Princess of the Void ch 104 - Breedmate

Grant steps out of the shower. He rubs a fluffy fleece towel through his hair. “Jeez. You were right about that stuff.”

“The Breedmate’s boon?” Sykora calls over the hum of the hairdryer. Her dewy skin, still flushed from the shower, is wrapped in a slight, silky red dress. All lace and brocade and transparent tulle. It’s a twin to her wedding dress, but even lower in the neckline and with a frilly little skirt that ends far too short for public functionality.

Not that it matters, she’s told him. She’s never wearing it again after tonight.

Grant steps across the chilly stone slabs of their suite and onto the thick fur rug. He feels the indulgent plush between his toes. “Yep. It was, uh… dramatic.”

“Which part? The taste or the aftermath?”

He sits on the expansive, downy bed. “Both.”

“That’s why I only had one slice of cake.” Sykora puts her hair dryer aside and joins him. “I understand that it’s not exactly mood-setting. But we’re both squeaky-clean now, and it’ll give us energy.” Her tail guides him onto his back. “And keep us both, uh—cleared out. There’ll be no getting up to use the bathroom or stopping for a breather. Give me your wrist, dove.”

He holds his wrist out. “We can’t take breaks?”

“You’re not going to let me,” she says.

“I promise I will. If you need them.”

She retrieves a ribbon from the supplies on the nightstand: a first-aid kit, a six-pack of water bottles. “You won’t, dove. Not if the nectar does what it’s supposed to.” She ties the intricately-beaded ribbon to his wrist. “That’s okay. It’s right. Now the other.”

He watches her nimble fingers tie the second bow. “What are these?”

“These are lover’s shackles,” she says. “A holdover from the ceremonies of old, when the man had to be chained to the wall so his breedmate could escape if she wished. We’re using the collar, of course.”

“Right.” He retrieves it from the bedside and clicks it around his neck. “You wanna test it?”

“I trust it,” she says. “But if you’d like to—”

“Lonesome,” he says, and a tingling pulse radiates out of the collar. His muscles lock up. A few seconds of bizarre, painless paralysis, and then his limbs suddenly obey him again. He rubs his arm. “Goddamn.”

“No hesitation.” She laughs. “That’s such a boy thing. I’m glad it’s true for Maekyonites, too.”

He grins. “I was curious.”

“If you’re—” She bites her lip.

He gathers her closer into his arms. Her little galloping heart is beating so fast.

“I know you had that experience.” Her voice quivers. “Of losing control. And I can’t even begin to imagine. If you want to do this in some other way—there’s drugs that will let me ovulate and conceive without the bite. I just want to check. One last time.”

Grant sighs and shifts. He doesn’t think about Chassak often. He doesn’t feel ruined or wounded. Just tender, sometimes. Now and then, he’s quietly asked Sykora to erase all compulsions on him, like she did back then. Not because he suspects anything. It’s just that sometimes there’s this tiny scratching feeling in the back of his brain, around where his imprisoned agency was clawing at him. And bathing in Sykora’s flash, knowing he’s safe, shuts it up. It’s his version of the way she needs him to squish her sometimes, he guesses.

He’s been working it out with Oryn, Vora’s psychologist husband aboard the Pike. Apparently that’s a common reaction to adversarial flashing, and it’ll fade with time and trust. And there’s nobody he trusts more than Sykora.

He rests a hand on her cheek. “I can’t think of anything I want in the entire firmament more than this.”

She nuzzles into his hand. “I can’t, either.”

There’s a clattering sound coming from her hoop-festooned ears. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m—” She swallows. “I’m just a little overwhelmed. That we’re finally here.”

“Are you afraid?” He scratches behind her ear. “We can just do it normal tonight. Maybe the bite happens on the Pike, or we can use actual restraints. I don’t mind.”

“No. I want it like this. I don’t want it sterile and safe.” She rests her forehead on his, nuzzles the tip of his nose. “I want you to change me tonight,” she whispers. “I want to be bred.”

He slips his thumb along her jaw. The reality of their different sizes is nesting in him. His big hand, her delicate neck. She vents out a nervous giggle as he cups her cheek. “You are so big,” she says, as if she’s thinking the same thing he is.

“I’m sorta overwhelmed too,” he says. “I, uh. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She shakes her head, the laugh still on her lips. “I’m not afraid of some rough handling, silly Maekyonite. Taiikari girls are made for this.” She pats her butt. “Why do you think the Gods of the Firmament saw fit to grace me with these hips?”

