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The Earth is 71% covered by water.
And throughout the ages, only the bravest sailors have had the courage to venture into these boundless, unpredictable, and terrifyingly mysterious ocean expanses.
Time-hardened old sailors, having seen the true face of nature, never set foot or even looked toward the ocean again, hiding in saloons or near old houses built on docks in the middle of the oceans.
They were a treasure trove of those very stories, that darkness that people saw every time they looked into the water.
A treasure trove that prepared, or even dissuaded, sailors before setting sail, and immersed children in merciless tales, despite the age of their curious eyes, who, it seemed, found such terrifying stories only heightening their interest.
Children played by the docks, loving to greet sailors returning from voyages and ask them if they'd encountered the monsters of legend.
However, they didn't dare approach the ships that had miraculously returned after the crew's death, facing the hatred of the deep.
Squalo had it easier.
It had to be.
His father was a sailor who had dedicated his entire life to conquering the oceans.
He couldn't tell stories.
Simply couldn't physically.
Didn't even want to.
He hid all the diaries, all the maps, so that Squalo would never find himself on the same paths he had once found himself on.
Losing his son wasn't in his best interests.
After Squalo was born, he never set foot on the deck of a ship again.
He never considered letting Squalo on board either.
Because understood.
He understood that the most precious thing he had left would be utterly swallowed up by the insatiable ocean.
The strange, foolish hope my father nurtured to keep himself from going mad was a talisman.
As a young man, he retrieved a silver trinket from the depths of the ocean, along with a fish. Having lost his ship and crew to sharks, he himself, miraculously, survived.
And the symbol of this salvation, when danger loomed overhead, became the compass, which he kept and gave to Squalo when he was barely five years old.
He never took it off ever again.
Not when other children tried to take the amazingly sparkling trinket, defying time and centuries of being submerged in water.
Not when old sailors flinched at the sight of it.
Not when the Kraken's tentacles coiled around him, his ship, and the pirates' ships.
And in fact, it truly was a strange salvation, or perhaps it was simply self-deception.
But the indifference of the school of sharks circling around him every time the pirates who had kidnapped him threw him into the water was hardly self-deception.
But fate turned on the long-awaited encounter with a monster known to every child, every adult, but only a few hardened seafarers, somehow inexplicably surviving, swore by its reality.
The Kraken.
And Squalo believed.
He believed because fate itself had given him a signpost, a purpose in life.
Whether thanks to his father's gift or some other evil force, he survived.
Not injured, not disabled, but quite the opposite.
The King of the Oceans didn't just not kill him.
He protected him. He saved him.
Now the childhood dream has expanded. Perhaps not quite as crazy, but still incredibly adventurous.
Squalo couldn't give up his familiar lifestyle.
Gold, fabrics, jewelry, shark teeth—all of it had become an integral part of his life since he was 15.
He didn't think about anything more, he didn't even believe in the Kraken's existence.
But now, with direct proof of all those childhood tales, Squalo couldn't stop, moreover, he would go further, no matter the cost.
– We were told about the Monster when we were kids.
His childhood, and the childhood of all children who ever interacted with sailors, was filled with legends.
Monsters, islands.
Artifacts.
Artifacts shrouded in mystery, their locations unknown throughout all that time.
There were enthusiasts trying to find out, but no one ever saw these people again.
Now he knew the exact reasons.
Tiziano doesn't immediately react to the voice, much less to the words, and is reluctant to look up from handwritten text.
Tiziano.
Squalo chose this name for a reason.
The legend of a hermit sailor sailing the ocean several years ago inspired him when he was only seven years old.
A solitary artist, wandering the world and capturing strange events and terrifying monsters in his paintings, some of which remain partially preserved in bays around the world.
Legends circulated that his paintings, his old, tattered sketches, could predict the future.
But what's the matter with the ravings of old, bearded pirates, right?
However, it was this name, the most sacred to him, besides his father's, that he gave to the King of the Oceans.
Squalo casually turned his head over his shoulder.
Blue eyes briefly caught sight of the Monster, sprawled on his peculiar bed, propped up on his bent arms, lazily leafing through one of his journals.
He firmly believed in the eighth wonder of the world every time he looked at the gold in the narrow slits of these eyes.
When elegant hands crossed, and long, slender fingers turning page after page.
And all this while lying on his ship, in his cabin, in his bunk, which Squalo had lined with the most expensive fabrics he owned.
