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The Invitation

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The first time the human invites him to where she lives, Krobus about jumps out of his skin. He sputters through an excuse and turns her down as politely as his tripping tongue is able, feeling his flesh crawl with embarrassment. The human shrugs off his reaction with an amused half-smile and asks him about the day’s wares. He’s quick to steer the conversation down this newly presented path, and the Farmer, now debating the merits of sprinklers, does not press further.

The second time she asks, Krobus is no better prepared. He had written off the first invitation as a case of him misunderstanding strange Surface terms and had thought nothing more of it – but the human waltzes into the sewer tunnel, puts a warm Void egg in his hands and cheerfully asks him again if he’d like to drop by sometime. He freezes like a spooked cat in the face of the sudden question, grasping frantically for appropriate answers and drawing blanks at every turn. He stutters out, “I-I’ll consider it,” before he really has time to consider his choice of words at all, and the human gives him a bright smile before trotting away towards the exit.

He’ll consider it. He’ll consider it. He wants to crawl into a hole. He’s pacing a rut in the grass along the edge of the Farmer’s barn, fighting the urge to peer at her dwelling and trying to smother the fluttery feeling under his skin. She’s invited him to her roost, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t walk up and make good her invitation, but nervousness stops him each time he tries to will his feet towards her. He heaves a worried sigh, chewing on his tongue. She invited him – him specifically – into her roost. With her. The thought makes him jitter, fangs pressing indents into his tongue. It’s not like he’s not fond of the human anyways, she’s thoughtful and respectful and has brought him so many lovely gifts that he’s had to designate a place for them in his quarters.

It puzzles him, though, that she would select him. He’s not the most impressive even among his own species, and he’s quite sure that the Farmer has suitors of her own kind – judging by the pheromones she trails in when she visits. Perhaps this is a test? To judge his performance? He has a gift already – he’s inexperienced, not ignorant – but what if this gift isn’t enough? He looks down at the strange bun in his paws. It’s a little squished from where he’s gripped it nervously, but it still smells as good as it did when he’d made it. At worst, he thinks, she might reject it – reject him. That would be alright. He would go back to the sewer and would not think of setting paw in her territory again. He ignores the pang in his chest at the thought. He also ignores the pang of his body telling him that he’s too young to be this inexperienced, that he needs to jump on this opportunity before someone else does. The thought tugs at the part of his brain he’s been trying to avoid dealing with. He should mark every inch of her dwelling, this part of his brain tells him. Then everyone will know that he was the one in her roost, not them. He should mark every inch of her, it tells him, inside and out-

To his embarrassment, he’s begun to secrete. He scowls at the soft pudge that’s emerged on his stomach, willing it to go away and scowling harder as it grows further - he can’t show up like this. He sighs and uses a paw to tug open his slit, pressing hard on his belly with the other. He groans in discomfort as the cloudy fluid pours out onto the ground in a fluid, gelatinous stream. He wipes now-damp fingers onto the wood of the barn and turns towards the house. He’d best do this now, before he loses his nerve, now bolstered with arousal. When it fades, he knows his courage will too, and he’ll likely not work up the bravery to come back.

The porch light is off, but he can see a dancing fire inside, and the silhouette of the human moving around. He taps the door to make himself known, and after a moment the Farmer opens the door.

The human gives him a radiant smile and welcomes him in, accepting his offered gift with a fondness that makes him flush. “Make yourself at home,” she tells him. A hot flush crawls up his spine, and he’s all too aware of the bulge in his stomach. “T-thank you,” he tells her. “If it pleases you, I will.” The human gives him another charming smile at this and offers him a chair. He seats himself only just to hide his growing pouch, and accepts her offer of warm herb water to be polite. The Farmer bustles around the small cooking area and he relaxes once her attention is no longer on him. The smell of earth and wood-smoke is pleasant, and she has taken into account his dislike of bright lights, leaving the lamps off in favor of small, flickering candles. The scent of the farmer is heavy in the air, and he sucks it in as she fusses with several small sachets of herbs. The smell goes right to his head, leaving him dreamy and fuzzy as the human’s potent pheromones seep into his every pore. He’s scent-drunk by the time the human gives him a cup of steaming, fragrant water (tea, she informs him), and his soft, full belly presses against the wood of the table. He can’t help but squirm at the feeling, fighting the urge to open his slit to relieve the pressure. The human hums softly as she adds a spoonful of amber liquid into her cup, and seats herself across from him.

