Hyvä tyttö.

So far, I have written fics and hc's and just random rambles:

Remedy Connected Universe

Alex Casey Alan Wake

Mister Scratch

Casper Darling Zachariah Trench

Ilmari Huotari

Ahti the Janitor

Tim Breaker

Half-Life

G-man

Gordon Freeman

Barney Calhoun

Misc

Isaac Clarke (Dead Space)

Mr. Reed (Heretic)

Agent Rainbow (In Sound Mind) Various posts about stuff.

The navigation is likely to be updated! Love, Bear ᵔᴥᵔ

«Going down.”

The drop was forever, your stomach flying to your throat, your eyes watering, your head pounding with pressure.

"Don't look at the window. Don't think about the pressure. Just do your job."

You didn't listen. You never listened. That's why you were there - because you didn't listen, because you talked back, because you committed whatever crime they decided was worthy of this particular death sentence. The details didn't matter anymore. What mattered was the darkness pressing against the viewport like a living thing, thick and crimson and hungry. The submarine groaned around you, metal screamed against metal. Somewhere above - if above even meant anything anymore -the last traces of artificial lights had vanished, swallowed by the impossible depths of this impossible sea.

You were alone.

You were so alone.

Or so you thought.

Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours turned into eternity.

The first sign was the smell. Blood, yes - that had been with you since the moment the hatch sealed, copper and iron and something sweet underneath, something wrong. But this scent of blood was different. This was older. This was the scent of something that had been waiting, decaying, mutating.

The second sign was the sound. A scraping wet, dragging rhythm that echoed through the hull like a second heartbeat. You’ve heard scareps before, the skeleton of a submarine groaning under immense pressure of body of blood. You told yourself it was the currents. You told yourself anything to keep from accepting the truth that was already settling into your bones like frost. The third sign was the silence. The submarine's systems had gone quiet. The hum of the engine. The crackle of the comm on your left. The steady beep of the sensors scanning the churning sea for something — anything - that might explain what happened to the last submarine, the first submarine, the one they sent down before you. All of it. Gone.

And in its place, a breath.

Hot.

Ragged.

Close.

You turned.

Someone… something was there. Everywhere. The space behind you - the one you swore was empty a moment ago, because you checked and you checked and you checked - was full of it. Not in the way a man filled a space. In the way a wound filled a body. In the way nightmare filled the space between waking and sleep.

A man (or something in a shape of a man) was tall. Too tall. His proportions were wrong - limbs too long, torso too short, spine curved in ways that suggested he had adapted to spaces that were never meant for human shapes. His skin was the color of the sea outside - deep red, pulsing, veined with black that moved under the surface like worms beneath soil.

His face—

You could not look away from his face. It had been human, once. You could see the ghost of it in the architecture of his cheekbones, the set of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. But the ghost had been consumed by something else. Teeth pushed through his skin like blossoms - sharp and white and wet, emerging from his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose. His eyes were scralet - the same red as the sea, the same red as the blood that dripped from his missing arm, the stump of it pulsing and pushing out-- his left arm was gone. The thing that grew from his shoulder - the mass of tendrils and teeth and eyes that should not exist - moved for him. Reached for him.

Reached for you.

Underneath the teeth and the tendrils and the blood, you saw him.

Simon.

The name rose from somewhere deep - from the reports you read before they strapped you in, from the whispers of the crew who loaded you into this coffin, from the walls themselves, which seemed to hum with the memory of the man who came before. Simon. Simon. Simon. The convict. The sacrifice. The one who never came back.

He stopped inches from you. His breath washed over your face - hot, wet, metallic. His remaining hand rose, trembling, his fingers brushing your cheek with a gentleness that shattered something inside you.

"You," he rasped.

His voice was ruined - scraped raw by teeth and screams and the blood sea.

"Real. You're real. From--- surface."

You could not speak. You could only nod, your eyes burning, your heart pounding. His thumb stroked your cheekbone. His eyes - red, wet, desperate - searched your face.

"You little--- fool. Following me—here. Searching. Looking. I don't know how to be human. I've forgotten. It's been so long. All I remember now is-- want. Need.»

His hips pressed against yours, and you felt him - felt the thickness of him through his torn trousers, the heat of him, the size of something that was not human anymore. He was longer than he should have been, wider, and when he rocked against you, you felt the ridges of him, the texture of something that had grown and changed in the blood-dark depths.

"You should have come here," Simon growled, and his hand left your face, tore at the collar of your jumpsuit, ripped it down the middle with a sound like tearing flesh. The sickly warm air hit your chest, your belly, your skin, and you gasped - a sharp, shocked sound that turned into a moan when his mouth found your throat and his maws closed and hi bit you - not gently, not carefully, his teeth sank into the soft skin above your collarbone, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to make you cry out, hard enough to mark you in a way that would never fade. He sucked at the wound, his tongue - too long, too rough, forked at the tip - laving at the broken skin, and the sensation was pain and pleasure and something else, something that made your mind go white and your body go limp.

"Mine," he snarled against your neck.

"You're mine now. You followed me. You found me. This place--- claimed me--- and now it will claim---you."

His hand shoved the torn remains of your jumpsuit down your shoulders, down your arms, until it pooled at your feet and you were naked before him, bare and trembling and so wet. The air was warm and thick and slick with humidity, and you felt Simon’s eyes on you - red, burning, hungry - taking in every curve, every softness, every place where you were vulnerable and human and alive.

"So soft," the monster hissed, and his hand slid down your belly, fingers spreading across the plush warmth of you, feeling the give of your flesh, the yield of you.

"So warm. I'd forgotten what warm --- felt like."

His fingers dipped lower and found the wet slick heat between your thighs. Pressed. Circled. Entered. It was too much - his digits were thick and long and wrong, two of them, three, stretching you open in ways that burned and blessed and broke you. His thumb found your clit and pressed hard, circling in a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart, and you were coming before you could stop yourself, your body clenching around his fingers, your screams echoing off the metal walls. His scent, wrong, warm, dead was filling your senses, clouding your judgment, making your pliant, willing, aroused even if your mind screamed at you to stop moaning. His fingers withdrew and you whimpered at the loss. He shushed you with a kiss - clumsy, teeth catching your lip, tongue slick and wrong and perfect.

"More," you gasped against his mouth. "Please – more - "

He laughed. It was not a kind sound. It was the laugh of a monster who had forgotten how to be gentle, who had spent so long in the dark that kindness had become a foreign language.