– From the azure depths.
The golden eyes drop almost immediately, back to the monsters, drawn with a surprisingly dry and sharp pencil.
Besides the dim, occasionally flickering lamps that barely warmed the cabin, the pages were comically illuminated by two lures Squalo had seen used by anglerfish. Although how exactly Tiziano used them, aside from deceiving sailors lost in the fog, was something he was still learning.
Silence reigned in the cabin, broken only by the occasional creaking of the old wooden chair on which Squalo sat, gently rocking back and forth.
It was a serious challenge not to jerk the chair out from under him.
– I just wonder if the legends are true.
Squalo, spitting energy, spontaneously and cheerfully shifts his position, slamming wooden legs onto the floor.
The soul itself demands eye contact, turning face to face and placing the back of the chair between legs.
Smiling, he rests his chin on bent arms.
– If it exists, how many more of these monsters are there? You must know.
He felt a surge of unease inside, without even realizing it.
– The blue bookmark. Is that it?
Tiziano hesitated to follow this peculiar instruction. Perhaps out of spite or lack of interest.
The former was more likely to be believed.
The sharp tips of his claws leisurely traced the page marked with a blue bookmark, which, apparently, contained information about the so-called "azure abyss”.
Flipping through the pages, after a few, he came across a crude drawing of a monster, now understanding why this place had received its name.
Not that he was particularly curious to know how people thought.
– Not exactly, but close enough.
– Yes, you've been described that way too.
Squalo grins, squinting playfully at the Kraken's displeased expression.
– I know a lot of ships have disappeared there.
– In fact, it's perfectly safe there during the day. But at night, you need to have serious steering skills.
Squalo barely restrains himself from biting his lip.
– So, just driving fast? That easy?
– Why are you asking?
Tiziano snaps, like lightning in the sky, shooting a glance as sharp as thunder itself, coming on a pitch-black night.
Silence reigns in the cabin once again.
With a slight smile, Squalo tilts his head, once again listening to the rustling of pages with sketches of various strange fish, strange phenomena…
– So it's as greedy as you are.
Eyebrows, from which several long shoots grew, merely frowned at the quiet, even gentle sarcasm, for which Squalo soon apologized. Albeit informally. With his voice. With his gaze.
This seemed right not only for him, who was always at a loss for words, but also for someone who had witnessed a huge number of different languages, their development and transformation, in his lifetime.
– I've been curious since childhood.
Tiziano squints. The fins between the tentacles slowly wave like a cat's tail, then fall back in a displeased gesture.
– Do you know why pirates go there?
– You know that too.
Squalo pursed his lips. His red eyebrows drew together tensely at the firm gaze, half paternal, half royal, that darted in his direction.
Tiziano understood everything; there had been no reason to doubt it from the start.
The cabin darkens with an uncomfortable silence, made even more so by the rising moon outside the window, reflecting the light of the sleeping sun, until suddenly this lulling atmosphere is interrupted by the sharp slam of the journal closing.
– Don't go in there, Squalo. Your little toothy friends won't help you here.
– And if I do, what will you do?
– I won't let anyone steal what's mine.
His voice grows rough, cutting off all escape routes once again. He picks up a leather-bound journal, worn by time and the ocean, with "III" scratched into it, lifting it and leaning forward.
– Won't let catch my fish, won't let sell my gold. And I won't let you hunt those who will bury you in this depth.
Squalo is silent, as if his father were scolding him again, only this time with his voice, not just his gaze.
Roughly, with jagged fangs bared menacingly, gnashing as they collided.
– Your slightly greater privileges are just a gift from the ocean.
Squalo purses his lips, his gaze downcast, accepting one accusation after another, once again feeling like that child who couldn't sit still.
True... until he realized one simple truth, causing the corners of his lips to involuntarily lift.
– But isn't it...
He begins, as if stopping himself for choosing more precise, more appropriate words.
– You are the ocean?
Tiziano's furrowed brow, more surprised than displeased, acted like a raised anchor, allowing Squalo to let out a quiet sigh of relief.
– So, in a sense, you gave me this miracle.
He looks up, grinning.
– Or cursed me, I suppose.
Slowly but decisively, Squalo rose from his creaking chair and moved toward the Kraken lying on belly. This time, he averted his frown, hiding behind his tentacles.
– You still haven't killed me either. Although it would be more profitable for you to get rid of the living map.