He rests his hands on the hips the Gods gave her. His thumbs trace circles across her inner thighs.

“It’s just… this is it.” She rubs his forearms. “There’s no going back. After tonight I belong to you.”

“We belong to each other,” he says.

“Of course,” she says. “And we did already, of course. But it’s about to be real. Biological.” Her hand rests on her stomach. “Permanent.”

His breath thickens. The dark excitement she’s drawing out of him closes his grip further on her.

“I know it’s not how you see us, but…” Her face glows with her blush. “I guess it’s my Taiikari brain. Looking for something. To be claimed.”

He scoots her closer. “Well, if my commanding officer insists.”

She laughs and lays her hot palm on his sternum. “You can’t feel guilty about what you’re about to do to me. Okay? I’m aware of it. I accept it. I’m excited for it. This is everything to me, Grant.” Her hand closes into a fist against the drumming of his heart. “This is everything I thought I’d never have.”

He nods. “Promise you’ll use the collar if you need it.”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then.” He takes a stabilizing breath. “What do I do?”

“Just… be tender with me for a moment, Prince Grantyde,” she says. “Be tender now, because when we start, you won’t be.”

She tilts her head. His lips meet hers. Their hesitation melts away in the warm sweetness of their kiss. Two snug minutes and she breaks away, breathing hard, her lips shiny and dark. Under the plaited silk of her bodice, he sees the dark blue of her nipples, firm and peaked.

He cups a breast, caresses it over the lacy red cup that houses it. “Do you want me to warm you up? Maybe give you one on your own first?”

“I’m not worried about cumming, dove. God knows. I need to conserve every bit of energy.” Her thin scarlet panties rub up against him. He feels the need underneath, warm and inviting and unashamed. “I’m hoping to stay awake the whole time, but if I don’t, you keep going, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. I mean, you’ll keep going, regardless.” She kisses his chin. “But this is my consent.”

Another kiss on his cheek. Then she’s nudging against his mouth again, and he lets her tongue mingle with his. The roughness of it, the texture. The deep purr from her chest. Her wagging tail. This strange, sacred thing about to happen with his alien wife.

How often has he held her close and kissed her like this? Often enough that it’s become a little less miraculous. But this feels different. A gentle nip of her lower lip, a silky whimper. His heart hammers in his chest. Her breath is sharpening. She feels it too. The same gravity. A baby. Babies. They’re about to make babies.

He tastes a tang of sweetness, and his smile separates them. “Is that the nectar?”

She chuckles shyly. “My fangs are… pretty eager.”

“I guess it’s time.”

“I guess it is.” She takes his face gently, turns it to the window. “Look out there.” The pinprick stars gleam in the crimson oceans of his wife’s eyes. “The world we won. The first great piece of our legacy. By the time its sun rises, we’ll have another.” She cups his ear, whispers into it: “You’re about to make a mother out of me.”

His spine tingles at her scratchy voice. His heart races at the words it says.

Her chin rests on his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” A tear cuts down her face. “I love you so fucking much, Grant Hyde.”

She nuzzles his neck. She kisses it. 

Her mouth opens wider than he’s ever seen it. Her fangs drip with neurotoxin.

They sink into his flesh.

The Grant of daytime looks at Sykora and sees his best friend and the love of his life. This Grant, the Grant with Sykora’s nectar flooding his brain, sees prey.

His mind contracts like a hunter’s pupil.

He sees a tiny, blinking female, tiny but grown. He smells her musk. Smells the fruitfulness clinging to her. His simplified mind knows exactly what to do to a curvy little thing like this.

“Grant?” A nonsense sound comes out of her. “Are you—”

He tackles her onto the bed and yanks her hips against him. He snarls to see the flimsy red lace in his way. He shreds it from her. She lets out a yelp as he shoves her ankles up to her ears and exposes her trembling fertility. Her eyes are wide with shock and lust. There’s that meaningless squeak from her again, that “Grant—” as she realizes what is about to happen to her.

He has no technique. No gentleness, no thought for her pleasure. He slams his cock into her, impales her, ignores her screamed Grant! and takes her, rough and bestial. He fucks her into the bed so hard it shakes. He ruts like a beast, filling his nostrils with his squealing prey’s scent. Simple, vicious joy overtakes him. Wet heat. Soft flesh. A womb to fill.