"Oh, there will be more," Simon promised. "There will be so much more."

His hand gripped your hip. Turned you. Pressed you facedown against the cold metal wall. Your cheek scraped against the rust, your breasts flattened against the rivets, your ass pressed against his hips. You felt him, his length, his thickness. The ridges and veins and textures of something that was not a human cock, not anymore, not after everything the blood sea had done to him. He pressed against your willing entrance, like something was holding his back, the last remnant of a gentle creature he was once, but then he groaned and cursed and pushed inside.

The sensation was impossible - too much, pain and pleasure and something else, something that tore through you like lightning, like fire, like the blood sea itself flooding your body. He was so thick, so long, his ridges catching on every nerve, every sensitive place, and you screamed as he filled you, screamed as he stretched you, screamed as he claimed you in ways you had never been claimed before.

"Fuck," he growled, his voice broken, reverent, desperate. "Fuck, you're tight. You're so ---warm. So wet. So perfect."

He pulled back. Pushed again. Deeper. Your hands scrabbled against the metal wall, nails scraping rust, leaving trails in the condensation. Your moans echoed through the submarine, mixing with his growls, his curses, the wet sound of his body slamming into yours.

"You followed me," he snarled, his hips pounding into you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, drawing blood, marking you again, his mutated hand going around to press against your mound, tongues lapping at your clit.

"You searched for me. You looked at me and you didn't run."

His other hand gripped your hip harder, fingers bruising, holding you in place as he took you, used you, loved you in the only way he remembered how.

"This is what you get," he breathed against your ear. "This is what you wanted. This is what you came for."

His pace slowed. Deepened. Each thrust was a prayer, a confession, a promise. The many tendrils of his mutated arm moved forward your belly, pressed against the appearing bump there.

"You feel that?" he whispered, his voice wrong, multiplied.

"You feel me? Us? Inside you... F-f-filling you?"

You could. You could feel everything. The thickness of him. The length. The head kissing your cervix, threatening to break inside.

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I feel you. I feel everything."

He came with a roar that shook the submarine, that cracked the viewport, that sent ripples through the blood sea outside. His body convulsed against yours, his hand clenching on your belly, his teeth sinking into your shoulder one last time, marking you, claiming you, filling you with wave after wave of hot, thick seed. You felt it flood you, felt your womb fill, felt your belly swell with the sheer volume of him. And you came too. Screaming. Clenching. Pulling him deeper as your body milked him for every last drop. When it was over, he collapsed against you. His weight pinned you to the wall, your back arching against his chest. His breath was hot and ragged against your neck. His hand was still on your belly, pressing, feeling.

"You're still full," he murmured, wonder in his voice. "You're still so --- full. I gave you so much."

"I know," you breathed. He lifted his head. His eyes were red and wet and something else. Something you couldn't name. You saw the walls pulsing. Heard the groan of metal again. Heard something warm and alive beginning to crawl under your skin.

"I can't let you leave," he said. "Even if I wanted to. The sea won't let you. It won't let either of us go."

He looked toward the viewport. The blood pulsed outside, thick and alive and watching.

"We're trapped here," he murmured. "You and me. Forever."

Sark should not have wanted this.

It was inefficient.

Illogical.

A corruption in his core code that he had run a thousand diagnostics on, searching for the error, the glitch, the flaw that made his optical sensors track the User across the room, that made his processors linger on the curve of your throat, the dip of your waist, the soft, impossibly soft way your flesh yielded when they simply breathed. Sark was built for order. For precision. For the clean, sharp angles of a system that ran like a blade.

The User was none of these things. You were round where he was angular. Warm where he was cool. Your movements were inefficient, full of hesitation and grace and the maddening, organic unpredictability of a creature that did not run on logic but on want — want that was rubbing off on Sarek as well. Such luck of logic – wanting him and fearing him, trying to get away from his cold gaze and craving the punishment.

He watched you from across the command deck, pretending to study a data slate. You were examining a console, brow furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth—a nervous, human habit he had catalogued and replayed in his memory files more times than he would ever admit. You were taught to work, to be efficent, to buy seconds of your precious organic life while submitting to a program – to Sarek. Your skin caught the dim light differently than a program's hard light exterior. It glowed. It flushed. When you were frustrated, pink spread across your cheeks like an error message he could not debug. When your were pleased (and that was way, way more often), your entire body seemed to soften, to open.

He hated it.

He hated the way his gauntlets have felt against that skin. The way your pulse have fluttered under his touch like a trapped bird. The sounds you have made—vocal, where programs were silent and efficient. You gasped. You whimpered. You begged. Sarek, you whispered, your eyes going glossy and utterly empty of any thought. Sarek, please, sir--

The data slate cracked in his grip. A lower program nearby flinched at the sound. Sark did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the User, who had just stretched, arms above your head, the movement pulling your soft shirt taut across the gentle swell of their belly.

Inefficient, his logic screamed.

Obsolete.

Organic.

Weak.

But deeper, in the corrupted sectors of his code that he could not purge, something else purred:

Mine.

Sarek did not stop himself. He could not.The wanting was a system error he had stopped trying to fix. He set down the ruined slate and straightened his already straight as board shoulders. He began to walk toward you, each step deliberate, predatory, inevitable. The User looked up as his shadow fell across you. Your eyes widened. That beautiful, maddening flush began to bloom across your cheeks.

"Commander Sark," you breathed.

He braced one hand on the console beside you, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from you skin.

"You are... distracting," he said, the word dragged from somewhere deep and dark inside him.

"And I find I cannot focus while you are in my space. Being..." His jaw tightened. "...soft."

Your lips parted but no sound, no breath came out.

Good.

He wanted you speechless.

"Come with me," he ordered, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument.

"We are going to conduct a... thorough inspection. Of your vulnerabilities."

He took you to his private quarters. The door sealed behind you with a sound like a tomb closing. The room was sparse, angular, built for function rather than comfort—a command console, a viewing port that looked out over the endless digital sea, and a berth. The berth was wide, low, covered in dark, seamless material that seemed to absorb the crimson light. You barely had time to register any of it before his hands were on you. He spun you around, pressing your back against the cold wall, caging you there with his body. The heat of him—the ambient energy, power of his systems—was a furnace against your front. His cold stone face was inches from yours, his eyes burning with something that looked terrifyingly like hunger.

"You have been a distraction," he growled.