– Get behind the wheel.
Tiziano hisses, almost growls.
– You wanted to go to the azure abyss, or whatever nonsense you called that hole in the ground.
He waves him off, casually, blindly, as Squalo closes the distance between them enough to walk to the edge of the bunk, standing in front of him with a satisfied expression.
– It's just curiosity. You know, I saw a lot before I met you.
Strong arms, bruised from climbing the mast, backstay, and bowsprit, rested on the bunk as Squalo leaned ingratiatingly, wanting to peer into the white-patterned face.
– And I can learn even more, now that I have you.
Tiziano winced, looking away, each time further, as the sailor insistently leaned forward. Suddenly, he kissed him on the forehead, catching his temple in a moment's hesitation, moving downward until he landed on his tightly closed lips in a light touch.
He doesn't resist.
– I'm not going there. Certainly not without you, so I don't get my ass kicked. Or, well, unless the pirates drag me through that 'hole in the ground’.
Squalo hesitates, looking at the dejected look, the reason for which he still doesn't fully understand, carefully, without any sudden movements, extending his hand, placing it on his cheekbone.
– There's a rumor that treasure is buried there. I just want to know if it's true.
He immediately catches my languid gaze, jerking his hand back and raising it in the air in surrender.
– I won't touch it!
– You still haven't realized that all the treasure, everything in the ocean, on the ocean, above the ocean, belongs to me.
Squalo rolls his eyes.
– Yes, I understand.
– No, you don't.
Tiziano claws at the ivory shirt, roughly pulling it off, yanking it off the sinewy shoulder, exposing the part with the map, and pulling the cabin boy himself, who certainly isn't a captain with such erudition, closer.
– Because one of them is doing everything possible to get lost at the bottom of the ocean along with the others.
Squalo doesn't immediately understand what's being said.
And when it dawns on him, it's already too late, lost in the grip of the dangerous and merciless Kraken.
Strong, elastic tentacles stretch out their entire length, wrapping around his neck and squeezing, their suction cups clinging tightly, pulling him in for another kiss, more confident this time, pressing close, wrapping tighter around him.
The hints of asphyxiation overtake the human body too quickly, beginning to choke as it struggles to pull back the lingering tentacle.
– Shit- I got- I got you.
He tries to speak through the kiss, almost wrestling with the Kraken, feeling entirely like those unfortunate souls unfortunate enough to anger this wild creature.
However, the enemy had no intention of giving up ground in this brutal battle.
And Squalo felt the pressure not only not weakening, but rather persistently resisting him.
With a battle roar, he plunged into Tiziano's lips, grabbing several tentacles on his head and pulling them back, while he himself thrust forward forcefully, initiating an unpleasant clash of teeth biting lips, intertwining tongues, smacking in a dance like a tangle of snakes.
Squalo changes tactics.
He's been in the ocean long enough to be able to quickly change tactics, especially in a life-or-death fight.
Leaning forward, he deliberately makes the position so uncomfortable that Tiziano has no choice but to pull away, breaking the slobbery, slimy kiss.
But even so, he carefully kisses the patterns on cheekbone, running down the neck, even though he still winces from the suffocating pressure on his throat, only made worse by the smacking suckers warming so sweetly against his skin.
Every damn time he went fishing, the octopuses were a real pain in the ass, constantly struggling with the rope, eating, no, biting through a bunch of fish.
Moreover, you can't just get rid of these willful bastards that easily until they decide to leave.
Simply unbearable.
But apparently fate had gone further, rewarding him with another, even bigger one.
– Stop.
Squalo suddenly pulled back, meeting Tiziano's dumbfounded gaze. The tentacles seemed to be dumbfounded along with them, loosening their grip.
– Was that a compliment, or did I really…
The answer doesn't come immediately.
Tiziano is silent for a moment, staring blankly at him, before his lips suddenly stretch, sharpening into a meaningful smile, his golden eyes turning into two even thinner slits before closing completely.
That's to be expected.
– You're such an ass.
Squalo feigns a pout, pursing his lips and stretching his neck, his displeasure enveloping the almost purring octopus.
He climbs fully onto the bunk, bracing his knees against the creaking cot, prompting Tiziano to respond in kind, lifting himself off the bed with outstretched arms.
However, he controls their position himself. Squalo grabs Kraken's shoulder and waist with a rough grip, casually turning him around and pushing him face-first into the bed.