Something scratchy and inorganic is scraping him. What’s this annoying wrapper on the outside of this female? He wants to watch her jiggle. He wants to dig his nails into her soft, full curves. A trace of his frenzied mind thinks it would be nice to eat her, but it’s quickly overruled. You can’t breed your prey and eat it too.

Instead, his fists close around the annoying, scratchy fabric keeping her from him and shred it open. She groans and keens and writhes in his grip, and it only makes him grip harder. He’s going to fuck his litter into her tight, breedable body. He’s going to cum in her as many times as it takes.

Blood on the sheets. Blood on his female. His blood, the dim passenger of his sanity realizes. Not hers. His. From the bite in his neck.

Her eyes are wide with shock and overwhelmed lust. “I feel it.” Her hand is on her midsection. “It’s ready.”

He doesn’t understand her. All he understands is: Mine.

“You—” She clings to his forearm. Her voice is high and whining and jostled by his slamming force. “You’re gonna—”

He lets out an animalistic snarl as he bottoms out in her, full of horny frustration that there’s no deeper, that he can’t burrow inside her and wear her. He bearhugs her and grinds his hips against her plump, blushing inner thighs, trying to plant his seed as deep as their mismatched bodies allow. He’s one taut, vibrating string away. He needs this unbearably pressurized heat quenched in her. He needs to cum inside her and wash away whatever she was before. To make her something new. Something his.

“Grant,” she cries. “Grant, I’m—”

His hand clamps down on her mouth and cuts off whatever mewling thing his prey was about to say. She nods vigorously instead. Her tongue laps at his fingers. Her muscles spasm and seize. Two final thrusts, deep and pushing. Two sodden moans from his conquest. And then the world goes white and his jaw locks and he does something irreversible.

He floods the wailing imp trapped beneath him with a mind-erasing pulse of heat. A boiling torrent, raw and thick and spilling into her, hot and volcanic. He ruts himself further in with every explosive thrust, folding his tight, trembling prize in half, her feet flailing helplessly at his shoulders. He pumps into her seizing, fluttering pussy. He paints her womb.

He knocks her up.

Her body clutches his, milking and coiling with the same primal eagerness that’s overtaken his waking mind. Her eyes roll into her head. He leans down and licks her face, chin to forehead, and relishes the feeling of the tiny blue morsel convulsing around his length. His grip on her face goes gentler as the last release gushes into her, releasing her mouth enough to let her make some syllable over and over as his heat fills her cunt and melts her mind, a sobbing “yes, yes, yes,” that means nothing to him.

Something fundamental shifts in him as his vessel wails and thrashes. And he knows with a certainty that supersedes sanity. The primeval beast he’s become growls in lustful satisfaction. He’s intermingling with her, suffusing her. Thralling her to him. The pretty little creature that thrashes in his grip and moans exultantly through her climax is his now. This stomach will swell with his babies. These sturdy hips will bring them into the world. These bouncing handfuls on her chest will ripen and fill.

It’s done.

But he isn’t.

She droops as her climax finishes. He drags his hands across the quivering, pale-blue stomach that will hold his children; he feels the hewn muscles of her abdomen flex under his fingers. He settles his palms on the broad, strong hips. The healthy thighs. She’ll bear them so well. He explores his warm, whimpering conquest with simian curiosity.

“I feel it,” she breathes, around the fingers that are questing into her mouth. Her touch shakes as it rests on his chest. Tears drip down her cheeks. Her face is flushed with disbelief. “Oh, my God. Grant. I can feel it.”

The Grant sound this female keeps making—he doesn’t know what a Grant is. He doesn’t care. He’s getting hard again, already. She inhales with panicky excitement as she feels it swell and stretch her open once more.

The beast that used to be Grant doesn’t care that the seed’s been sown. This little blue broodmare is his, now. And there is a long night ahead of her.

***

Hour two.

His broodmare has found her way around him, her legs locked tight across his chest, her tail lashed behind his neck, pulling him in with every thrust. He chafes at the interference, rolls and thrashes to dislodge her, but she just whoops and holds tight.

“Come on,” she demands. “Come on, big boy. This is all you’ve got for me? This is it?” Sweat sticks her hair to her forehead. “You were afraid you’d hurt me fucking me like this?”