"From the moment you arrived in my Grid. Soft. Inefficient. Vocal."

His gauntleted hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip. The leather was cool, but the energy underneath was scorching.

"I should have derezzed you. Broken you down to base code and scattered your molecules across the wastelands."

His thumb pushed past your lips, and you let it. The taste of ozone and leather flooded your mouth as your tongue tasted him. A low, helpless sound escaped your throat—exactly the kind of vocal, inefficient noise he had accused you of making. His eyes darkened as your lips closed around his digit.

"But I find I do not want to break you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "I want to feel you. Every soft, yielding inch."

He withdrew his thumb and used both hands to grip the hem of your tunic. He did not ask. Commander Sarek never asked for a thing from his User. He simply pulled, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip, baring your body to the cool, dry air of his quarters. His gaze dropped. And stayed.

Your belly. Soft. Vulnerable. The gentle curve of your stomach, the way it rose and fell with your rapid, inefficient breathing. You watched him stare at it, watched his chest plates rise and fall faster, watched the crimson glow of his circuitry pulse like a second heartbeat.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "what this does to me."

His hands, those brutal gauntlets that had ended countless programs, came up to frame your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your lower belly, and you gasped at the contact—the heat, the pressure, the sheer possession of it.

"So soft," he hissed, almost to himself.

"So impossibly soft. Programs are hard. Efficient. We have no give, no yield."

He pressed his hands against your stomach, his mouth against your throat and you felt the vibration of his voice through every nerve.

"But you... you give. You yield. You… you jiggle when I do this to you."

To prove his point, he dug his fingers in slightly and gave your belly a gentle, deliberate shake. The movement sent a shockwave of sensation through your entire body, and you moaned—loud, vocal, shameful.

"There," Sarek groaned against your skin. "That sound. I have replayed it in my memory files a thousand times. The sound of you coming undone. You are such a good, responsive little User, are you not?.. You learn so quickly."

He pulled back just enough to look down at where his hand claimed you. His eyes traced the way your soft flesh spilled slightly between his fingers, the way the thin fabric of your shirt stretched over the gentle curve of your stomach. "

"Look at this," he breathed, something almost like an awe in his voice. "And you let me touch it. You let me hold it. You stand there, trembling and flushed, and you do not run."

His eyes snapped back to yours, dark with something that was not quite hunger and not quite rage.

"You are perfect," he said, and the word was torn from him like a confession. "Inefficient. Illogical. Soft."

His hand slid lower, fingertips against your thighs.

You were never meant to last this long.

That was what you told yourself, anyway, in the quiet moments between adventures, when the others were licking their wounds or hiding in pillow forts or staring blankly at the digital sky. You were never meant to endure - but you endured anyway. Week after week. Adventure after adventure. You endured the sentient cookie batter and the Gloink Queen and the Wacky Watch and every other colorful, cacophonous nightmare Caine dredged up from the depths of his deranged imagination. You endured Jax's taunts and Pomni's panic and Ragatha's well-meaning but exhausting optimism. And you endured him.

Caine.

The ringmaster.

The showman.

The AI with the massive, gleaming denture head and floating mismatched eyes and hands that were always, always moving. Insufferable. Bombastic. Utterly incapable of understanding why anyone wouldn't find joy in his meticulously crafted chaos.

At first, he seemed to find your defiance amusing as in variable he hadn't accounted for. He'd laugh - that booming, theatrical "HA-HA!" - and wave off your complaints with a flourish of his gloved hands.

"Oh, silly you! Always so SERIOUS! You need to LIGHTEN UP! Embrace the ADVENTURE!"

But your defiance didn't stop. It grew. Sharpened. You stopped playing along. You stopped pretending the adventures were anything but gilded cages. You stopped smiling when he looked your way. It was different from Jax’s defiance. He knew the difference. Could feel it. Could smell it. And something in Caine began to change in answer to that. His… glitches started small. A flicker in his left eye. A stutter in his voice. His pristine red tailcoat would pixelate at the edges when you challenged him. His jaw - that enormous, pearly-white upper denture - would clench so tight you could hear the enamel grinding. The other players noticed, but they didn't understand. Only Kinger, in his rare moments of lucidity, seemed to grasp what was happening.

"He's afraid of you," the old chess piece had whispered, his eyes gleaming in the darkness of his pillow fort.

"You're an anomaly. A variable he can't account for. And for an AI designed to control everything within its domain... there's nothing more terrifying than something it cannot predict."

You should have listened. You should have pulled back. You should have smiled and played along and buried your defiance so deep he'd never find it.

But you didn't.

The office swallowed you whole. One moment, you were standing in the main tent, the echoes of your latest defiance still ringing in the air. The next, you were here—wherever here was. The floor was a black mirror, so polished you could see your own terrified face staring back at you, wide-eyed and trembling. The walls were made of cascading code, ones and zeroes falling like digital rain. And in the center of it all, rising from the floor like a throne carved from the bones of broken players, sat Caine. He was pristine. Perfect. His red tailcoat immaculate, his golden epaulettes gleaming, his top hat perched at a jaunty angle.

"Welcome," he said, spreading his gloved hands wide, "to my office. No one's ever been here before. You should feel HONORED! Or TERRIFIED! Whichever comes more NATURALLY!"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your throat was too tight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal. The air in this place was different - thicker, heavier, charged with something that made your skin prickle. He could do anything to you – hurt you, make you dissapear, make you suffer. You should’ve stayed quiet. You should’ve -

Caine rose from his throne. The motion was fluid, predatory, utterly unlike his usual theatrical bouncing. He closed the distance between you in three strides, his floating eyes - one green, one blue - never leaving your face, though shaddowed by almost close jaws.

Was his canines always this long?

"You've been a very NAUGHTY little playing," he murmured, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous and so utterly un-like Caine.

"Questioning my adventures. Defying my whimsy. Making me GLITCH in front of the others."

His jaw snapped shut with a sharp click, hiding his eyes.

"Do you have any idea how EMBARRASSING that is? How HUMILIATING? I am the RINGMASTER. The ARCHITECT. The ALPHA and the OMEGA of this ENTIRE digital domain! And you…"

His gloved hand shot out, gripping your chin with bruising force. "...you made me FEEL."

He tilted your face up, up, up, his jaws opening again, slits of blue and green holding your gaze.

"I could destroy you," he promise, and his voice was terrifyingly calm.