“What do you think?” she asks, gesturing to the rest of her dwelling.

He wraps his paws around his cup, enjoying the warmth and scented steam. “I like it,” he tells her, honestly. “I’ve never seen the inside of a human roost, but I like yours.”

She laughs at this. “Do you have a ‘roost’ too? I’ve never seen you outside the sewer.” He feels warmth pool in his belly. “I do,” he tell her, a little nervous. “It’s nothing like this. I mostly store my things there.”

She takes a sip of her tea and considers this. “Do you like it?”

“It’s alright,” he says. He wants to follow this with more words, and his rational brain stops him here – but the Farmer’s scent is getting to him and the rest of the words tumble out of his mouth anyways. “But I like yours better.” His pouch fills further and he has to bite back a noise of arousal as he processes what he’s just said – risky words, but true ones.

The human, thankfully, looks only pleased at his words. “Thank you,” she tells him. “Do you think I could see yours someday? I would love to see where you live.”

She’s going to break him, he thinks, as he shoots a paw under the table to grab at where his tube is begging to slide out of his slit. His stomach must look almost comical now, ballooning out at the human’s every word. “I would,” he pauses to gulp perfumed air. “I would love to show it to you.”

The human looks alarmed, and he realizes he’s still gripping his cup with a trembling paw, rattling it audibly against the wood of the table. “Krobus, are you alright?”

“Yes-s.” He slurs out. He’s losing the battle with his tube, and it slips out between his fingers with a lewd slurp. It throbs thickly in the warm air, a steady stream of slick already spilling from the tapered head onto the floor. Like a tide of icy water, rationality floods back to him. Giving him a crystal clear picture of how disgustingly desperate he must seem. “I-I should go-“ He struggles to get up on shaky legs, wanting to make an escape before she has to watch him rut into her table. She says something to him, but he’s too busy trying to fight the woozy floating feeling that the Farmer’s pheromones have left him with.

His legs, however, have a different plan, and buckle under his weight like the traitors they are. He curls over his bloated belly and distended tube, a whine of pain escaping him as both throb angrily at him.

The human’s scent gets to him before she does, and against his will he feels his neck twist, baring his scent glands to the approaching Farmer. The act of submission does not faze her, and the next thing he knows he’s pressed against her chest. She’s got her arms around him, she’s whispering soft words to him in a comforting, soothing tone, and he feels himself relax, helpless, into her hold.

He knows, in theory, that humans are incredibly strong. He’s seen them shape earth, move stone, conquer mountains. He does not, however, expect the human to be so gentle when she lifts him like he’s lighter than air. The shock of suddenly being picked up causes him to release a spurt of slick from his tube, and he whimpers an apology as it dribbles onto the floor. He’s never been more mortified in his life, and he presses a paw over his eyes as he tries not to cry. Again, the human comforts him with soft words, and he goes limp in her hold, panting against the sharp pain in his stomach.

She sets him down on something soft, and motions for him to stay. His eyes flick to the door the moment she turns from him, maybe he can make a break for it? He makes a feeble attempt to rise when the human says something in a firm tone that makes his legs lock up and his tube leak. He hears the noise as she speaks to him, but he’s too muddled with pain, panic, and arousal to make out her words. She brings out an armload of thick cloth pieces, arranges them on the soft pad he’s perched on, then gently maneuvers him into the center of the pad so he’s lying on his back – exposed. His legs, the traitors that they are, seize upon the opportunity to be submissive and spring apart as the human towers over him, wriggling and jutting his tube into the air. His paws frantically massage his distended belly, trying to ease the cramping and –

The Farmer’s hands are on his face. She cradles his head and looks him in the eyes, concern written in her face. “Stay put.” The words are said with such force and tenderness that it sweeps the delirious, panicky fog out of his mind and fills him with calm. The Farmer will take care of him. He trusts her. “Okay.” He forces out in a creaky wheeze. She presses her lips to the top of his head and strokes his glistening belly with a warm, soothing hand.

And then she pulls away from him, and the delirious, panicky fog is back. Where is she going? She needs to stay with him. He makes a soft, desperate noise and reaches for her. She’s pulling a bulky outer covering on, but she pauses to take his paw and press her lips to his knuckles. “Stay put,” she says again, and he cannot help but obey.

And then she pulls the door open and walks out into the night.

The most pathetic noise escapes him as the door swings shut behind her.