They end up in an awkward straddle, her sitting atop him, halfway down his shaft, and he realizes all the shaking and wrestling is distracting him from the reason he exists, which is to cum in this little blue gremlin.

He takes hold of her, arms pinned to her sides by his wide grip, lifts her as she bucks and twists, and slams her back down onto him, spearing her all the way in, and she lets out a wailing cry and her ankles lose their hard-won purchase, and he has her conquered again, hands buckled around her waist, her legs flailing, her horned head bobbing with his bruising, skin-clapping force.

Another bursting throb and he slams her hips down and holds her there, grinds her on him like he’s trying to paint every inch of her clutching insides, every fold and ridge. Her lithe reactive gyration locks up like a fist.

He sinks his teeth into her neck. She throws her head back and howls in violent rapture.

“More,” she snarls, when she remembers how. Her tiny, sweat-slick hands couch around his throat. “Show me who I belong to. Put your heir in me.”

***

He has his cockwarmer on her back now, curled into a ball, her knees smushed up against his chest, her arms pinned to her sides and trapped in his fists.

Her tail is straining as it reaches for the nightstand. “I just—just a bit further—” She tries to inch her way out from under his pumping force.

He snarls and drags her yelping back underneath him. He flips her legs up onto his shoulders, pinning her wrists to the bed. To hold her in place. To fill her until she can’t take any more. 

“I’m just getting water.” She laughs maniacally as he claws at her. “We’re not stopping, I just—all right.” Her tail wraps tightly around his left arm. “Lonesome,” she says.

A thrumming tingle and his jaw grits as he freezes in place. No, no. She’s getting away. She manages to reach the nightstand as his muscles start firing again, just in time to seize the water bottle. She huffs triumphantly and brings the bottle to her lips.

Her neck flexes as she drains half the water in a few greedy gulps. The motion of it draws his eye and then his hand. He seizes his prey by the throat and feels her cry vibrate his palm as he encases himself back in her boiling body.

***

The ragged remains of her beautiful dress lie torn around them, scraps of red like blood around a kill. Little tatters of it still cling to her in places. The aurora splashed across the night lights the chamber in unearthly emerald, picking out the goosebumps on his vessel’s shiny blue skin.

All the fight has gone out of her. Every time he moves her into some newer, deeper grip, she’s like clay in his hands, docile and submissive. Broken and bred. Her head is on the bed; her hair is in a great dark wave along its sheets. Her arms are tugged back behind her to be used as his handholds as he rails her. Her ass is propped up on her folded legs; his machinelike thrusting sends rhythmic shockwaves through its plump roundness.

She lets out breathy, whining moans with every clap of his hips against her. She said she was made for this and she was right. The round cushion and the toned muscle. She’s spent half the night being hammered into this bed and she’s still taking him so well. Still so receptive. So ready to receive him, to let him reshape her, to redefine the rest of her life.

“More,” she mumbles. “Don’t stop.”

Brave broodmare. A strange, foreign thought catches itself and clings through the hormonal tsunami still buffeting his brain. She’s being so brave.

He lets go of her arms and shoves her sprawling onto her stomach. He folds himself over her, covers her completely and puts his full weight on her, crushes this tiny trembling thing into the surface of the bed. He paws at her shoulders, her neck, her face that’s shiny with drool and sweat and dark, eyeshadow-tinted tears of emotion and overwhelm. He hooks a finger into her mouth, feels her lolling tongue brush his knuckle. His teeth close around her ear and summon a writhing groan. He fucks her like he’s trying to break her, but she doesn’t break. Nothing breaks her.

She whimpers and swivels her hips to root him deeper in as he ruts his way to another climax. There’s no more room. Her sweltering womb has been filled to capacity. He cums inside anyway.

***

His vessel is face-down and drooling, barely conscious but for the rhythmic uhs he fucks out of her. Her short, curvaceous legs are splayed and twitching and shiny with their intermingled sweat. She’s so full that it’s leaking from her, that he glides on it with every motion. Bruises and hickeys and bite marks mar her sky-tinted skin. Her horns are sharp and high, a rigid contrast to the tenderized blue puddle the rest of her has been reduced to by hours of brutal babymaking.