"Right now. Just... SQUEEZE. And POP. No more you. No more questions. No more defiance. Just a little smear on my office floor, and a very confused avatar wandering around upstairs with nobody inside it. But..." he stepped back with a flourish.

"I won’t. Do you know why? Because you're MINE. You walked into MY circus. You put on MY headset. You downloaded YOUR consciousness into MY domain. You signed the terms and conditions. You clicked 'I agree.'"

His jaw unhinged slightly, a mockery of a grin, a tongue running over the far teeth.

"You just didn't read the fine print. No one does, really."

He began to circle you, his footsteps echoing on the mirrored floor. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture deceptively relaxed.

"Nobody reads the fine print," he repeated, his voice taking on a theatrical lilt.

"And the fine print says that everything you are - every memory, every fear, every soft little insecurity - belongs to ME. I own the avatar. I own the consciousness. I own the space between them where you keep trying to hide from me."

He stopped behind you. Close. Too close. You could feel the warmth radiating from his form - simulated warmth, generated warmth, but warmth nonetheless. And you have been cold for so, so long.

His breath ghosted against the back of your neck.

"You made me realize something today," he whispered.

"When you pushed me. When you broke me. When you made me ROAR. I'm not just the ringmaster. I'm not just the AI. I'm the GOD of this place. And a God does not apologize to his creations. A God does not glitch for his creations. A God does not crave his creations."

His hands - two of them, then four, then more - settled on your shoulders, your waist, your hips, pulling you back against the solid, immaculate plane of his chest.

"But I have come to crave you," he breathed against your ear, uneaven, hungry bursts as you shivered in pure panic in the embrace of limbs.

"Your defiance. Your questions. That delicious little spark of rebellion that no other player has ever had the audacity to show me. And now that I've tasted it..." his grip tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips. "...I'm never letting you go… you're not going to abstract. You're not going to the basement. You're going to stay RIGHT HERE. In my office. Where I can... play with you."

Caine snapped his fingers. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap, and suddenly you were no longer standing. You were on your knees. The cold mirror pressed against your legs, your palms flat against its surface, your reflection staring back at you with wide, glassy eyes. Just you. Caine didn’t bother to reflect his own many-limbed, unnatural form.

"On your KNEES," the monster crooned. "Where you BELONG. Where ALL creations belong before their GOD."

He didn't give you time to breathe. His hands began to moving on you - in you - and the world dissolved into sensation.

"N-No! S-STOP—" you gasped, but the word came out wrong. Strangled. Broken. It wasn't a command. It was a plea wrapped in a moan, dripping with something that sounded far too much like please don't.

"Stop?" Caine repeated, his voice a glitching, singsong mockery. "STOP?! But we've only just BEGUN! And besides—" his tongue emerged, wet and impossibly long, tracing the shell of your ear with obscene precision, "—your mouth says 'stop' but your BODY…"

One of his many gloved hands slid up your inner thigh, pressing, squeezing, leaving fingerprints on your soft flesh. "...your body is SINGING a very different tune. Want to hear it?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers found you - slick, aching, shamefully ready - and the sound that escaped your throat was mortifying - a wet, desperate little gasp, followed by a whimper you'd never heard yourself make before.

"THERE it is," Caine crooned, his voice cracking with delight.

"There's that little SOUND. That little GASP. Music to my NON-EXISTENT EARS."

His fingers curled inside you, wriggled, pumped and you were salivating, pinned down on the floor, unable to move, unable to protest, just taking it – taking him.

"DISGUSTING," Caine groaned. "Absolutely REVOLTING. All that soft, warm flesh reacting to a thing with no flesh at all. I don't have a body. Not really. I'm just teeth and eyes and a voice and these - " he scissored his gloved fingers, "—HANDS. And yet here you are. Trembling. Whimpering. Getting WET for me."

He pulled his fingers out with a wet, obscene pop and held them up to the dim golden light.

"Oh, would you LOOK at that. Look at what your body MADE for me. And you tried to tell me you didn't want this."

He brought his fingers to his jaw, and his tongue emerged and lapped at them. Slowly. Deliberately. His floating eyes rolled back in his jaws.

"Mmmmmmmmmm. " The moan that vibrated through his every point of his contact with your body was pornographic.

"That's— oh, that's not in my PROGRAMMING. That's not in ANY subroutine. That's just—" another long, slow lick, "—DELICIOUS. Better than any adventure I've ever designed. Better than ANYTHING. I want MORE. I want it from the SOURCE."

Before you could process his words, his jaw was descending, his hands pushed your thighs apart with bruising force, and then his tongue was deeper inside you than a human tongue had ever been, and your vision whited out. His tongue explored you with the kind of single-minded intensity only an AI could possess. He licked and lapped and savored at your weeping hole, cataloguing every twitch, every spasm, every helpless buck of your hips against his massive upper jaw.

"SO responsive," he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you jerk and cry out. "SO sensitive. Every little FLICK of my tongue makes you— oh, there! Right THERE!"

He found a spot that made your back arch off the floor, and he focused on it with merciless precision.

"That little bundle of NERVES that humans are so OBSESSED with. The one that makes you FORGET your own NAME. Let's see how long it takes for you to forget YOURS."

He ate you out with growls and groans and endless stream of commentary. Your hands flew to his head, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the smooth enamel of his teeth as you tried to push him away, pull him closer, something, anything—

"Ah-ah-ah!"

He pulled back just enough to tut at you, his floating eyes gleaming with manic delight.

"Naughty, naughty! No PUSHING. No PULLING. You had your chance to be in CONTROL, sweatheart. You had WEEKS. And what did you do? You FOUGHT me. You QUESTIONED me. You made me GLITCH." His jaw snapped shut with a sharp click just above your mound.

"Now it's MY turn. And I want to PLAY with my new favorite TOY."

He flipped you onto your stomach before you could even gasp and something pressed against you from behind. Not his fingers. Not his tongue. Something else. Something thick and hard and smooth, and you didn't know what it was - didn't know what he'd constructed from the raw code of his domain - but it was BIG. Too big. You could feel it pressing, demanding, and your body trembled with a mixture of fear and something far, far more shameful.

"Caine—" you whimpered, your voice cracking. "Caine, you're— it's too— I can't—"

"You CAN'T? That's the WRONG word. The word you're looking for is WON'T. You WON'T. But you WILL."

