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He felt it before he admitted it—an uncomfortable tightening behind his antlers, a low throb under the skin where bone met magic. It was faint, but familiar, and the realization made something sour and hot twist in his stomach.
Not yet, he thought. Not now.
But the signs were unmistakable. Irritability. Restlessness. Heat pooling beneath his ribs like a simmering pot. His instincts prowling just below his polite mask.
A week. Maybe less.
He’d always despised this part of himself—this animal his body insisted he was. Every cycle he’d hidden away, bolted the door, snarled at the walls until it passed. No touching. No vulnerability. No shame.
But this year…
He had her.
They were curled together on the couch in his tower when he finally forced himself to speak. He’d kept her pressed against his chest, her warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could. His claws made slow, lazy paths up her arm, drinking in every rise of gooseflesh, every soft breath she gave him. The sight soothed the agitation inside him more than he wanted to admit.
He swallowed hard.
“I believe,” he began carefully, tone low, “that I should inform you of… a forthcoming inconvenience.”
She hummed, not opening her eyes, fingers brushing casually through his chest fluff. The touch made his back arch ever-so-slightly before he stiffened with embarrassment.
“Oh?” she murmured. “What kind of inconvenience, my love?”
He hated this. Hated explaining. Hated needing.
“My antlers have begun to ache,” he said softly, “and it appears my… season is approaching.”
Her eyes opened at that, curious. Not repulsed. Not alarmed. Just watching him. Heat surged under his skin.
He cleared his throat and continued, trying to salvage dignity he absolutely wasn’t feeling.
“Ordinarily, I isolate myself during this time. I prefer to keep the… symptoms… to myself. It is not something I control with ease. Nor something I have any wish to inflict upon you.”
She blinked slowly, thumb dragging along the edge of his fluff. “And what symptoms are we talking about…?”
Alastor’s ears twitched violently.
“I—well—” He looked away, jaw clenching. “It grows… overwhelming. Instinctive. Rather intense. I become… preoccupied. And impatient. And—dear lord, must I say it?” He groaned softly into his palm.
She only smiled, leaning up to peek at his face. “You can tell me, Alastor.”
He forced his eyes back to hers. She deserved honesty. Proper warning.
“I would require… physical attention.”
The words came out strangled.
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Physical how…?”
He froze. She was enjoying this—of course she was. His embarrassment always delighted her. Heat flooded his cheeks, his chest, the tips of his ears.
“Well,” he muttered, “I would be… needy.”
The word tasted humiliating.
Her grin widened.
He forged onward, voice dropping even lower. “I would want you. Desperately. Without reserve. It is not—polite. Nor dignified. And you are under no obligation to endure it.”
She kept petting his fluff.
“What else happens?” she whispered.
He swallowed again. His claws resumed their path on her arm—gentle, rhythmic, grounding.
“There are… physical changes.”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” he hissed through his teeth, “I become… larger.”
Her eyes snapped open wider. “Larger?”
He let out a miserable noise. “A few feet.”
She sat up. “Feet—plural?”
“Please stop reacting,” he begged under his breath, face burning as he stared at the ceiling.
She gaped at him. “Alastor, you’re already seven feet tall—how big do you get?!”
“Ten. Perhaps eleven,” he muttered, covering his face with one hand. “I’ve never measured. I had no reason to.”
She let out a low whistle. “And you just… lock yourself in your room for a week like that?”
“Yes,” he snapped, more sharply than intended—then softened instantly. “Forgive me. I am… tense.”
Her hand slid down to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. He leaned into it despite himself, eyes fluttering.
“So if I say no,” she murmured gently, “you’ll do what you always do?”
“Yes.”
“And if I say yes?”
His breath caught. Hard.
He stared at her.
Her warmth.
Her soft, steady voice.
Her hand on his face.
The woman who chose him
She realized something was off almost immediately.
It started subtle—little quirks she chalked up to a bad mood or maybe a stressful meeting. But the next morning, when a sinner at the hotel lobby brushed too close to her, and Alastor growled…
Yeah. Something was definitely happening.