Tiziano doesn't resist. In fact, he glances over his shoulder with a slight chuckle, watching as the clothes slowly begin to peel off the sailor's sturdy body.
Wet tentacles, glistening with a thin protective layer of slime, reach out to meet him, sparkling with their own eagerness to help. Their nimble tips curl around the red belts tightly tied around his waist, loosening and untying them, unbuttoning the button of his wide pants.
Squalo didn't let up. Quite the contrary, such attention didn't go unnoticed, prompting him to reciprocate more actively, pulling off his time-worn shirt and casually tossing it to the floor over his fallen boots.
However, while the tentacles rubbed against his thighs, kissing him with a soft smack, he pushed them away with a confident movement, grabbing in his arms, tautening and pressing the suction cups firmly against his skin.
– You'll have to let me kill a couple dozen builder crabs to recoup the cost of the damaged tissue.
– For sure.
Tiziano practically spits sarcasm, brushing off the words of permission as if they were a direct attack, when he's suddenly interrupted by a grip that nudges him in the withers and forces his head down.
Squalo's other hand couldn't stay still, couldn't with such a sight spread out before him, sliding down ribs, a sunken waist, angular hips, and casting a fleeting, narrowed glance at the lowered back of his head.
– May I ask a question?
– No.
He almost backs away in indignation, his predatory gaze turning to a frown.
– What the hell, are you kidding me?
A muffled laugh from somewhere ahead angers him even more.
– No, I mean…
Out of the corner of his eye, gold glitters from behind his tentacles, looking over his shoulder. His fin lowers, revealing those ill-fated, cunning slits.
– That's the answer to your question. I understand you.
Squalo raises his eyebrows with undisguised surprise, perhaps even with boyish embarrassment, because he simply hadn't had time to realize it, but quickly retreats, frowning again, lips pursed, eyes downcast.
– It's in your nature to talk confusing bullshit, isn't it?
Hissing, as if afraid to speak out loud, he draws his shoulders, hiding his head, and with an open palm traces his soft thighs, his thumb more tightly tracing dots on the skin, dark as the ocean itself, though unpleasantly slimy, staining everything around it.
The friction of skin on skin falters when he realizes his hands are still wrapped in protective cloth, to prevent them from being cut while running around on the ship.
Sharp teeth almost immediately sank into the straps, carelessly tugging, pulling them tight and, as quickly as possible, impatiently throwing them aside, either onto the floor or onto the bed. He saw nothing but Tiziano, into whose ass, while struggling with his own clothes, he crashed his hips, from which the sea monster almost fell face-first into the bed, bracing himself with outstretched arms in time.
Finally, freeing one hand, he leans down, pressing his torso against Tiziano's arched back. The fins slowly adhere to his skin, as if they had spontaneously reached out to attach themselves with a soft smacking sound to his heaving chest.
The tentacles respond to the closeness just as quickly, lovingly reaching out for an embrace, gently wrapping themselves around Squalo, as if just a few minutes ago they hadn't been trying to strangle him, tenderly kissing him with their sticky suckers, leaving red, ring-shaped marks.
His bare hand, while he kissed the influencing tentacles in response, slid down Tiziano's stomach, which had contracted from the contact, descending for a moment until the pads of his fingers caught an equally slippery slit, the pressure of which, like a click with a quiet sigh, made his legs tremble.
Squalo's grin sharpened at the soft sound, his eyes closed as he buried his nose in the drooping fin where his ear used to be.
Opening his eyes, he carefully watched every slightest reaction as his fingers slowly traced the slit, opening the cloaca with two fingers and feeling for the treasured opening, attention to which caused a noticeable tremor in the Kraken's body.
The pads of his fingers lightly circle the leaking hole with his middle finger, preparing and warning before the first finger gradually slips in, then the second, followed by the ring finger, descending until it rests against the heel of his palm.
Tiziano's hips shook from the deliberately slow penetration, trembling and rising, pushing harder between Squalo's legs as his fingers’ length sank in fully.
Sharp, strangely inhuman teeth cut into the fin, knocking a poisonous hiss out of the king of the oceans, replaced by an almost purring moo in response not so much to the forward movements, but to the aching, deliberately painful ones, now bending, now spreading the fingers, exploring the tight sac inside.
A soft groan escaped his breath through sharp, octopus-like teeth, clawed fingers clenching, digging into the precious, hard-won tissue. The tentacles writhed restlessly, their suckers pulsating, pressing painfully against Squalo's skin as he carefully probed for signs of life.