She’s long since run out of energy to take an active part in her own mating; she lays instead in a state of overwhelmed hypnosis, drunk on sensation, shivering and mumbling and dripping with their combined fluids as he has his way with her. In the ghost light of the aura, the carved muscles of her back cast exquisite, calligraphic shadows across her body. He slaps her ass and sends a rippling twitch along them.

Such a pretty little thing. She’ll be so beautiful when her belly is heavy with his litter.

One hand creeps across the bed and closes on his wrist where it holds him up.

“Ziavra,” she whispers. “I wanna call one Ziavra. Zee.”

***

Sheer exhaustion has dragged her under; she’s sprawled asleep on her back beneath him now, body limp, her soft parts jiggling in time with his thrusting. He lies on her like a blanket. Her purring snore is in his ear. His muscles burn and seize. His mind is creeping back to him, in bits and pieces. His machinelike railing slows down. Sykora twitches and murmurs in her sleep.

Sykora. That’s his breedmate’s name. The bearer of his children is named Sykora. And he’s Grant.

There’s a halting tenderness in his hands now as they land on her. Her breasts, her hips. Her stomach. He loves her. He remembers that now. He loves this woman more than anything.

His misfiring mind boils over with the need to watch her cum. He lifts her ankles and presses them together, squishing her thighs together into a soft azure heart shape. Something besides raw reproductive lust forces him to slow down, burrow deep and linger. He stares greedily at her sleeping face as her brows knit and her lips part. He feels her muscles clench and tighten. Her breath hitches then comes out in a groggy gasp as her body jerks and locks up. She orgasms herself awake.

Her eyelids flutter open. She blinks up at the beast that’s been fucking her for hours. An exhausted laugh shakes her chest. “Good morning, dove,” she rasps.

He bites her neck as he pours himself again into her flooded womb.

***

She’s in his lap, eyes lidded, tongue lolling, her drool a wet spot on his chest. Her head bobs as he grinds her hips on him. His fingers swim in the black river of her hair, to the back of her head. He holds it still, cradles it. His climaxes are dry, now. He’s spilled every drop of himself into his wife.

Wife. That’s right. She’s his wife. He’s been throwing his wife around like a rag doll.

He manages his first actual word since the beginning of the night: “Batty.”

She shivers out of her fugue. The peach glow of the artificial sunrise shines across her sweat-drenched face. “Grant?” She nuzzles into his neck. “Are you back?”

“I—” His voice is as dry and cracked as old leather. “Yeah. Think so. Yeah.”

She kisses his jaw. “Hi.”

He tips backward and lays in the bed. “Hi.”

She drapes herself on top of him, moaning gently as their worn-out bodies press into one another.

“You know what you just did?” she whispers. “You just knocked up a Princess, Grant Hyde.”

He aches thunderously. He feels like he got hit by a pickup truck.

“Poor boy.” She strokes his heaving chest. “You did so good.”

She rolls off of him, lays next to him, and plucks the water from the nightstand with her tail.

She nudges his lips. “Open up.”

“I can get it myself.”

A little rattling laugh from her. “Can you?”

He raises his arm and watches it wobble. He’s fried, he realizes. He feels like he just ran a marathon.

“Rest your body, Prince. Mine will take it from here.” She takes his hand and lays it on the hot griddle of her stomach. “Mine knows what to do now,” she whispers.

He thinks of the life beginning beneath their touch. His fingers twitch.

“Enjoy these abs while you can, dove.” Sykora giggles. “This waistline is going away for a few cycles. Your fault.”

He imagines the warm stomach below his palm growing as the cycles pass. He imagines rubbing his wife’s tired feet, and bringing her breakfast in bed, and feeling those first kicks with her. He imagines holding his children in his arms, their little faces and their little tails. He imagines how it’ll sound, the first time he hears dad.

He sniffs. Then he sniffs again, harder. “We’re gonna have kids,” he whispers.

Sykora buries her face in his hair. “We are.”

An uncertain breath forces its way out of him, on the edge of a sob.

She coos and curls him into her. “Seven cycles, Grant,” she whispers. “And you’ll be a father.”

Grant takes this as his cue to shake apart.

He weeps into Sykora’s chest, unrestrained and full-bodied. Tears of exhaustion and joy, of relief and disbelief that they’re okay, and together, and their impossible dream is coming true. He clings to her and kisses her and feels her small, strong arms wrap around him, her graceful fingers caress him, her tears join his. His Princess. His wife. His family.

Dawn is breaking. They hold one another in the gathering light.