Not his playful, mocking little hums.
Not his sharp, smug chuckles.
A growl—deep, resonant, coming from somewhere low in his chest, his ears pinned flat against his skull and his body crouching like he might lunge.
Everyone else froze.
She blinked up at him, heart thumping—but not out of fear.
He looked ridiculous.
Terrifying to the poor sinner who nearly wet himself, yeah, but to her? With his ears flattened, antlers bristling, and eyes narrowed in that overprotective, instinctive way?
Adorable.
Absolutely adorable.
He snapped the sinner away with a sharp flick of his microphone's static and then straightened himself with a flustered cough, pretend-polishing his monocle like the last five seconds didn't happen.
The very next day, he did it again.
And again.
And once at Angel Dust, who only cackled and called him “Bambi on steroids.”
But alongside the possessiveness, other changes blossomed.
His antlers grew—visibly, startlingly. Some mornings she woke to find the tips thicker, sharper, branched with new growth. He would scowl at them in the mirror, huffing in annoyance, and sometimes—without warning—snap off a section like ripping a branch from a tree, tossing it directly into the fireplace with a muttered:
“Nuisance.”
She watched the flames curl around the bone while he dusted off his gloves as though dealing with an especially annoying house chore.
But it was the rubbing that caught her most off guard.
The first time, he froze mid-motion, his cheek pressed to her shoulder, breath hot against her collarbone. His eyes went wide with horror before he jerked back as though burned.
“Excuse me—pardon me—terribly sorry—must go—doing tests—goodbye!”
He disappeared into shadow so fast she didn’t have time to laugh.
But by day three?
He didn’t even try to stop himself.
She’d be reading, or talking, or doing literally anything, and suddenly his face would be nuzzling along her neck, a low, steady vibration pulsing from his chest like a purr he didn’t know how to control.
Sometimes it was her arm.
Sometimes her cheek.
Sometimes the top of her head, which he’d bow down to reach, breathing warmly against her hair like he was inhaling her.
He didn’t apologize anymore.
He didn’t even comment.
He just did it, eyes half-lidded, ears twitching, claws lightly gripping her waist whenever she shifted.
She caught him once—head buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling like he needed air—and she swore his tail flicked.
And he was growing.
Not dramatically by the hour, but enough that she noticed. His coat hung differently. His limbs seemed longer, leaner, shoulders broader. And every morning, she had to tilt her chin just a tiny bit higher to meet his eyes.
By day four, she had to crane her whole head.
By day five, she felt miniature standing beside him—like he towered over her in a way that was almost dizzying. Not just tall, but looming, overwhelming, predatory in a gentle, attentive way.
He hovered.
Watched.
Tracked her across rooms like she was sunlight he couldn’t afford to lose.
The day before his rut officially began, she woke to the warm swipe of something soft and wet against her cheek.
A lick.
She jolted, blinking up at him, and he was there—huge now, beautifully intimidating, eyes half-lidded and glowing warmly. He leaned in again, giving another slow, deliberate drag of his tongue along her cheekbone.
“Alastor—?”
“I need you to smell like me,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged with instinct. “Every inch. Everywhere. They should know who you belong to the moment you walk into a room.”
He licked her again—like kitten kisses, precise and careful, but possessing a feral undercurrent that made her shiver.
“And I need,” he added softly, “to remind myself you’re mine… before this begins in full.”
She swallowed, breath stuttering.
He smiled down at her, overwhelming, huge, claws curling gently around her waist as though she were something precious he might break if he held too tightly.
Tomorrow, she realized, he wouldn’t be able to restrain any of this.
Tomorrow, he would be in rut.
And judging from the way he nuzzled into her neck again—warm, rumbling, hungry—
She had no idea what she was in for.
-
She woke slowly, stretching into the warmth beside her—only to find none.
The sheets were cold.
The space next to her empty.
But in his place…
A pile of water bottles.