But just like in the ocean, the most precious treasure gravitated toward him.
There, within, between the tight, soft walls, he chuckled triumphantly at the feeling of two shy tentacles wrapped around his fingertips.
Without thinking, Squalo began to work harder, shuddering passionately at the sensation of the tentacles slowly sliding around his fingers, until soon two long, thick genital appendages, slightly different in shape from the others, wrapped around his hand.
– What a good catch.
The lips curved in a heated growl, revealing the predatory teeth that always frightened the other sailors and residents.
Tiziano merely grunted sullenly, but quickly broke into a quiet groan as he gripped the slippery mass of flesh, dripping copiously onto the bed, his hand, perfectly curled around the oozing tip with fingers.
Squalo runs his fingers twice along the writhing length, pushing itself into his fist, before pulling away his hand, coated in a strange mixture of fluids, with some difficulty, barely escaping the reciprocating grip of organs unwilling to let go.
Sliding back, now that his fingers are properly lubricated, he slides them between Tiziano's buttocks, gently spreading them.
The sight of the pliant ring of muscle creates a tsunami in his mouth and stomach, until his other hand finally releases withers and slides toward his own body, closing palm around his long-awaited, eager cock, guiding and pressing the tip of the head against the soft hole.
After riding out the electrifying wave of goosebumps, Squalo, almost choking, plunges himself inside with one gradual but continuous thrust until his strong thighs press firmly against tense ass.
Tiziano's entire body tenses from the single precise movement that descended into him so teasingly slowly. His legs trembled as if he was about to lose consciousness, although in fact he felt the same immense surge of strength and feelings, stretching his neck and closing his eyes, clenching his teeth, emitting a drawn-out sweet moan.
Squalo, faced with threats of cumming right now, clings to the mere seconds it takes to take a sober breath, letting go of the storm of sensations and allowing himself to be enveloped in a warm, tight embrace, letting his slimy hand hang next to his own hip while the other gently but firmly holds the Kraken.
– Sometimes you really do hurt my insecurities.
Without answering, Tiziano slowly, languidly turns over his shoulder, peeking out from behind the tentacles with a heavy breath.
– You're so big. Even in this form. I feel so tiny.
Without waiting for any reaction, which it seemed in his own best interest not to receive for such a stupid remark, Squalo makes the first tentative thrust, slow, testing, studying the body's reaction.
Tiziano exhaled quietly, but chuckled discontentedly at the sailor's words, not fully grasping their seriousness or, conversely, sarcasm.
But he knew they were meaningless, certainly not for him, certainly not when he could feel, inhale, and see that sweaty face so close.
And so, seeing the satisfied reaction, Squalo finally decides to set a tempo, not a fast one, but a sharp, resonant one, eliciting silent sighs, sweet wheezes, and muffled moans from Tiziano.
– Even when you squeeze me so tightly.
His fingers tighten, digging their nails into the soft, elastic skin, trying to permanently imprint this sensation on his mind, on his own muscles, holding on, pulling the king toward his thrusts.
Each impact pierces his spine straight into his throat, involuntarily getting stuck halfway.
Tiziano chokes, lowering his head, biting his finger with muffled groans.
Squalo's hand slowly, either in apology or in simple caress, glided over the area of torment, tracing the rounded buttocks and resting on the tense lower back.
His thumb gently moved lower along the tailbone, not only listening to the slick, resonant slaps filling the cabin, but also keeping his eyes fixed on the sight of his own cock disappearing with each movement into the soft, yielding walls, greedily accepting centimeter after centimeter.
Tiziano can't help but let out a soft chuckle. The tentacles playfully, boyishly hug their owner, lowered head and hidden it behind raised shoulders.
– I just wonder if…
He bends over, arching his back, tense from constant physical exertion, holding Tiziano's hips with one hand, while the other gently rests on his neck, tracing the muscles of his neck with the pads of his fingers, the Adam's apple running under the thin skin.
The Kraken arched his back in response, voluntarily deepening his thrusts, pressing into him with sensual force. The pace became more rapid as Squalo, chastising himself internally, tried to push deeper than his own size allowed, involuntarily breaking into soft moans at the sweet voice in his ear.
A voice irritating with the intensity with which Tiziano swallows and buries every moan deep in his throat, preventing them from being heard in the endless ocean.
