you in a deeper, more intense way than it used to. Anticipation builds like a rising tide, muscles clenching and spasming in that exquisite moment just before the wave crests, leaving you straining to keep yourself upright while the wolf's brawny form writhes beneath you.

Release claims you in a sudden rush, a flood of white-hot sensation that lights up your body from your swollen, sensitive nipples all the way down to the soles of your calloused feet. A guttural, almost feral sound wrenches itself from your throat. The noise carries through the silent trees as your thighs clamp down on either side of the wolf's torso and threaten to crush it. Even your rounded belly responds to your orgasm, visibly tightening from the intensity of your climax.

Reality crawls back to you in bits and pieces, and you return to find your body still astride the wolf, gasping and quivering like a plucked bowstring. Pleasure continues to ripple outward from between your legs, slickness oozing through your clothes to drench the hot, rigid length still pressed between them.

Unsurprisingly, your lower back takes this moment to butt in and protest all of the recent exertion, and you instinctively cradle the heavy swell of your abdomen to offset its weight. It's while your fingers are stroking over the sweat-slick surface that you sense the movement—tiny limbs shifting and tumbling just under the surface, like your unexpected litter senses their sire's presence and stirs with recognition.

You push that thought away before it has the chance to take root.

The thunder of your pulse gradually quiets, and it's then that you become aware that the wolf is still pinned beneath you, motionless save for the sharp rise and fall of each desperate breath. Its cock is harder than ever, deep red and turgid, the pointed head leaking a steady drip of seed against your ruined trousers. The creature's golden eyes are wide, almost plaintive, and now that the haze of climax is fading, you can see the keen tension in its body—how it holds itself taut, as if restraining the animal urge to flip you and rut until you both break.

Your own desire crashes back into you then, relentless, unsatisfied, amplified by the animal need radiating up from your monstrous lover. You stare down at the werewolf, the ache that tugs at you more than just the weight of your pregnancy. Jerking off against the wolf wasn't enough; you're starved for something else, something to fill you up and stretch you out in the way you've been craving for months.

You need that damned knot.

So instead of doing the smart thing and bringing this bizarre encounter to a close, you lean forward, the scent of your sweat mingling with the wild musk rising from the wolf's hide. Even now, with your thighs caging it and your belly crowding the space between, the creature radiates a strength that could turn the tables in an instant. But some ineffable instinct tells you that it won't.

"Look at you," you murmur, your breathless voice sticky-sweet and dripping with scorn. "You could have torn me to shreds, but you're just a pathetic lump of fur with blue balls, desperate for a bitch who doesn't give a damn if you get off or not." The beast's ears flatten, but it doesn't make a sound. Instead, it shudders beneath you, seemingly caught on the intoxicating edge between the need to rut and melting under your potent humiliation. You drag the flat of your palm across its broad, furred chest, and let your words sink in like claws of your own. "Some predator you are. You're all bark and no bite, aren't you, pup?"

The cock wedged between your thighs twitches.

Fuck. Teasing the wolf is all well and good, but it's doing nothing to fill the void that's been crying out for a thick knot since the creature first knocked you up.

You want it so badly your hands shake as you shift to paw at your ruined trousers, but they're bunched and tangled at the crotch, soaked and stubbornly refusing to rip open the last few inches. Hells, you can barely reach the cords beneath the dome of your belly when you're not all riled up. There's no way you're getting free of them without standing up and giving the wolf a chance to retake control, however arbitrary that control may be.

"Dammit," you growl, your frustration mounting with every second your hole remains empty. You glare down at the werewolf, at the hunger and need plain in its eyes, and know you're both caught in the same impossible trap. "You want this so bad? Then rip the seam open—carefully."

At first, the beast hesitates and grows tense, its gilded gaze flicking up to your face then down to the bulge of your belly. For a moment, you wonder if it'll refuse to obey, or even try to regain the upper hand. But with a low, throaty rumble, the wolf eventually slides a hand toward your crotch. A single, razor-sharp claw catches the sopping seam between your legs and slices it clean through, thread popping and fabric yielding like butter under a hot knife.

You stare the wolf down all the while, this silent show of trust and obedience sending a fresh surge of want straight through your heated core. You swallow, your chin jerking in a faint nod. "Now, move those scraps out of the way and put that cock where it belongs."

The wolf huffs, an almost human sound, and with deliberate care works its claws under the torn edges of your trousers to peel them away. The fabric pulls tight, then parts, letting cool air ghost over your pulsing, dripping center, leaving you fully exposed to the wolf's unblinking gaze. Its nostrils flare, greedily drawing in your scent, and the beast shudders as if the smell alone is enough to unravel it.

Its claws retreat, replaced by the broad, rough pads of its hands, which bracket your hips and lift you—just enough to align the reddened, drooling tip of its cock with the slick rim of your hole. Every line of its body is strained, as if the wolf is holding back some immense, coiled force, but it doesn't move an inch except as guided.

"Good boy," you purr, almost indulgently. "Just—just like… mmhmm." You hover for a heartbeat, knees wide, belly cumbersome, letting the tip of the shaft kiss the place where you need it most, before finally sinking down.

The first blunt nudge nearly makes you sob in relief. Your hole is so puffy and eager that the head pops inside with barely any resistance, yielding instantly to the pressure. The beast is thicker than you remember, but deliciously so, the stretch a pleasant sort of burn as your body swallows it deeper.