Protein bars.
Chocolate.
She blinked blearily at the neatly arranged stash, brow furrowing. Alastor wasn’t exactly the “snack-pack-by-the-bed” type. He didn’t even eat. So this… had to be for her.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and cracked open the nearest bottle. Her mouth was dry—really dry—and after a few long gulps she finally looked around the room.
Quiet.
Still.
The air felt… different.
She swung her legs out of bed, the wooden floor cool against her feet, and walked toward the open archway leading into the indoor forest. Usually it was warm in here—humid and thick, a replica of the Louisiana wetlands he adored.
But today?
It was cool. Crisp. Every blade of grass that brushed her bare feet felt like morning dew.
“Alastor?” she called softly, stepping further into the false-dawn glow.
No answer.
She moved deeper, brushing past ferns taller than she was, following the faint hum of static in the air. Her heart thumped faster. She wasn’t scared—she never was with him. But there was something unfamiliar settling in her chest.
She called again, louder.
“Al?”
This time, the answer came from behind her.
“My dear.”
His voice was wrong—not in a bad way, but deeper, rougher, layered with static that rolled through the trees like distant thunder. And beneath it… a thick, steady purring, vibrating against her spine.
She turned.
And froze.
Her jaw fell open.
Her lungs forgot how to work.
Her heart slammed.
Because Alastor wasn’t ten feet.
He wasn’t even twelve.
He was colossal.
Crouched low to avoid brushing the canopy, he had to be—god—fourteen feet? Fifteen? His antlers stretched like twisting spires, massive enough to cast shadows over half the clearing. His claws were long, dark, wickedly curved.
And trembling.
He was shaking.
Slowly—so slowly, as if terrified of startling her—he reached out. His hand eclipsed her entirely, each finger thicker than her wrist. When he touched her cheek, his clawed thumb covered half her face.
“Good morning,” he rumbled, voice splitting through the static.
She gulped hard, instinct screaming predator, while her heart whispered Alastor. Both truths collided in her chest.
He leaned down—closer, closer—until his lips brushed hers.
Gentle.
Soft.
Completely at odds with the sheer size and power trembling through him.
She finally found her voice.
Or… half of it.
She laughed breathlessly, hands coming up to cradle what tiny part of his jaw she could reach.
“This is NOT ten feet.”
His massive frame lurched—almost like he’d flinched from embarrassment. The static purred louder, shivering through the ground beneath her.
He was holding himself back.
Violently.
Painfully.
She realized it instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered.
He made a low, broken sound—something between a growl and a plea—as she rose onto her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. His body tensed like stretched rope, but he didn’t pull away.
She pressed soft kisses to his cheek—warm, trembling fur beneath her lips—and stroked the side of his face.
“You’re in pain,” she murmured. “Aren’t you?”
His breath released in a shudder, hot and uneven, washing down over her like a gust of summer heat.
He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
The way he clung to her—this giant, trembling creature who could crush mountains yet held her like she was made of spun sugar—told her everything.
And she buried her face into his neck, whispering,
“I’ve got you.”
He was already shaking—she could see it in every line of him, every quiver of those massive shoulders, every uneven breath that throbbed through the forest floor. But when she kissed his cheek and whispered that gentle truth, something inside him broke.
A sound slipped from him.
Not a growl.
Not a purr.
A whimper.
High for his size, raw, desperate, and so vulnerable it made her chest squeeze.
“I… need you…” he rasped, and the static tangled through every word like shredded silk. “Please… my dear, I– I can’t—”
His voice cracked.
He leaned down—massive shadow folding over her—and his claws slid beneath the hem of her shirt. Even shaking, even towering over her like a starving god, he moved with careful precision. The very tip of one claw hooked into the neckline.
And with a soft shhhk—
The fabric parted cleanly.
She didn’t even feel the rip. All she felt was his trembling breath ghost over her collarbone as he peeled the ruined cloth away, setting it behind him with reverent care. He was being so gentle that it felt painful—like restraint was a knife pressed against his own skin.