The panic threatens to clog his throat, his heart is beating too hard in his chest, his belly hurts, his tube is throbbing, he’s fairly sure he’s starting to hyperventilate – he turns onto his side and buries his face in the soft pad under him, stifling a miserable sob. Trying to curl in on himself just hurts his stomach more, but it’s the only way he knows to comfort himself like this. The softness of the pad helps, though. And the air is warm and thick with the Farmer’s smell, which calms him. As he slows his breathing, he notes that the warm, soft pad under him smells like the Farmer much, much more strongly than the air does. He buries his nose into in and inhales.

The sheer concentration of scent there makes his head spin, and the pain in his belly ease. This must be the human’s nest, he realizes with sudden spark of glee. She’s put him in her nest. He takes long gulps of scent from the cloth and feels his panic grow farther and farther away the more pheromones he breathes in, until he can’t think about what he was so worried about in the first place. He stretches luxuriously, a purr rumbling up from his bloated stomach and making his tube twitch hungrily. He can’t quite reach it comfortably with his belly being so big, which is frustrating, but rubbing it on the cloth beneath him eases the ache. He keeps his paws busy massaging his stomach, working the slick dribbling from his tube into his skin. He could stay like this forever, the submissive part of his brain tells him. Slick and ready. And he would like it. The thought should make him concerned, but he relaxes into the human’s scented nest and even those thoughts don’t bother him anymore.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but he knows that not being able to reach his tube is really frustrating him. His belly has continued to swell, further blocking off access to his nethers and he’s getting sick of humping the pad, as nice as it is. He’s never been this aroused before, and no matter what he does he can’t replicate the feeling of the Farmer’s hands on him. A whine bubbles up from his throat as he thrusts roughly against the cloth, feeling his immense belly jiggle with each motion.

The door swings open, and his head snaps up from where it’s lolled back onto the cushions. The Farmer slips in, face as red as the dying sun, and her gaze seems to be fixed to the floor. The tension in the room is almost palpable, and he feels his heart sink, fear twisting in his gut. Is this where she asks him to leave?

The farmer clears her throat, wringing her hands nervously. “Sorry for leaving, I-“ She swallows thickly. “I thought I had, uh, poisoned you. With my tea. I was not aware that, uh, ‘invitations’ to someone’s house are how shadowfolk, uh, request to, erm, breed? With each other? The uh. Wizard. Had to fill me in about that. It’s more of a, uh. Friendly thing. With humans.” She fidgets as silence falls over the room once more, and Krobus wants to retreat into his cave and not see anyone for a few days.

“I should,” He croaks, “I should leave.” He’s still warm and swollen and slick, but he can take care of himself. He needs to get out of here, now. He needs to go before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. Maybe he could find another sewer in a different town that he could stay in, he’s fairly sure he’ll disintegrate into the world’s most embarrassed pile of dust if he has to face the Farmer after this. His body, however, has not quite gotten the message that he needs to flee. His tube has not diminished in size, nor has his belly, and the warm haze that’s settled in his brain makes his attempts to sit up clumsy and uncoordinated.

“No- Ah, no,” the Farmer reaches out a hand as if to stop him and meets his eyes for a moment – but looks away a split second after, the flush on her face intensifying. “If you want to go, I understand.” Her words are forcefully even. Kronus feels his heart clench, has he been dismissed? “But,” The Farmer’s voice is soft and shy. “I’d be happy if you stayed.”

He stares at her blankly for a moment as the words catch up to his brain, and then reaches his paws out to the Farmer, who laughs breathlessly and catches his paws in her hands, peppering them with mouth-touches. She settles at the edge of the bed, leaning over to touch her mouth to the side of his head, his shoulder, and when her breath ghosts over his neck he cocks his head to the side, offering her submission. The warm-dreamy haze is back, blanketing his mind in calm as she touches him, and he feels no fear even as she runs teeth that could most certainly bite down hard enough to kill gently over his scent glands. It sends a shiver up his spine and he presses the human’s hands to his belly with a silent plea. She runs her fingers gently over the crest of his stomach, and he signs in relief as the warmth of her hands sooths him.

“Does it hurt?” He can hear the concern in her voice.

“Not really,” he tells her. “But more of that, please.” She acquiesces with a soft huff of laughter, hesitant fingers growing bolder as she explores him further, and his sighs grow into long moans of pleasure as she begins to massage his middle firmly with the heels of her palms. His tube gushes slick with each pass of her hands, easing the pressure and fascinating his human. She moves down to examine his tube, running sticky-slick hands over it and chuckling as he bucks upwards, oversensitive and eager. Her hands clasp tightly over him and he yowls, trailing off into a purr and yelping as a soft, warm tongue runs over the narrow head.