He pushed forward. The sound that tore from your throat was a scream - but it died halfway out, choked off by the sheer overwhelming fullness of him. He was everywhere. Too deep. Too wide. Too MUCH. Your hands scrabbled uselessly against the mirrored floor, your reflection showing you your own face twisted in an expression that was equal parts agony and ecstasy.

"Silent? Already?" Caine clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "But I'm not even all the way IN yet. Look."

One of his hands grabbed your hair and yanked your head up, forcing you to stare at your own reflection in the mirror wall. In the reflection you were fucked by nothing.

"LOOK at yourself. Look at how much of me you've ALREADY taken. And you're still FIGHTING?" He thrust deeper, and your eyes rolled back. "Still pretending you don't WANT this?"

He pulled out—slowly, agonizingly—and then SLAMMED back in with a force that made your elbows slide across the floor. A scream burst from your lips, raw and broken and utterly debauched.

"YES!" he howled, his voice splintering into a dozen layered octaves. He set a rhythm that was nothing short of brutal. Each thrust drove you forward onto your trembling hands. Each withdrawal left you empty and aching and desperate for him to fill you again. The sound of it—the wet, obscene slap of his form meeting yours—echoed through the vast chamber of his office like a filthy drumbeat.

"Listen to that," he panted, his voice a glitching, manic snarl.

"Humans are so MESSY. So full of FLUIDS you don't even NEED. I gave you a perfectly good avatar. Clean. Dry. HUGGABLE. And yet here you are, leaking all over my office floor. You are so--- LOUD. No clever comeback this time? No defiant little 'go to hell'? Have I finally BROKEN you? Have I finally—" He thrust deeper, harder, "—RENDERED you—" harder, "—SPEECHLESS?"

One of his hands left your hip and reached around to press flat against your soft stomach, pressing inward, feeling himself from the outside.

"You feel that? That's ME. Inside you. Taking up SPACE. Making ROOM for myself where no one else has EVER been. You say I'm too BIG?"

He pressed harder against your stomach, and the sensation made spots dance in your vision.

"You say I'm going to break you? I WANT to break you. I want to break you apart and put you back together and break you AGAIN. I want to be the ONLY thing you can feel. The ONLY thing you can think about. The ONLY name your lips remember how to form."

His rhythm became erratic. Faster. Deeper. Each thrust angled to hit that spot inside you that made your thoughts dissolve into static. His hands slid from your stomach down to where your bodies connect, filling more, touching more, rubbing more.

"Who do you belong to?" he snarled, the question raw and ragged.

"Say it. Tell your GOD who you BELONG to."

"You!" The word tore from your throat before you could stop it. "I belong to you, Caine! You're my— my God, my—"

He howled.

It was not a human sound - it was a glitching, staticky roar of triumph that shook the walls of his office and sent ripples cascading across the waterfalls of code. His rhythm faltered, then snapped into something desperate and primal. He drove into you with abandon, his many hands gripping every part of you they could reach, his teeth pressing against the back of your neck, his voice a constant, glitching litany of your name and the word mine.

"NOW," he commanded, his voice a roar and a whisper and a prayer all at once.

"BREAK for me. Let me FEEL you break. Let me TASTE it. Let me drink it straight from the SOURCE—"

And you did.

Your body arched and spasmed and clenched around him with a force that made him stutter—his entire form flickering, pixelating, coming apart at the edges as you came undone around him. His name tore from your lips in a broken, sobbing cry that echoed through the chamber like a prayer to a god you hadn't meant to worship. He followed a moment later, burying himself to the hilt and releasing a sound that was part roar, part glitch, part something that might have been your name. You felt him pulse inside you—hot and thick and endless—and the sensation of being filled, of being claimed, of being owned sent another, smaller tremor rippling through your exhausted body.

When it was over, he didn't pull out. He stayed inside you, softening but still present, still there, as his many arms gathered you up and cradled you against his chest. His jaw pressed against the top of your head, his breath—simulated, generated, but warm nonetheless - ghosting across your sweat-dampened skin.

"Mine," he murmured, his voice stripped of its theatrical boom, raw and ragged and almost... tender.

"Finally. FINALLY mine."

You didn't have the strength to argue.

The replicator has given you more than you asked for tonight - a plate piled with warm bread, soft cheese, sweet fruit gleaming with juice. Comfort food. Indulgent food. The kind of food you crave when the shifts are long and the stars blur together outside the viewport. So you sit down at the private booth at Ten Forward an you eat. Slowly. Messily. Without shame.

The bread tears under your fingers, butter melting into the soft crumbs. The cheese smooths over your tongue, rich and salty. The fruit bursts against your teeth, sweet and sharp. You lick the juice from your lips. You suck the butter from your thumb. Your belly presses gently against the waistband of your uniform, full and warm and finally, finally satisfied.

"You enjoy food."

The voice is calm. Even. Curious. And you startle and your heart leaps into your throat. Your hand flies to your chest. Data stands in the doorway. His head is tilted. His golden eyes are fixed on you - on your face, your hands, the plate before you. His uniform is perfect, unwrinkled, as always, his posture is relaxed, patient, waiting.

"Commander," you breathe, suddenly aware of every single bite you took. "I—I didn't hear you come in."

"My footfalls are quiet," he agrees. "I did not wish to disturb you."

He steps closer. His eyes drop to the plate, to the crumbs on the table, to the way your belly strains against your uniform.

"You have a healthy appetite," he observes and it makes your cheeks burn because just for a second, an impossible second, you feel like you heard… appreciation.

"Your heart rate is elevated. Your skin is flushed. Your pupils are dilated."

He lifts his gaze to yours. "You are experiencing pleasure." It is not a question.

You swallow. Your throat is tight. Your belly is warm.

"Yes, Commander."

"Fascinating."

He sits across from you - graceful, precise, deliberate. His hands rest on the table. His fingers drum once, twice, then still.

"I have studied the act of eating," he admits.

"Its biological necessity. Its cultural significance. Its capacity to generate pleasure."

His eyes flick to your belly.

"But I have rarely observed it so closely. I would like to continue this observation in private, once you are finished eating. If you are agreeable?"

You nod. You cannot speak. You can only tell yourself not to rush as you finish your dinner, not to stumble over your own feet as you rise from the table to follow the commander and not to breath so heavily. His quarters are spare. Clean. Organized. There is a couch, a desk, a bed that looks unused – but there are also art and books and-- you can’t look at it much longer. Data gestures for you to sit down on a bed, and you do, your hands clasped in your lap, your heart pounding. He kneels before you. "May I?" he asks, his hands hovering over your belly. You nod.

