Vhaz
She chose me.
The knowledge sits in my chest like swallowed fire, too hot to contain. She stood at the portal with escape in reach and chose to walk back. To me. Specifically to me.
I carry her to our shelter while she marks my neck with her blunt teeth. Each bite is a claim, her human way of marking territory. I'll let her cover me in bruises if she wants. Let everyone know she chose this.
“Need you,” she says against my throat. “Need you inside me while that thing disappears.”
“Female wants to watch it close?”
“Want to know it doesn't matter. That door closing changes nothing because I already chose.”
My cocks are fully emerged, have been since she said she chose me. But this isn't normal arousal. This is something deeper. My body knows something has shifted. She's staying. Permanently. The chemistry changes, preparing for something more than proto-eggs.
At the pool, she strips off the Earth clothes with vicious satisfaction, throwing them aside. “Burn those later.”
“Female wants to destroy last connection?”
“Female wants to fuck while watching her old world disappear.” She's already backing against the pool edge, presenting. “Breed me properly. Like you're keeping me.”
“Am keeping you.”
“Then prove it.”
The primary slides home and we both know immediately—this is different.
The texture is wrong. Or right. The ridges are more swollen, the base thicker. My body has been preparing for this moment longer than hers has. Waiting for a female to choose to stay, not just accept breeding.
“Feels different,” she gasps as I hilt completely.
“Real breeding. Not practice.” The secondary enters alongside, and it coils tighter than ever—seven loops, maybe eight. “Body knows female is staying.”
“Your body or mine?”
“Both.”
The first wave of eggs releases and she gasps. These are heavier, larger. They don't start dissolving immediately like proto-eggs. They settle into her womb with weight that means something.
“Are these—?”
“Real eggs. Fertilized. Viable.” Second wave releases—only five eggs but each one has presence. “Female is being bred for keeping, not just daily need.”
“Fuck.” She watches her belly swell, but it's different. Lower, rounder. Permanent-looking. “Should have warned me.”
“Would warning have changed anything?”
“No.” The portal is half its original size now, shrinking as wave three deposits. “Would have chosen this anyway. Want your eggs. Your offspring. Your claim on me.”
The possessive surge that creates makes me deposit wave four immediately—seven eggs that make her moan. “Mine. Female is mine now.”
“Yours,” she agrees, pushing back against me. “Asshole.”
I lean over her, letting her watch the portal shrink while I fill her with our future. Twenty-three eggs total—I count each one as it transfers from my internal chambers to her womb. The most I've ever produced. My body giving everything because it knows she's staying.
“Can see them,” she breathes, looking at her swollen belly.
She's right. The eggs are visible through her stretched skin—oval shadows clustered in her womb. Real pregnancy, not temporary swelling.
“I'm really pregnant.” Wonder in her voice.
“Really pregnant with my clutch.” The portal is just a speck now. “No changing mind now.”
“Good.” She turns her head to bite my arm as the last egg settles. “Don't want to change my mind.”
The portal winks out just as my cocks release the binding fluid—the substance that will ensure the eggs attach properly. She comes screaming as it happens, her body celebrating the claiming while her old world disappears.
“It's gone,” I say unnecessarily.
“Don't care.” She's still convulsing around me, pussy milking every drop of binding fluid. “Have what I want right here.”
She's different after.
Not submissive—she'll never be that. But settled. The frantic energy that's driven her for thirty days has calmed into something else. Purpose maybe.
We float in the pool waiting for my cocks to release. The secondary takes longer with real eggs, ensuring everything is properly placed. She runs her hands over her swollen belly, tracing the outlines of eggs visible through her skin.
“Twenty-three,” she counts. “That's excessive.”
“That's perfect. Strong clutch from strong female.”
“Your female,” she corrects, then looks surprised she said it.
“My female,” I agree, tightening my coils around her. “My angry, violent, impossible female.”
“Don't get sentimental on me now.”
“Not sentimental. Possessive.”
“Better.”
When we finally separate, she stands differently. The weight of the eggs has already shifted her center of gravity. She has to lean back slightly, belly thrust forward. The sight makes something primitive in me deeply satisfied.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” she says, catching my expression.
“Can't. Female chose me. Carrying my clutch. Mine forever now.”
“Technically just three months. Then I lay these and—”
“Then you carry another clutch. And another. Female's body won't let her stop now.”
She considers this while wading to shore. “That's disturbing.”
“That's biology.”
“Your biology fucked up my biology.”
“Female's biology was waiting for mine.”
She wakes genuinely pregnant.
Not the temporary swelling of proto-eggs. Her belly has changed shape overnight, rounding lower and fuller. The eggs have settled into position, each one claiming space. When she moves, they shift with her.
“How?” She examines her transformed belly in the morning light. “How did it change so fast?”
“Body was ready. Been preparing since first proto-egg. Just needed real ones to complete transformation.”
She stands with difficulty, adjusting to the new weight. “Everything feels different.”
“Everything is different.”
I help her navigate the shelter with her shifted balance. She's determined to maintain routine but has to modify everything. Climbing is harder. Bending is nearly impossible. But she adapts with the same stubborn determination that made her throw rocks at shadows.
“Stop hovering,” she snaps when I follow too closely.
“Not hovering. Protecting.”
“From what? Gravity?”
“From everything.”
She throws a fruit at me but I catch it, bite through the skin. “Female still has good aim.”
“Female still has good everything.”
“Yes,” I agree, watching her waddle to the platform edge. “Female has perfect everything.”
Five days and her belly has expanded noticeably. The eggs are growing, each one developing the life inside. She lies in our nest while I check each one, using heat vision to monitor heartbeats.
“All twenty-three?” she asks.
“All twenty-three. Strong. Healthy.”
“Excessive,” she mutters, but her hand rests protectively over them.
We've modified the shelter for her changing needs. Lower platforms. Back support. Everything within reach. She pretends to hate the accommodations but uses them constantly.
“This is nesting,” I tell her as she arranges moss for the tenth time.
“This is practical.”
“Female is nesting.”
“Female is organizing efficiently.”
But she's smiling as she says it. She knows what she's doing. Preparing for something her body understands even if her mind resists.
That night she can't get comfortable. The eggs press on everything—bladder, organs, spine. I coil beneath her, letting her use my body as support. She finds a position that works, sighs with relief.
“Three months of this,” she says.
“Female regrets?”
“Female is processing.” She shifts slightly, eggs redistributing. “Ask me in three months.”
“Will.”
“Still hate you,” she murmurs, already drifting toward sleep.
“Known fact,” I respond, running my hand over her impossible belly.
But we both know we're saying something else entirely now. The words haven't changed but their meaning has. Hate has become our version of love, known fact our version of always.
She chose this. Chose me. The evidence grows inside her—twenty-three eggs that tie her to this place, to me, forever.
Mine.
My chosen female.
My angry mate who still throws things but now aims to miss.
“What are you thinking?” she asks sleepily.
“That female threw rocks at shadows.”
“Still would.”
“Know.”
“Good.”
She falls asleep like that, surrounded by my coils, belly full of our future. The portal is gone. Earth is gone. But she's here, claimed and claiming, building our life one impossible day at a time.
This is what I wanted. What I waited forty seasons to find. A female who chooses the difficult path not because she has to but because she wants to.
Who chooses me not despite what I am but because of it.
Who still hates me while carrying my clutch.
Perfect.
“My female,” I whisper to the darkness.
“Shut up,” she responds, not actually asleep. “Trying to rest.”
Yes. Perfect.