He was struggling.
He was fighting himself.
And she hated seeing him in pain.
Before he could tear himself apart trying to stay controlled, she hooked her thumbs into her shorts and pushed them down, panties with them. The cool air hit her skin and—
Alastor growled, low and feral and hungry, the sound vibrating the trees. His claws twitched toward her like he had to physically restrain himself from snatching her.
“Hey,” she murmured gently.
Then she lifted her arms up toward him—unafraid, offering, open.
A silent request.
A silent I trust you.
His reaction nearly broke him.
He let out a strangled noise—relief and desperation tangled tight—and lowered one enormous hand. He didn’t grab her.
He scooped her.
One claw alone could have lifted her. But he curved his whole palm under her, sliding his claws around her body like a cradle, lifting her against his chest as though she weighed nothing, absolutely nothing.
The ground fell away.
His heartbeat thundered beneath her.
And he held her like she was the center of his world.
She cupped his jaw, soft and steady.
“Go on, baby,” she whispered up to him. “Take what you need from me, okay?”
His breath stuttered—one massive shudder rolling through his entire frame.
And the static behind his eyes flared, bright and starving.
He needed her.
And now he finally knew he could have her.
-----
She was on the forest floor, the soft grass crushed beneath her like it knew to yield for her body, her chest rising and falling in ragged, gasping breaths. Every inch of her skin felt alive, a mosaic of bruises, teeth marks, and the lingering heat of his hands that had gripped her mercilessly. Her thighs glistened, thick with his seed, some still dripping, and the sticky warmth ran between her folds, coating her in a sheen of him. Just one round had left her like this—utterly splayed, overstimulated, and trembling with need.
Above her, Alastor’s frame was massive, impossibly huge even now that she’d grown accustomed to his new height. He was panting, growling low in his chest, the static in his voice rippling through the forest like heat lightning. His antlers bristled with every shudder, and his eyes gleamed with feral intensity as his cock—long, thick, impossibly hard—spurted over her stomach, each pulse pressing into her soft skin, smearing across her ribs, over her hips, a hot, sticky map of his obsession. She could feel the pressure of his knot swelling at the base, throbbing against her with every twitch, stretching her from the inside in a way that was completely, overwhelmingly perfect.
Her hands dug into the grass, nails scraping, chest heaving, trying to catch her breath while his growls vibrated through her, echoing through the clearing like a storm. The sheer force of him made her body hum in overstimulation, and she whimpered, head thrown back, unable to form coherent thoughts beyond the haze of pleasure and ache.
Before she could even begin to recover, she felt herself lifted again. One massive claw curved under her torso, fingers spread wide around her ribs and stomach, and she was airborne, weightless, utterly at his mercy. He flipped her carefully but firmly onto her stomach, the warm air rushing across her back and the grass brushing against her skin in a teasing contrast. Her knees pressed slightly against his chest as he seated himself, and she whimpered again, already sensitive and needy, her chest and stomach pressed to the rough warmth of him.
He positioned her like a master at play, cupping her entire torso in one massive hand, wrapping his claws around her so that her body felt small, pliable, and completely his. Every tilt, every press of her hips against him, was deliberate. Her cunt pressed to the tip of his cock, and she shivered as he began to work her like a toy, steady, slow, each push driving deep, filling her completely. She moaned sharply, hands clutching at the thick, immovable grip of his claw, nails raking lightly over the ridges and edges as her body bucked instinctively, matching his rhythm as best as she could.
It was intense. Overwhelming. Exquisite in its feral intimacy. He was holding her like—like she was some perfect, pliant instrument made only for him. Up and down, each stroke was precise, deliberate, punishing yet worshipful. His growls and low hums of pleasure filled the air, vibrating through her spine and chest, and every time he shifted, pressed, or pounded her against his knot, she gasped, whined, and trembled, completely at the mercy of his sheer size and strength.