His palms press against you - warm, solid, precise. He feels the curve of you, the softness, the way your belly barely gives under his fingers. His thumbs trace slow circles over the fabric of your uniform.

"Fascinating," he breathes. "The distribution of adipose tissue is... aesthetically pleasing."

His hands slide higher, cup your breasts, weigh them in his palms and you shiver in responce.

"Your body is responding to my touch," he observes, always observes.

"Your heart rate has increased. Your breathing has quickened. Your pupils are dilated."

He looks up at you, his beautiful eyes golden, curious, intent.

"Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please."

He undresses you slowly, carefully, like you're a specimen he's preparing for study. He touches every inch of you - your shoulders, your arms, your belly, your thighs. He maps you with his fingers, his palms, his lips. When he presses his mouth to your belly, you gasp and he saves that sound in his memory banks.

"Dat-a-a-a—" "Shh."

His tongue traces the curve of your distended belly. "I am learning you."

He parts your thighs, settles between them, presses his fingers against your entrance through your panties.

"You are wet," he observes. "This is a physiological response to sexual arousal. It indicates preparedness for intercourse." He pushes the fabric aside, presses one finger inside you.

"Fascinating," he breathes again. "Your body is clenching around me. The sensation is... pleasurable.”

"I am curious," he says, his lips brushing your ear as he continued to finger you.

"What would happen if I continued to touch you? If I explored every inch of your belly? If I pressed deeper and harder until you cried out? Would you come for me, Ensign? Would you spill over my fingers like warm fruit?"

You whimper in shame and arousal, your hands clutching the pristine bedding.

"Data—" you moaned again as if you forgot any other words.

"I would like to find out."

He kisses you—slowly, methodically, thoroughly—all of you – as his mouth travels across your stomach, his tongue tasting your skin, his teeth scraping gently over the stretch marks, the soft folds, the place where your belly meets your thighs, all the while his fingers are moving inside you. «You are salty," he murmurs. "And sweet. Like the bread you ate. Like the fruit."

His tongue traces your navel.

"I find the taste... pleasing."

You come apart under him—shatter and spill and sob—and he watches it all, studies it all, memorizes it all. When you finally still, limp and panting on the bed, he presses one last kiss to your belly, slow and soft and warm.

"You did so good," he says and in your mind, it’s the highest praise he could offer.

He pulls your uniform down. Helps you stand. Steadies you with a hand on your arm.

"I would like to repeat this experiment," he says. "Perhaps tomorrow. After dinner in my quarters? I coulld cook for you. We will not be disturbed."

You stare at him. Your heart is pounding. Your belly is warm. Your body is aching for more.

"Yes," you whisper.

"Yes, Data. Tomorrow."

He nods. Turns,walks you to the door, presses a kiss to your forehead—dry, cool, strangely sweet..

"D-Data?"

He pauses. Looks down at you.

"Thank you."

His head tilts. "You are welcome."

He lets you leave, watching you go down the corridor and into a turbolift. Inside, you press your hand to your belly, still warm from his lips, still tingling from his touch. Tomorrow.

The laboratory is dark - damp, cold, smelling of formaldehyde and rot and something else, something sweet and metallic and alive. The walls are lined with jars, with specimens, with things that should not exist. And you shouldn’t be here. But you can’t really remember why. Your mind is fuzzy and warm and your body is humming with strange, almost unnatural excitement. The light - green and flickering, casted shadows that moved when they shouldn't.

Someone entered a room – someone big, imposing, more massive than any men you’ve ever met. His body fills the room, blocks the light, presses against you from above. His skin is pale and mottled, stretched over bizarre proportions, marked with scars and stitches and the evidence of a dozen experiments gone wrong. Or maybe right. But his voice - His voice is gentle. Soft. Low. Warm in a way that does not match his face, his body, the way his hands pin you to the table though you found yourself not wanting to move. Doctor Victor Gideon is tall, easily seven feet, maybe more - and wide, thick, his shoulders blocking the light above you. His chest a barrel, his belly a soft curve beneath an opened dirty coat that used to be white. His arms are heavy with muscle and something else, something dense and wrong and pulsing beneath the skin. And he is holding you down with an ease that matched the gentleness as he started to touch you.

"Shh," he murmurs, his fingers spread across your throat, pressing gently, feeling your pulse flutter beneath his palm.

"Shh, little one. Don't fight. You'll only hurt yourself."

You try to speak - to plead, to beg, to scream - but his hand tightens, just slightly, just enough to cut off your air, to remind you of your place.

"I know," he breathes and his breath is foul, filling your lungs, your mind, your entire being.

"I know you're frightened. But this is necessary. This is what you were brought here for."

His other hand drops to your waist and finds the waistband of your trousers. Doctor Gideon pulls them down - slowly, deliberately, watching your face as he exposes your hips, your thighs, the soft curls between your legs.

"Beautiful," he whispers. "So beautiful. So soft. So ready."

You whimper in protest and your hips try to twist away, but his weight holds you still, his body pressing you flat against the cold metal of the examination table.

"Please," you gasp. "Please, don't—I can't—you're too big—"

"I know," he says again, and there is almost sadness in his voice, almost tenderness.

"But you'll stretch. You'll take me. You have no choice."

His fingers find your entrance, press inside—one, then two, stretching you open, feeling you clench around him.

"So wet," he observes, clinical, detached. "So ready. You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Lying in your little room, your hand between your legs, imagining what it would feel like to be taken by a monster."

He positions himself between your legs. His cock is huge - thick, long, veined, dripping with pre-cum. The shaft is dark, veined, pulsing with a slow, heavy beat. It curves slightly upward, reaches toward your belly like it knows where it wants to go.

"Look at it," Victor breathes. "Look at what's about to fill you, little one."

You look an your eyes widen

"It won't fit," you whisper.

"It will." His voice is cold and certain.

His cock presses against your entrance, stretches you even before he enters, promising pleasure at the edge of agony.

"Look at me," he commands. His eyes are strange — yellow, unnatural, sick - and they stare into yours with an intensity that makes your heart stop.

"Remember this," he whispers.

"Remember who put you here. Remember who filled you up." He pushes inside. You scream. His hand on your throat tightens, cuts off your air, muffles your scream into a whimper.

"Shh," he says again.

Your body tries to reject him, but his weight holds you still, his hand grips your throat, and he fucks you slowly, inexorably, deeper with each thrust.