Some deep, hidden part of you cries out in what can only be rapture. Finally, finally, you have what you've been missing. You're complete. And you'll relish every moment you can cling to this before it's torn away again.

So you drop your weight, making sure the werewolf can feel every inch of your slick, throbbing channel as you clench around its cock. Reminding it of what it gave up. "Bet you missed this hole," you whisper hoarsely, seizing the wolf's jaw in your hand and squeezing until its tongue lolls free. "Bet you spent the last eight months jerking off at the memory of how good I fucked you, how much you loved giving up control to a paltry human." Your thumb traces the black, shining lip of its snout. "Admit it. You're my bitch."

The wolf doesn't fight the accusation, nor does it shy away from your grip. It simply stares up at you, a heat in its eyes that's as much challenge as submission. There's an obvious threat of violence humming just under its hide, yet it lies still, utterly conquered and loving it. If it wanted, the werewolf could flip you, pound you into the loam, breed you again until your insides were nothing but its pups and seed. But all it does is whine, eyes fluttering with something both defiant and needy, as you mercilessly objectify it and ride it into the dirt.

With each rocking motion, your belly wobbles over the wolf's heaving torso, impossibly full of the offspring you created together, your arousal spiking at the sight of this once-terrifying beast reduced to a whining, compliant mount. The edge of your teeth digs into your lower lip as you take another inch of its cock, then another, your body rippling around the intrusion with greedy delight.

"All that strength, all those wicked teeth, and you'd rather lie there and let me use you. How pitiful can you be?"

The werewolf's hips begin to move in time with yours, its cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. Part of you wants to snap at it, to make the wolf go still again so you can treat it as nothing more than a toy, but the extra movement is rubbing up against something divine that makes you keen with delight. You can feel the base of your monstrous lover's shaft swelling, its knot ballooning in anticipation of the coming finish, and that knowledge only spurs you on.

"This is what you hoped for, isn't it, mutt?" Your hips move in frantic circles while you soak the wolf's fur with your juices. "You wanted to feel your pups kick while I rode you into the ground."

The claws at your hips suddenly clutch tighter, not with a need to control but with a stabilizing tension, anchoring you to the shuddering, panting form beneath. A few months ago, you'd probably have slapped those hands away, but now it's a welcome aid to steady your unwieldy form. The werewolf's restraint is palpable, every muscle stiff as it lets you lead, lets you bear down on its thick, pulsing shaft, lets you use it as you please.

The awareness leaves you ravenous.

Your back arches, both to accommodate your distended belly and so you can lever yourself ruthlessly onto the wolf's cock, taking it deeper, letting the ache in your thighs and the squelch of your own arousal drive you closer to the brink. Each time you drop your full weight in this brutal rhythm, you can feel the way the wolf's knot continues to swell, threatening to breach you entirely. Every thrust brings you closer to the moment when it will plug up your greedy, clutching passageway and lock inside, leaving you truly, savagely, full.

So close. So godsdamned close.

"Inside," you snarl, gyrating with increasingly mindless voracity. "Knot me, you needy little hound. I want it. I want it so fucking bad—"

The wolf's ears flick, its breath coming in harsh, fevered pants, and then it obeys. Haunches flexing, muzzle splitting in a near-silent growl, the creature rolls its hips and drives upward with a force that almost knocks you off your perch. The fattening bulb of its knot, engorged and searing hot, punches relentlessly at your opening until something inside of you ultimately gives.

You bare your teeth and cry out, unable to keep up even the pretense of composure, as that inflated knob finally forces its way in.

There's a snarling howl, then you feel the throbbing of the wolf's shaft and a torrent of what can only be seed pouring into your body.

So full.

Your vision whites out at the edges, until all you're left with is pulsing, blissful ecstasy.

When you finally come back to yourself, you're slumped on your side in the dry leaves, cheek pressed into the warm, surprisingly comforting fur of the wolf's neck. You're shuddering, every nerve ending ablaze, with one of your legs slung across the wolf's waist. Your hole is stretched wide, still locked around the throbbing mass of the beast's knot, each weak twitch sending aftershocks while you clench and spasm.

Neither of you speaks, not even when you notice the paw splayed across the surface of your belly, heaving with each breath, tight and sore from all of the recent jostling. And that's fine, of course. It isn't like this is anything other than a random… thing.

Time passes. The knot eventually deflates, releasing the pressure and fluid it had kept locked within.

But rather than immediately taking leave of one another, you find yourself gathered close. The wolf curls around your exhausted body from behind, enveloping you in radiating heat, and you find yourself burrowing closer before you think to question why. An arm, massive and shaggy, remains slung over your middle, claws spread wide and protective—almost venerating in their unexpected gentleness. The strength that you once ground beneath your heel now forms a cocoon to shelter your fertile, well-fucked body.

You're not sure when you last felt so completely and utterly satisfied, now that you think about it.

You ought to be angry (at the wolf, at yourself, at the universe for setting you up like this yet again), but right now, you're too spent to feel much of anything besides tired. Maybe later, once your body stops thrumming in the afterglow and your hole stops leaking, you'll let the indignation surface. Give the damned werewolf a piece of your mind, and a good scolding for all its months of silence and the way it has rutted you to ruin.

For the moment, you're content to let your mind drift on a current of blissful exhaustion, your skin flushed and sticky, listening to the slow, steady breathing of the monster curled up at your side, while a litter of werewolf pups squirms within your womb.

You'll worry about reclaiming your dignity—and your hatchet—later.