Even as her body throbbed and her mind spun in haze and overstimulation, she felt the deep, obsessive hunger behind every motion of his claw, every press of his hips. He held her like a pocket pussy, impossible and overwhelming, yet carefully—carefully enough that she didn’t feel crushed, only completely, painfully consumed. Every thrust drove her further into delirium, and she clung to him, hands wrapping around his wrist and claw, trying to ground herself as he drove into her again and again, a slow, feral rhythm that seemed endless.
And the heat of him—immense, stretching her in every direction—made her whimper uncontrollably, each cry mingling with the rasp of his static-filled voice as he growled, panted, and whispered her name, claiming her in every conceivable way. She was his, utterly, completely, in the way that left no part of her untouched, no nerve unlit, no breath unclaimed.
She felt the sharp tremble of his grip—the way he could’ve crushed her if he lost even a sliver of control—and it only made heat curl low in her stomach. He dropped her down onto him again, and the noise she made tore out of her throat raw and high and desperate.
Her vision shook. Her legs flailed uselessly, trembling hard enough to spasm every time he hauled her up and slammed her back down. He was using his whole arm now, lifting and dropping her with obscene speed, like he couldn’t get her close enough, like her body still wasn’t giving him enough.
Every thrust hit the deepest part of her, punching a scream out of her lungs. She was crying openly—hot tears streaking down her cheeks, her voice cracking apart as she choked on moans she couldn’t control. Every time he struck her cervix, her hips jerked, her back bowed, her nails dug into the thick ridge of his clawed hand as she sobbed his name into the humid air.
The wet sound of their bodies colliding was constant—slick, messy, downright animalistic. The cum he’d already pumped into her in the first round was spilling back out from the sheer force of him, dribbling in thick white strings down his length, dripping off his base and splattering the dirt beneath them. Each time he slammed her down, more of it splashed against his thighs, warm and humiliatingly loud.
He was losing himself.
Growls rumbled up his chest in long, broken rolls, almost pained with how badly he needed her. His breath came in snarls and gasps, hot against her skin whenever he bent down, his antlers casting long shadows as he snarled into her neck like a starving animal protecting a kill. She could feel every tremor of restraint in him—how he shook, how he panted, how he clutched her tighter for fear she’d slip even an inch away from him.
Her thighs were shaking uncontrollably now—jerking with every brutal lift, every devastating drop. Her voice had gone hoarse, reduced to cracked pleading and high-pitched whimpers she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Alastor—! Oh—god—please—!”
He didn’t even slow down.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t soothe.
He just rasped out a feral, guttural moan, head thrown back, teeth bared, rutting into her like instinct had taken over completely. His cock throbbed inside her, grinding against sensitive walls already swollen from too much, too fast, too deep. She could feel him pulse every time she clenched around him, could hear the way his breath hitched into a desperate whine whenever she tightened.
Her consciousness was flickering at the edges—white, electric, overwhelming—each thrust sending a shockwave from the base of her spine all the way to her toes.
“More,” she gasped out, barely aware she’d said it.
His claws dug into her hips.
A violent shudder tore through him.
And he moved faster.
Her scream rang through the trees, raw and high and broken, her body jolting with every savage stroke. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing anymore—only that her limbs were shaking, her mind dissolving, pleasure forcing itself through her until she could only sob, only beg, only—
Only take it.
And he needed all of her. Every inch, every sound, every clench of her body around him. His moans were cracking now, slipping into a frantic pitch she’d never heard from him, every breath coming out as a hungry snarl or a desperate, choked whimper.
He was feral.
And he wasn’t stopping.
He didn’t even let her catch her breath.
Still buried inside her, he lifted her with that same shaking, desperate care—like she was the last delicate thing in a world full of violence—then lowered her onto the cool grass. She barely registered the softness beneath her cheek before his massive shadow covered her again. Her confusion flickered only for a heartbeat—her brows drawing together, lips parted, chest heaving—until he guided her onto her side, never once slipping free of her.
And then he curled behind her.