– If, in all these millennia, there was another map.
A fatal drop of hot mouth rolls down his chin, framing his stern, sharp jaw, falling down and mixing with a layer of mucus.
Tiziano doesn't answer. On the contrary, it seemed, he'd become quieter, which couldn't help but make Squalo tense.
– Are you sure you want to discuss this now?
– Yes.
He answers immediately.
– I want to know how to outshine each of them.
In response to a bold chuckle, Tiziano's expression darkens dramatically. One of the tentacles reaches out, wrapping around and tightly gripping Squalo's wrist, its suction cups gripping it tightly, holding it in place until a sharp, piercing pain pierces to the point of convulsions.
– Never was. And it's unlikely it ever will.
– Don't worry so much. I'll definitely be visiting your gloomy face as a ghost.
An ambiguous silence hangs in the cabin, seemingly undecided about whether to respond or react to these words.
Not now.
Squalo smirks, seeing the downcast expression of the usually composed and regal figure, leaning down to kiss the tentacle gripping his arm numbly. The suction cups will leave behind more than just reddened rings, definitely bruises.
His lips trailed lower, toward his back, either in apology or in respect for the status, age, or simply... like he inexplicably wanted to hold someone close, feeling a peculiar rush of affection and attention that he didn't exactly indulge in in his everyday life.
– Damn.
Squalo hisses through painfully clenched teeth, feeling himself begin to give way with each new thrust. The tingling in his lower abdomen becomes almost unbearable, unpleasantly resonating through his throbbing cock, its sensitive, swollen tip rubbing against the tightly enveloping walls, as if deliberately milking him dry.
Choking on his own tongue, he unconsciously digs his nails into Tiziano's skin, unable to control the force from the convulsive spasm that shot through him.
His hips slammed as hard as they could with a few trembling slaps, finishing themselves off quickly before finally coming.
The orgasm lodged in both their throats, burying nose in the tentacles that encircled him, with a ragged wheeze filling insides with white, stagnant seed, every drop of which Tiziano accepted, gently shaking his hips.
A long minute, if not longer, drags on, just to come to his senses, slumped limply against his broad back, basking in the caress of tender, kissing tendrils.
– I can't wrap my head around it.
With a trembling breath, Squalo slowly, reluctantly pulls away, occasionally shuddering slightly from the post-orgasmic sensitivity that reacts sharply to the slightest friction on the way back.
– That I'm lying in the same bed with the king.
He exhales heavily, tracing the heated, stretched ring of muscle with his thumb. He peers inside and gently pulls it aside, mesmerized by the white liquid glistening at the edge, threatening to spill out.
Tiziano chuckles faintly.
– You can't even imagine...
Backing away slightly, stretching out on his arms, he lazily rolls over onto his back.
– How actually right that is.
Unexpectedly for himself, Squalo awkwardly, even a little embarrassedly, looks away from the sight spread out before him.
From the boldly spread legs, from the slowly, yet spitefully steady, rising chest, despite what just happened, from the barely perceptible upturn of the lips.
His breath catches at the sight of the hand reaching out, fins pressed against the forearm. Fingers gently press against the edges of the soft hole, slowly spreading it and allowing a drop of semen to finally trickle out, contrasting so sharply with the dark skin.
He hesitates, like a boy, something he'd never encountered in his 15 or 20 years, but this image, so primal and alluring, twists something in his head and chest.
His body involuntarily leans forward, attracting Kraken's attention and prompting him to pull his hand away, making room for the sailor who has mounted him.
Tiziano pauses for a moment, a little confused, a little surprised, but definitely ingratiating, as he looks up at Squalo.
They stare at each other for long, too-long seconds, until teeth, unnaturally sharp for a human, are bared in a faint grin.
The sensation of two tentacles pressing against his backside, wrapped around his hips, seems to force the corners of his lips upward.
Clawed hands settle on his strong legs, the pads of the long fingers tracing the muscles bulging under the skin.
– Already so cheerful?
Squalo smiled in response to the closeness, leaning in carefully, tactfully closing the distance.
He knew Tiziano had a particular fondness for close physical contact.
He found this particularly endearing, knowing that he was dealing with a dangerous creature who could not tolerate any disturbance to his peace.
Palms, one still bound in cloth, slide down her slowly rising chest, descending until they both stand frozen a few miserable centimeters apart.
Simply aware, simply looking, simply feeling.