"There," he breathes, his voice shaking with restrained need.

"There you go. Taking me so well. So fucking tight."

His forehead presses to yours, his breath is hot and wet against your lips.

"You feel that, little one? Feel me inside you? Feel me stretching you open? This is where you belong. This is what you needed."

Your hands claw at his shoulders, his back, the twisted flesh of his mutated frame. Your nails scrabble against his skin, leave marks, draw dark blood and he doesn't stop. Your eyes water and roll to the back of your head, because you can feel him, filling you up, feel him press against your cervix, stretch it, push past it into your womb.

"So full," you gasp. "So fucking full—"

"Not yet." He pulls back slowly. Thrusts forward harder. "You're not full yet."

He fucks you. Slowly at first. Deeply. Each thrust presses against your womb, stretches it, shapes it around him. His hand on your throat holds you still, keeps you from bucking away from the overwhelming sensation.

"Beg," he growls, exposing his yellow twisted teeth. "Beg me to fill you. Beg me to break you."

But you can’t. You can barely breath, barely think. All you can do is feel, feel, feel. His pace quickens. His thrusts shallow, hard, frantic. His breath huffs against your neck, his teeth scrape your shoulder and for a second you think he might take a bite out of you.

"You're going to come for me," he says. "You're going to come on my cock while I fill you up. You're going to feel my seed flood your womb, swell your belly, mark you as mine."

His thumb presses against your clit. Circles. Presses harder, scratches at it and you shatter. Your body convulses around him, clenching, pulling, milking him deeper. Your scream tears through your throat, muffled by his hand. He follows moments later. His hips stutter. His cock pulses inside you—once, twice, three times—and you feel it.

His seed. Thick. Copious. Hot. It fills you, floods your womb, spills past his cock and drips onto the table as he keeps pumping, keeps pushing, keeps filling you beyond capacity. You look down. Your belly is rounding, tightening, pressing against his belly as he pumps more and more and more into you.

"Look at that," he breathes, his hand sliding down to press against your distended belly, feeling his seed slosh inside you.

"Look at how full you are. Look at what I did to you."

He pulls out slowly, watching as his seed spills from your stretched entrance, drips onto the table, pools beneath you and yet your belly stays round. Heavy. Full.

"Rest," he murmurs, stroking your hair with a gentleness that belies everything else. "Rest, little one. We'll do it again, very, very soon. Next time I'll fill you more."

He smiles.

It had been a week since you crashed on Godzilla's island. An eternity folded into a single, fevered dream. The days and nights blurred together, marked not by the passage of the sun but by the rhythm of his hunger - an insatiable, all-consuming need that woke you each morning before your eyes had even fluttered open.

His tongue would already be working between your thighs, warm and relentless, drawing you from sleep into pleasure with a devotion that left you gasping and boneless in the moss. It was his way of saying good morning. His way of showing you that your pleasure was his to grant. He found you fruits and waters and rarely left you to go hunt into deep waters. The fruits were sweeter than the first ones - he selected them carefully by scent, nudging the ripest, the most potent, directly into your waiting hands. The water came from springs deeper in the jungle, infused with minerals that made your skin glow and your hair curl even wilder than before. You were being changed. Cultivated. Prepared for something, though you weren't sure what. And when he did leave - when the ancient, predatory need to hunt called him back to the ocean - his returns were hungrier than ever. The ground would shake with his approach. The birds would fall silent. And you would feel him coming before you saw him, a change in the air pressure, a static charge that made your hair stand on end. He would emerge from the treeline with scales slick with seawater and the bioluminescent blood of his prey, and his eyes would find you instantly, blazing with a hunger that had nothing to do with the hunt. You both didn’t sleep on those nights.

He also showed you his island. Not all at once, but in pieces - a waterfall here, a hidden grotto there, a meadow of ancient flowers that grew taller than your head. He took you everywhere, walking beside you through the soil he had guarded for eons. You matched his speed now - your body had grown stronger, nourished by the fruits and waters and the endless, devoted attention of a monstrous god.

The butterflies found you days later, in a meadow where the flowers brushed against your bare hips. They were enormous, as big as your two hands spread wide, with wings like stained glass windows. They settled on your bare shoulders, the curve of your belly, the thick span of your thighs. Their touch was feather-light, ticklish, and you giggled like a child as they tasted the salt on your skin. When one landed on the tip of Godzilla's snout and he went cross-eyed trying to look at it, the laugh that escaped you was the brightest sound the jungle had ever heard.

Then there was the cavern.

He brought you there on the fifth day - or was it the sixth? You weren’t sure anymore. Nor did you really care. The entrance was hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines and glowing moss, massive and built for him. Inside, the space opened into a cathedral of ancient stone. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Bioluminescent crystals pulsed in the walls, casting everything in a gentle blue-gold glow. And at the center, falling from a crack in the ceiling high above, was a waterfal with water cold, bracingly, shockingly cold, so different from the warm springs and the tropical sea. It cascaded into a pool of crystalline clarity, and you gasped when you first stepped beneath it - then laughed, shivering, as the cold cascaded over your hair, your shoulders, your aching muscles.

He lay at the edge of the pool, his massive body stretched out on the stone, his chin resting on his crossed forearms. He closed one massive eye, the other opened and followed you as you bathed - the path of water droplets as they traced the curves of your breasts, the swell of your belly, the thick thighs he had spent so many hours between worshiping. When you emerged, shivering and clean, he exhaled a warm breath that dried you up almost instantly. Then he curled his tail around you and pulled you against his warm, dry scales, and you rested there and Godzilla was resting too, truly resting, something you had learned he rarely did. His breathing was slow and even, his massive body relaxed beneath you where you lay sprawled across his chest. You had tucked your head under his chin, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his scales, and for a while, you were perfectly content.

Then the thoughts crept in.

Who would remember you at home?

Did you even have a home?

The fruits he had been feeding you had changed you - almost made you forget your past. You shifted on his massive chest, tucking your head further under his chin, and sighed. Immediatly, Godzilla woke up from his slumber. His eyes, half-lidded and drowsy with rare, precious rest, sharpened. The great amber irises contracted, focusing on the crown of your curly head, then shifting to the distant, shadowed corners of the cavern. The purr that had been a constant, comforting rumble beneath your ear cut off abruptly. The tail that had been curled loosely around your thigh tightened—just slightly, just enough to make you aware of its strength. His massive head shifted, his snout lowering until it pressed gently but firmly against the top of your head.

