His eyes find mine across the cave, and they're wrong. Not the silver-blue I've grown to know but solid black, pupils blown so wide they've consumed everything else. The moonlight glow of his irises is gone, replaced by void that seems to pull light from the air itself.
“Won,” he says, but it's not really a word. More growl than speech, the sound vibrating through the water and up through my bones. “Won. Mine. Now.”
Every tentacle moves independently, no longer under his conscious control. They writhe and twist, reaching for me even though he's still twenty feet away. The bioluminescent patterns that usually pulse in controlled waves now strobe chaotically—lightning trapped under his skin, firing in random bursts that hurt to look at directly.
But it's the breeding tentacles that make me understand what's happened.
They're both fully extended, something I've never seen before. The primary is monstrous—as thick as my thigh at the base, tapering to the width of my wrist at the tip. The entire length ripples with ridges that move independently, each one swelling and contracting in its own rhythm like they're breathing. Clear fluid streams from the tip in thick ropes, so much that the water around him clouds white.
The secondary coils through the air like a separate creature, its surface covered in suckers that pulse with their own light. Each sucker opens and closes independently, creating a hypnotic pattern that makes my eyes lose focus. It's searching for something. For me.
“Three days,” I whisper. “You said three days.”
He moves toward me, and it's not swimming. It's something more primal—tentacles slamming into stone, dragging his body forward with desperate urgency. The water displacement sends waves across the cave pool.
“Can't.” The word tears from his throat like it's being ripped out. “Frenzy. Biology. Can't... stop.”
He's close enough now that I can see the wounds from the fight—deep gouges in his scales that still seep blue blood. But he doesn't seem to feel them. His hands reach for me, and I see they're shaking. This creature who's controlled every movement for forty seasons is shaking with need he can't contain.
“Please,” I don't know if I'm begging him to stop or continue.
His hands frame my face, and the touch burns. Not painful but intense—like every nerve ending suddenly wakes up and screams. His skin is fever-hot, almost too hot for the water around us. His thumbs trace my cheekbones and leave trails of sensation that spread outward like ripples.
“Need.” He pulls me against him, and I gasp at the contact. His chest is hard as stone but burning with heat that soaks through my skin. “Need you. Need inside. Need to fill. Need to claim. Need need need?—”
His words dissolve into clicking sounds that the translator can't parse. His mouth covers mine, and it's nothing like the breathing kisses from before. This is desperate, consuming, his forked tongue pushing past my lips to taste me like he's trying to crawl inside through my mouth.
The kiss tastes like the ocean during a storm—wild and salt and dangerous. But underneath is that sweetness I smelled earlier, and when I swallow it, heat explodes through my body. Another secretion, something that makes my skin feel too tight, like I might split apart at the seams.
His hands move to my waist, and he lifts me from the water. The motion is too fast, too rough, nothing like his usual careful handling. My back hits the cave wall, and the impact should hurt but doesn't because every nerve is already firing too hard to distinguish pain from pleasure.
“Mine,” he snarls against my neck, and then his teeth are there.
The bite is savage. His teeth pierce skin easily, and I feel hot blood mix with the water. But the pain transforms instantly as his saliva enters my bloodstream—another chemical, another change. The wound flashed from cold to hot, then settled into a thrumming sensation beyond temperature. I can feel it spreading from the bite like frost across a window, reaching through my veins to places that shouldn't be connected.
He bites again, lower, where my shoulder meets my neck. Then again at my collarbone. Each bite marks territory, and I can feel my body responding at a cellular level—recognizing him, accepting him, changing for him.
“Look,” he commands, pulling back just enough for me to see.
Where he's bitten me, my skin glows. Not metaphorically—actually glows with soft bioluminescence, his marks written in light under my skin. The glow pulses with my heartbeat, spreading outward from each bite in delicate patterns like veins of light.
But I barely have time to process this before his tentacles join the assault.
The first one wraps around my thigh, and the suckers activate immediately. Each one creates its own point of suction, its own tiny mouth pulling at my skin. The sensation is impossible to describe—like being kissed by a hundred mouths at once, each one sending its own signal to my brain until I can't separate them into individual sensations.
Another tentacle finds my breast, and when those suckers close over my nipple, I scream. The suction is perfect, devastating, pulling in a rhythm that matches nothing and everything at once. The secretion from the suckers makes my nipple swell further, become so sensitive that the simple friction of water felt like a caress.
“Sensitive,” he observes, but the word is slurred. “Good. Need sensitive. Need responsive. Need you to feel everything.”
More tentacles join. One wraps around my other thigh, spreading my legs wider than comfortable. Another coils around my waist, the suckers there creating a band of sensation that makes breathing difficult. Two more find my breasts, and the combined suction makes my back arch off the wall.
But those are just the regular tentacles.
The primary breeding tentacle rises between us like a threat and promise combined. This close, I can see details that terrify and fascinate. The ridges aren't uniform—each one is a different size, a different texture. Some are soft, almost velvet. Others arefirm, with edges that will catch. The tip is blunt but insistent, already pressing against my inner thigh, painting my skin with that thick preparation fluid.
The fluid is hot—hotter than his skin, hotter than the water. Where it touches, my nerves light up like struck matches. My thigh muscles twitch involuntarily, and I feel my pussy clench on nothing, already trying to pull in something that isn't there yet.
“Please,” I gasp, and I don't know what I'm begging for anymore.