A second passes, after which they almost simultaneously collide in a kiss.
Squalo burrows his fingers into the nimble tentacles on head, while the two appendages behind him move closer, gently nipping with their suction cups. Clawed fingers rest on wiggling, freckled ass, squeezing and spreading, opening a direct path to quivering slit.
– Just not too fast.
The whisper bursts out sharply, a fleeting twitch through the kiss, right on Tiziano's lips, unbroken and unwilling to be interrupted. And that's enough for it to be heard. Enough for it to be understood.
One of the two tentacles slid gently between buttocks, arching, rubbing against a puckered entrance.
Although anxious, Squalo exhaled with lust. He thrust his hips invitingly, allowing easier access, which couldn't help but elicit a reciprocal smile from Tiziano, breaking the kiss's steady, wet rhythm.
His body reacts no less excitedly to the tip pressing warningly, but Squalo doesn't pull away.
On the contrary, he lifts his hips, feeling the mucus flow soothingly down between his legs, curving along the folds between his buttocks.
He tilts his head, breaking the kiss completely.
A lump rises in his throat, causing to involuntarily choke through clenched teeth. The tip presses in tightly, insistently.
They both freeze as part of the tentacle suddenly pushes inside. It doesn't last long, just giving them both a few moments to process and accept these sensations, this tight embrace.
Permission, questions, nothing is required between them.
Just a silent, yet so eloquent, gaze, followed by the sensitive organ, as if possessing a separate consciousness, beginning to move, plunging deeper and deeper. Slowly, testingly, exploring, squeezed between wrinkled walls, just as slowly accustomed to the tension, but not at all repulsed.
– Fffuck.
Squalo hisses, taut as a fishing line, breathing through his wide-open mouth as he exhales, accepting the centimeters gradually burrowing inside him.
He'll definitely measure them the next time he gets the chance.
Tiziano's breathing hitches right after him. His chest rises sharply, his hips wiggling slightly impatiently, either in warning or out of control, as he thrusts upward with one jerk, driving the tentacle all the way up. The thickness pierces Squalo, causing him to jerk sharply, growling inappropriate sailor curses under his breath, slamming their heads together with a bang, brimming and empty from thoughts at the same time.
The sensations were too clear, too vivid, as the organ twisted inside him, following the contours of his intestine, stretching it until it finally sank to the very base.
His hips rose involuntarily, unthinking the consequences, pressing ass against the second tentacle, so impatiently yet so shyly rubbing against him.
Tiziano made the first thrust. Extending slightly and pausing for a moment, he thrust the tentacle back in, at a new angle, slamming hard into the walls.
Squalo's vision swam.
A strange sensation of fullness piercing him, like something writhing within him, like a separate life, wanting to penetrate.
His entire body shudders, jerking, too far removed from reality, when a hot, wet, so soft and gentle tongue presses against his cheek, sliding along his lips.
And Squalo reacts almost immediately, as soon as he realizes what's touching him, for what purpose, extending his own tongue and licking, kissing back.
– Wait.
He whispers breathlessly, wincing slightly at the insistent tongue on his face and the restless, fidgeting tentacle inside.
Especially those damned suckers clinging to the folds inside.
His thumb slides over Tiziano's wet lips, partially exposing jagged fangs and exhaling heavily, wanting to simply lie there, captive to that warm mouth.
But he's forced, under the pressure of his own desires, to pull away, rising on an outstretched arm.
Tiziano quietly observed all this, every glance, every movement, every breath, with no less lust.
Freckled skin glistening with sweat, the damp ends of unruly hair, the tips of teeth protruding from a mouth gaping with the ragged breath of an animal.
His tongue involuntarily reaches out to lick the spot where the sailor touched his lips.
Finally, Squalo reaches back with his bare hand, and the Kraken shudders from the sudden grip on the second tentacle.
Their gazes meet, and he can't help but smile, feeling the tentacle frozen inside him, lost along with its owner.
Moments like these were especially precious.
Slowly, perhaps even teasingly, even if it's just because he himself doesn't have the strength to quickly lose that tingling fullness inside, he pulls his hips up.
His muscles tense, it's unclear whether from anticipation or excitement, clenching when just under half remains inside.
The second tentacle clearly didn't share the same trepidation. Not surprising, considering it had been left unattended for so long. The appendage wriggled vigorously, demanding release from the sailor's tight grip, rubbing against his lower back, twisting and twirling, eager to finally dive in after the first.