Or—more accurately—around her.
She looked like she was trying to spoon a beast ten times her size, her tiny body tucked against the burning heat of him. His chest pressed against her back like a furnace, his hums rattling through his ribcage and into her bones. Two claws slid around her waist, but because of their sheer size, they overlapped—one curved under her breasts, the other covering her entire belly—cradling her whole torso in an embrace that felt terrifyingly protective and devastatingly possessive.
She barely had time to inhale.
He didn’t wait.
He slammed into her from behind with a force that stole the air right back out of her lungs.
Her entire body jolted, her mouth falling open in a silent cry before a broken moan poured out. Her limbs went instantly slack, her muscles giving out as pleasure crashed through her so violently she couldn’t even tense. She melted against him—boneless, trembling, gasping—trying to remember how to breathe while he rutted into her with a pace that bordered on punishing.
The sound was obscene—wet, loud, the kind of slick slap that echoed off the trees. Each thrust shoved her forward only for his claws to pull her right back into him, using her limp body like it belonged to him alone.
She couldn’t think.
Couldn’t speak.
Only moan—long, shaking, helpless sounds that fell out of her with every brutal snap of his hips.
Her eyes rolled back as his knot slammed against her entrance again and again, each heavy, swollen grind of it sending another burst of white heat up her spine. She felt it—hot, pulsing, desperate—trying to force its way inside her, stretching her already tender entrance with every thrust. The pressure was overwhelming, making her whimper with every bounce.
Her voice finally broke into words, high and frantic.
“I—Alastor—I’m gonna cum—! I’m gonna—!”
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t even acknowledge the plea with words.
He just growled—low, vibrating, hungry—and buried his face against her neck. His teeth grazed her skin, his breath ragged and hot, each exhale a trembling whimper of need that barely sounded human.
He thrust harder.
Faster.
Desperation poured off him in waves—his hips slamming forward, his claws tightening around her torso, his knot hitting her with reckless insistence, each collision a wordless plea for her body to open for him, take all of him, bind him to her the way his instincts screamed for.
She choked on a sob.
Her whole body convulsed.
And he… he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even pretend to resist the urge to shove his knot into her. He pressed it against her entrance with each thrust, grinding, trying, whining into her neck with an aching need that bordered on agony.
He needed to be inside her.
All the way.
Claimed, locked, filled—
And she felt every ounce of that feral, desperate longing dragging her closer to the edge with him, her moans dissolving into broken little cries as her climax tore through her—hard, violent, overwhelming—while he held her helplessly tight and kept ramming into her as if he could fuse their bodies together.
She didn’t just climax—she shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her so violently her entire body bowed off the grass, her legs kicking uselessly, a scream tearing out of her throat as a gush soaked him. Hot, messy, sudden—her release splattered over his cock, dripping down in streams that made his pace stutter for half a second.
He grunted—deep, primal—at the sudden clamp of her walls, his hips faltering only because she was squeezing him so tightly he could barely force himself back in. And then one clawed finger slid down between her thighs, finding her swollen pearl with shocking precision for a creature trembling with feral need.
The second he touched her—
She broke again.
She sobbed, spine arching until her back pressed flush to the thick, soft fur of his chest. Her hands scrambled for purchase on his claws, her nails digging in as electricity shot through her limbs. She screamed. She writhed. Her thighs shook violently as another jet of pleasure ripped out of her, squirting over his finger, over his cock, over the grass beneath them.
He snarled into her neck—his breath hot and ragged—his hips slamming into her harder with each convulsion she gave him. Her tightness was driving him mad, her body milking him so mercilessly he could barely keep control. Every noise she made only wound him tighter, his pace quickening as instinct drowned out everything else.
But eventually—eventually—her orgasm loosened its claws.
Her muscles softened, trembling, her cries fading into tiny, broken whimpers. She sagged in his grasp, chest heaving, vision blurred with tears.
He didn’t stop.
Not even close.