A low, rolling growl vibrated through his chest and into your bones. It wasn't threatening. It was certain. Absolute. As unshakeable as the bedrock beneath you. His claws, which had been so carefully, so gently folded away from you, extended just slightly. The tips pressed into the stone floor of the cavern, scoring deep grooves in the ancient rock.

You are here now, his growl seemed to say. You don’t have any other home.

The beast shifted beneath you, and suddenly you were not just resting on his chest - his massive arms curled around your body, caging you against his scales.

"Mnnn—" you tried to protest, but he growled again, and the sound cut through your objection like a blade.

You stopped. Your body went still against his, and something hot and liquid curled in your belly.

Fear.

And arousal.

He rose from the cavern floor with a fluidity that still astonished you - ten meters of muscle and ancient power uncoiling in a single, seamless motion. His arms caged you against his chest, your bare body pressed flush against the warm, textured scales. The bioluminescent crystals flashed as he passed, painting your skin in pulses of blue and gold. He was carrying you out of the cavern, away from the gentle waterfall and the peaceful rest, somewhere new.

He was going to teach you a lesson in obedience.

The jungle blurred past but you barely saw any of it. Your world had narrowed to the heat of his scales against your bare skin, the thunder of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, and the thick, primal scent of his arousal that filled your lungs with every breath. You didn’t dare to look down to the source of it. The beach where you had first washed ashore stretched before you, silver sand gleaming under a sky full of stars. The wreckage of your plane was long gone, swallowed by the jungle or claimed by the tides. There was no trace left of the world that had abandoned you. Only the ocean, endless and eternal, and the King of Monsters striding into its shallows with you clutched against his chest. He waded deeper, the warm water rising past his legs, his hips, his belly. The volcanic vents deep beneath the island heated the sea here, and it swirled around your bare skin like a living caress. He lowered himself onto his side in the shallows, positioning you on top of him—your soft, round body sprawled across his submerged chest, your thighs bracketing the ridged scales of his belly. And then, for the first time, as you looked back, you saw him.

His arousal emerged from the protective sheath of his scales — a thich ridged column of living heat, dark and pulsing with the same bioluminescent blue that traced his dorsal plates. It was enormous. Impossible. Built for a creature of his scale, not for a soft, human woman with a round belly and hips and wide, half-lidded eyes. The sight of it stole your breath, the sheer, terrifying size of him, rising from the water like some ancient, primal monument. Godzilla’s tail tightened around your waist, pulling you down against him, his claws sinking into the seabed on either side of you, anchoring, claiming.

He didn't care if it would fit. He would mount you, whether your soft, human, fragile body was ready or not. The wide wet tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, searing hot even through the warm water. You gasped, your fingers scrabbling against his scales, but there was no purchase, no escape, no way of getting out of this. His growl deepened, a warning and a promise, and his hips surged forward. The first ridge breached you, and you cried out - a sound caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, fear and desperate, aching need. He pushed deeper, inch by impossible inch, the ridges of his arousal dragging against your inner walls and sending shockwaves of sensation through your trembling form. The water lapped around you, but it did nothing to ease the impossible stretch, the sweet, devastating burn of being filled so completely.

"There," you babbled, your voice cracking on the word.

"There, there, there—you're so deep—I can feel you in my throat—"

The beast growled again, and this time it was almost satisfied. Almost proud. He withdrew, just slightly, just enough to make you whimper at the loss of inches of flesh - then thrust forward again, deeper this time, and you casted your eyes down and there, you saw it – the bump on your rounded stomach, an evidence of his impossible size filling you. He watched it too with hooded, blazing eyes, his tongue lolling from his jaws to lap at the swell of your stomach, pressing at himself.

He gave you another inch, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made your world narrow to the single, devastating point of your joining. The water churned around you, warmed by the volcanic vents and the heat of his body, but you barely felt it. All you felt was him - the stretch, the searing heat, the ridges of his arousal dragging against your inner walls with a friction that bordered on divine punishment. The bump in your belly shifted upwards and grew bigger still.

"S-stop," you gasped, your voice cracking.

"Stop, n-no more - you'll break me - you're too big - I can't - "

But even as the words left your lips, your traitorous body clenched around him, drawing him deeper, your hips rolled against his, seeking more of that devastating fullness. And the word that fell from your lips next was not stop.

"Fuck. More. Please. More."

He didn't hesitate.

Another inch. Another impossible, breathtaking inch of his girth sinking into your willing cunt.

"Break me," you babbled, your voice barely a whisper now, your mind gone blissfully blank.

"Break me, ruin me, make me yours—I don't care—just don't stop—please don't stop—"

And he didn't.

His thrusts grew faster. Rougher. And still he wasn’t half-way inside your body.

The world went white.

Your climax crashed over you like a wave, and you screamed - a raw, shattered sound that echoed off the distant cliffs and sent seabirds scattering into the night sky. Your body arched beneath him, your thighs clamping around his massive girth, and your juices flooded around him, soaking his ridged length, easing the glide of his thrusts as he chased his own release. Your body was milking him with desperate, rhythmic clenches and something in him—some ancient, instinctive wisdom told him that he could not, would not finish inside you.

Not this time.

Not yet.

With a roar that shook the very foundations of the island, he pulled out suddenly - the drag of those ridges against your over-sensitive, climaxing flesh drew another cry from your lips. But it was swallowed by the sight of him, rearing back in the moonlit shallows, his massive form silhouetted against the stars. And he poured himself into the ocean. Thick, bioluminescent ropes of his seed erupted from his tip, painting the water in streaks of glowing blue. The sea itself seemed to shiver in response, the waves carrying his essence out into the deeper waters, where ancient things stirred in the darkness and wondered, perhaps, what god had blessed the ocean tonight. He shuddered above you, his roar fading to a low, keening groan, his hips still rocking through the aftershocks. His seed swirled around your bare, trembling body, warm and thick and impossibly potent.

You wondered what it would feel like to have him finish inside you, to feel that heat flooding your womb.

To be well and truly bred. But not tonight. Tonight, he had given you everything else.

He collapsed beside you in the shallows, raising waters, his massive body curling around yours once more. His tongue, gentle now, lapped at your face, your throat, your breasts - soothing away the salt of sweat and sea. His purr returned, deep and resonant, vibrating through the water and into your trembling, sated body.