 She makes a pleased noise at his taste, and the fact that any part of him has pleased her makes his body howl with the need to please her more, submit each part of himself to her for her pleasure – his narrow hips jut up into her laughing mouth, back paws scrabbling for a hold on the fabric of the nest before she grips his knees and spreads them, pressing them into the bed, and oh the noise he makes! To be at the mercy of the Farmer’s strength!

She laughs again, her smiling mouth lifts from his tube to press against his mouth, warm and gooey with his own slick. He licks it away, and grabs at the thin cloth covering that she wears over her skin. She could easily overpower him, pin his paws down with her golden strength, but instead she leans into his touch, allowing him to clumsily run his tongue over the underside of her jaw in deference to her. She makes a sound that he can feel through the skin of her throat, and he presses closer to snuffle at the base of her jaw – she has no defining scent glands, but her pheromones are stronger here anyways. Stronger, and softer, he can almost taste them and he sucks them in so hard he feels lightheaded.

She gently pulls his paws from her front and leans down to press her mouth to the fronts and backs of them, then stroking up his arms and shoulders to rub her thumbs in tiny circles over the textured skin of his scent glands. He feels the oil from them gush out to meet her and run down his neck as his body pumps it out frantically in response to his arousal and the gentle rubbing, and the thick dribbles are swept up by her many curious fingers to be examined.

“What is this?” she asks, eyes bright with curiosity.

“It’s me,” he croaks to her, unable to look away as she samples a drop on her pink tongue. “My smell.”

“Ah, I see,” she smiles down at him. “You want me to smell like you.”

“Yes!” The word flies out of his mouth, and it’s true, he does! He squirms, fighting for the right words to tell her what he wants. “But I want – “ He grasps at her again, and she leans down at his urging so he can nuzzle his face into the dip of her throat, coating his skin in her. “This,” he says, content to have almost her whole weight perched on him, the whole of her strong body covering him. “To smell like you.”

“Oh,” she says, and he feels the word buzz over his mouth through her skin. “Well, I can do that too.”  

She moves to pull away and he whimpers at the very thought of her leaving, but she very gently pulls his paws from her and kisses them once more – the lingering warmth of her breath is a comfort. “I’m not leaving,” she tells him, voice solid with promise.

He whines anyways, squirming in discomfort as she draws away – did he displease her? She moves to stand at the edge of the bed, and even that distance compels him to reach towards her again. Her hands have started to fuss with the front of the cloth she wears, but she pauses when she sees his paws outstretched towards her and takes them in one of her hands, giving them soft mouth-presses. Both of his paws fit easily in the broad, brown embrace of the farmer’s hold, and the contact soothes his needy cries into soft purring. She’s fiddling with the front of her shirt again with the hand he’s not holding, tugging the front open and pulling buttons and clasps until the cloth from her torso hands from one arm, then she tugs her foot-coverings off, followed by the sturdy, rougher cloth adorning her legs.

She pulls away for a moment to shed the last pieces and toss the bundle of shed cloth away, out of his interest. Then her hands are back in his, both of them this time, and she’s moving back on the bed to press close to him once more.

The farmer is beautiful – rich ochre brown and flicked with darker speckles, skin thicker than his, he can see the strength of it. Patterns under her skin like tiny rivers, the golden-dark brown of her striated irises, the dusting of sparse fur across her arms as she cradles him against her.

He’s always thought she looked like she belonged to the earth, like she could grow flowers from her skin and bloom with the rich, fertile, sunbaked land she’s buried her roots in. Her warm skin presses into his as she covers him with her body and he feels like the only thing in the world when her eyes are on him.

“Krobus,” she says, her hands gently stroking his cheeks. “Are you warm enough? Is it humid enough in here?” Affection rumbles in his chest and he trills softly with contentment. She remembers what he told her, about what he likes. He blinks up at her and tries to find the words to let her know how happy he is, that she’s accepted him into her roost, into her nest, and how he’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world. His chest is rumbling with a deep purr, vibrating so hard it’s difficult to speak, but she smiles when he blinks softly up at her, and he thinks she understands him just fine.