His finger left her clit, dragging upward—slow, sticky with her release—and rested on her lower belly. His other claw slid up her chest, curling delicately under her chin and guiding her head downward.
Look.
She blinked through her haze, her breath hitching—then catching entirely.
Because she saw it.
Every time he thrust forward—hard, deep, unforgiving—a bulge rose in her stomach, sliding up under her skin before disappearing when he pulled back, only to appear again even higher the next time he drove into her.
He stroked that bulge so reverently it made her dizzy—huge claw tracing the outline of his own cock inside her, the size of it obscene enough that her whole body lifted with every thrust.
A thin, desperate whine escaped her throat.
“Oh—oh my god—Alastor—” she cried, voice cracking, her whole body pulsing around him in overwhelmed shock. “You’re so—big—!”
The bulge appeared again—higher this time—and she let out a broken, high-pitched squeal, her head falling back instinctively.
Her vision went white around the edges. Her fingernails dragged over his claws. Her thighs fluttered helplessly.
She wasn’t just reacting—she was unraveling.
And he was trembling behind her, panting, growling, his knot battering her entrance like a demand, like a plea, his claws tenderly stroking her belly every time he made that obscene bulge rise beneath her skin.
He was inside her—deep, massive, claiming—and she could do nothing but cry out his name as her body tried to take every inch of him.
When he finally tried to withdraw, it was instinctive—just a small shift of his hips, a soft grunt, a tired attempt to move after the storm he’d poured into her.
But the moment he pulled, even slightly—
She gasped, sharp and winded.
He froze.
And then he felt it.
The resistance.
The unmistakable, unbreakable fullness of his knot—thick, swollen, firmly lodged inside her. He blinked once, slow and owlish, a confused sound rumbling from his throat like a questioning whine.
She followed his gaze downward, her breath still shaky, and saw it too: the huge, flushed swell locked deep inside her, sealing them together. A shiver ran up her spine.
His ears fluttered.
Then—
A deep, rolling purr vibrated through his chest, settling into her back like a warm, humming blanket. No frustration. No agitation. Just…satisfaction. Utter, primal contentment...for now
He shifted closer, lowering his massive body over her small, exhausted one. She melted against the soft heat of his chest fluff, his claws curling protectively around her without the slightest pressure. She could feel the occasional tiny twitch of his knot inside her, and each one caused a warm, thick bead of his release to slip out around the seal—slow and syrupy.
Each spill made her shudder.
And each one earned a pleased rumble from him.
He lowered his head and—like it was the most natural thing in the world—began to groom her.
Delicate kitten licks.
Slow, methodical.
As if she were his mate, and he was tending her after claiming her.
The first small lap along her cheek made her whine softly, her face heating despite how utterly worn out she was. His tongue dragged warm and careful across her temple, down her jaw, over her forehead.
She groaned, lifting an arm weakly to wipe her own face even though she was too tired to actually reach. His tongue was warm, soft, a little rough.
And so damn affectionate.
“Al…” she rasped, voice thick with exhaustion.
He paused only long enough to blink at her, pupils blown wide and hazy with instinct, before he leaned in again and licked her neck—slow and possessive.
That made her squeal.
She pushed at his face with both hands, barely budging him but trying all the same.
“H–hey—! That tickles! Stop—!” she giggled helplessly, squirming against him.
He tilted his head, confused for half a second.
Then he rumbled—a soft, indulgent purr that filled the forest air—and nuzzled his enormous nose into her hair, burying his face into her scent. His breath warmed her scalp as the humming of his chest soothed her into stillness.
She exhaled shakily, sinking into him, the weight of his huge body comforting rather than overwhelming. His claws tightened gently around her waist, holding her safe and close, his knot still locked deep inside her, keeping their bodies fused.
Her heartbeat slowed.
His purr grew deeper.
And with her tucked against him—exhausted, claimed, adored—he simply held her, grooming her in slow, tender strokes whenever she shifted, too blissed-out and instinct-heavy to do anything else but love her with every inch of his enormous, trembling body.