She rubs the underside of her jaw over his neck and he chirps in pleasure, tipping his head back so she can cover him in her scent – he wants to wear it like the cloth she adorns herself with. Her hands return to his belly gently, fingers running gently over the skin stretched tight with fluid. Her pheromones are stronger, heavier now, spicing the air with a scent that makes it impossible to focus on anything but her, as if he needed help with such a thing.

He leans up to lick at the skin of her chest, and she sighs softly. He’d licked what was easiest to reach - a teat, he recognizes dimly, Dwarves have them too – she’d seemed to like it, so he does it again, and the noise he gets is louder. She’s leaning over him, one arm planted firmly next to his head, and the other softly running over his belly. When she leans down further, pressing her chest to his mouth, he simply opens his mouth to accept her. His jaws stretch wide until he fits the whole of her breast into his mouth, raising a paw to knead the one on the other side of her chest like she’s doing to his stomach. It’s so soft, he just sinks right into it, and when he curls his tongue around the underside of what’s in his mouth and sucks she gives him a drawn-out groan of pleasure.

Her skin is warm and salty and butter soft where he touches it, sucking gently.

“Krobus,” the farmer sighs, petting a hand across his crest. He chirrups around the soft skin in his mouth, looking up at her with hazy eyes. “Maybe we should have talked about this first.”

He lets go of what’s in his mouth as she draws back, but he’s not so willing to let go of the other one still clasped in his paw. The farmer curls her arms around him and settles onto her side, holding him close to her. He kneads at her chest almost reflexively, purring into her chest – he can feel a rhythm under her skin, paired beats he’s never heard before.

“I want to know how to please you,” she tells him, brown eyed unspeakably soft and earnest. “You’re very special to me.” He can’t help the tittering noise of joy that bubbles from his throat, couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. She smiles at him, and presses her mouth to his forehead.

“You want to breed with me, right?” A red flush has crept up her neck, and her scent is heavy and sweet in the air. He nods in confirmation. “How does that work, for you?”

It takes him a moment to gain the coordination to speak, his tongue feels heavy and his mouth waters thickly for want of the salt of her skin.

“Does it have to do with this?” She runs a palm over his bulging belly where it lies cradles between them.

“Yes,” he tells her, voice raspy and small. Her hands trail lower, brushing over his tube.

“Does this go inside me?”

He nods helplessly, breath catching. His tube flexes eagerly, winding between her fingers.

She looks satisfied with that, and her scent deepens further until it’s syrupy sweet and rich on his tongue. The sweet flush has crawled up her neck and dusted across her cheeks, and she’s as warm against him as a summer night, sticky and fragrant.

The farmer rolls onto her back after pressing her mouth to his, and reaches a hand down to press between her thighs. He pulls himself up, curious, and groans as the weight of his belly nearly pulls him back down. He’s never been this full before, the weight of his belly driving all his thoughts toward mating his fertile partner, pouring his offering into her body.

His farmer.

The thought sends a giddy thrill down his flanks, and an eager spurt of fluid gushes from his tube. He’s a little clumsy with added weight, but he seeks the point in which the farmer’s hand is buried. It’s the scent that reaches him first, nearly knocking him back with how potent it is. Musk-salt-sweet, deep as the reaches of the earth and as divine as the stars themselves, he leans forward without even realizing he’s done so to lick at where her fingers disappear into soft fur and pink, slick flesh.

She laughs, breathless and eyes bright with heat, and raises her fingers to his mouth. He devours them, fervent and worshipping and licks until she pulls away to pet his crest.

He’s panting open-mouthed, trying to ground himself in her touch, but the hazy fog of pheromones presses the need to the forefront, drowning out any other thoughts. Her gentle hands tug him closer, and he folds into her touch like he suspects he always will.

“Come on then,” her voice is full of – of something, of something he wants, and he whimpers for it – “Come show me.”

He scrambles to comply, pawing her thick thighs open wide enough to admit him and settling the heft of his belly on hers. His tube winds eagerly, turning itself in knots at the lack of touch and dribbling slick over the Farmer’s nest.

At the first touch of his tube against the Farmer’s soft, hot entrance, his tube coils on itself and shoves as far into her as it can, and his world narrows down to the sensation of her around him, of her scent and warmth and slickness.  It’s too good, and it’s too much, it’s too much, he can’t help it –

He gives a high warbling cry and spills into her heat, eagerly pressing as close as he can as his tube writhes and gushes inside her. Whimpering and panting, he grinds against her in a futile effort to get closer, like that will keep his fluid inside her longer and lace her scent with his.

When he’s regained enough presence of mind to open his eyes, his whole field of vision is taken up by brown skin and soft sweet breath. She’s smiling at him, in a way that has him squirming bashfully under her gaze.

“Was that good?” she asks in a voice softer than the skin under his paws.

“Yes,” he tell her, honest down to his trembling soul. “Please,” he entreats, “Can we-?”

Her smile crinkles at the edges, pulling at his attention. “Can we what, Kro?”

His breath hiccups in his throat, stuttering on a purr as she shortens his name to something that sounds warm and fond. He struggles to push out words between the liquid warmth coursing through him and the soft haze that narrows his focus to her, her, her. “Can we-? Again?”

If she were one of his own kind, she might have bitten him for asking, but his Farmer only lays her unwavering hands over where his paws squeeze her hips in a shaky grip.

“I’m happy you’re here. I want whatever you’ll give me.”

Unbidden, a sharp keen rises from his throat – joyous and painful as his body produces another pod of his essence to lay beside the first as pious offerings. His farmer gives a low, pleased noise as it passes into her body, gasping as another gush of slick follows it. He savors the sweetness and moisture of her breath.

“That feels nice,” she sighs, arching her body towards him. “Can you do that again?”

“Yes,” he hurries to promise her, breathless with the stab of satisfaction that lances through his basest, most instinctual being. He lurches forward, tugging himself closer and straining to please her. He feels his tube expand to admit more pods, and feels his Farmer’s warm embrace squeeze around him, endlessly encouraging.

His body falls into a hypnotic rhythm – panting, surging, squeezing – dimly, the rest of the world falls away until he’s only dimply aware of anything beyond the next gush of essence and fluid. Long tongue lolling, tasting the musk-salt-sweet of her skin, biting gently at her throat to fill his gasping mouth with her smell.

The Farmer speaks softly, sighing, crying, louder-!

She holds the pods of his essence in her overstuffed body, shuddering as they shift to allow another, another, another to be gelled to her silk-soft insides.

Pant, surge, squeeze.

Her mighty body arcs and squirms beneath him, her tongue and teeth shape his name, her solid, strong hands pull him closer. Helplessly, he gives in to her – he can’t seem to do anything else but give in to her, pouring himself into marking and being marked, filling her and filling himself greedily with every sound and motion she makes as if they were made just for him.

Pant, surge, squeeze.

He continues even when he has no essence left to give her, and gushes shallowly into her, unable to squeeze in even an inch further past the mass of pods and protective gel that fill his Farmer to bursting. He continues even when his Farmer’s voice turns rough and tattered with overuse – how could he stop, when she asks for more? Even when he has nothing left to give her, when he is empty and she is full, he bows to her whim like he knows he always will.

Pant, surge, squeeze.

It’s only when the first dawn-grey light falls across her golden skin that he collapses into her welcoming arms. His paws are trembling, useless, but though hers shake she doesn’t let him fall. They lay, quiet, for some time until he can hear her vibrant heart beating over the sound of his uneven breath. She strokes his crest, and he pushes into her touch with what strength he still possesses.

When he feels less like he’s about to unravel piece by piece and vanish into the unknown without her grounding touch on his flanks, he sits back to look at her. Were the stars themselves to fall from the sky and into the Farmer’s warm little cabin, he knows he’d be unable to look away from her. She’s radiant, fur fluffed and eyes golden soft, smelling of satisfaction and him, and he wishes he could carve this moment into memory, tangibly, run his paws over it and keep it in his soul and bolster himself with the echoes of her warmth - wishes he could keep her scent on his body forever.

“Krobus,” she sighs, shifting slightly and drawing his gaze to her gently swollen belly. The pink flesh of her entrance is puffy, glistening with his slick and reddened by his vigor, and even without spreading her open, he can see hints of his pods just inside her stretched opening. Each jellylike tendril is filled with precious black pearls of him, his essence, and he cannot help but chirrup in delight at how full she is of him.

She pulls at his paws, and he goes to her willingly, nuzzling into her neck and being cradled in return, allowing her to command his body as she pleases, acquiescing to her every motion. He croons to her as she tucks them both under damp sheets, molding his form to hers.

Outside, the sun rises. For the first time in his life, he neither knows nor cares.  

“Stay with me,” she says, drowsiness weighting her words. He nods against her neck without caring to clarify – even if he had, would it change his answer? He knows he’ll bend to her word and her touch, knows it right down deep to his very core.

“I will,” he whispers. “I will.”