– I thought kings were supposed to be more patient.
– Your pernicious influence.
The lures on Tiziano's head sparkle with displeasure, following his furrowed brow.
Squalo finds this more amusing and endearing than threatening.
Especially when these lures don't decide his fate.
With a slight, perhaps slightly impudent, smile, he leans back, resting his free hand on the knee behind him, kindly offered for his comfort.
Arching his back, tensing his strong muscles, he finally allows the organ to slide closer, right to the stretched entrance.
And Squalo forgets to breathe, unwilling to, as soon as it reacts, wanting to fully experience that sweet tension with every cell of his trembling body. The tender walls contract, despite his attempts to relax, from the firm pressure from outside, trying to push back and cling to the free space.
Tiziano's eyes roll back and close, sinking his jagged teeth into his lower lip, choking along with Squalo as the tentacle pushes inside with a loud squelch, into the tight hole that tightly clamps the two organs.
Squalo's own cock was already painfully hard, spurting a copious amount of precum onto Tiziano's chest and licking tongue. The substance oozed pitifully, pleadingly, from his pulsating urethra, a little more, and almost howled from the edge to which the double tension had pushed it.
– Fuckfuckfuck-shit, I changed my mind.
Almost immediately, he growled, barely audible, through his clenched teeth from the sharp pressure on both sides of his lower abdomen, his head thrown back uncontrollably.
The consequences of this jerk are guaranteed the next morning.
– A sailor must be more decisive.
The claws almost completely pierce the skin of the buttocks, cutting off any attempt to retreat both verbally and physically, holding the sailor in place and abruptly, without warning and completely unexpectedly, in sharp contrast to the previous passive position, as if expecting a mistake, pushing hips upwards, driving both tentacles up to the thick base and knocking out a choking, ragged groan, tearing throat.
Squalo braced himself with both hands on Tiziano's knees, his head lowered to his chest, his eyes closed, and howling hoarsely, moaning from the tingling sensations and strange excitement that were so intense he was convulsing.
He had absolutely no strength to make more than barely audible sounds without passing out.
The tentacles wriggled, sometimes intertwining, sometimes moving apart, deliberately rubbing against the dead-end bends of the colon, clinging with their suction cups, tightening the folds.
And Squalo could feel every damn movement. He knew without a doubt that Tiziano was doing this on purpose. Deliberately torturing him. So sweetly torturing.
As if in a fog, he reluctantly, with difficulty, opens his unfocused eyes, and in that same second, more instantly than his consciousness had ever been, everything inside him tightens suffocatingly.
His body breaks out in a cold, or maybe hot, sweat, his heart stops as orgasm crashes down on him, not like a wave, but like a rockfall, at the sight of his own stomach. A sunken stomach, with tentacles protruding from it, writhing deep beneath the skin, seemingly deliberately pushing to be noticed.
Tiziano is almost startled by this unexpectedness, squinting and jerking his head away.
They both freeze, staring at each other in shock. White semen, thick and much more abundant than before, slowly and mockingly trickles down his face, spreading across his chest, while Squalo awkwardly and confusedly tries to calm his own wildly pounding heart.
– No. Don't say anything.
Tiziano doesn't resist, instead, silently, his smile wide and wicked, more intelligible than a thousand words.
His golden eyes slide down, right to his belly, where the tentacles have begun to move again. Slowly, deliberately, squeezing quiet sighs from the whining Squalo and cramping his leg muscles with even the slightest sway.
His hand, adorned with webbing and fins, creamy patterns shimmering on his chocolate-colored skin, reaches out, gently resting his open palm on his belly, which is drawing deeply in with each breath, almost suffocating from the storm of thoughts in his head.
– You can't even imagine...
Tiziano whispered, barely audible, almost thinking out loud, as he moved down the mounds to Squalo's hips and carefully put on his legs, just under his buttocks.
Putting his feet firmly on the bed, he began more tangible movements, thrusting his hips upward and setting a deep, brisk pace, even though the thickness at the base meant he was physically unable to push all the way in. But even that was enough to send them both over the edge.
Squalo's legs, arms, all his limbs were weakening, he couldn't even feel or understand how he was holding himself up, his head thrown back helplessly, his eyes screwed shut and rolled back.
His unfortunate cock slowly, painfully went limp, dripping the remnants of his leaking semen onto Kraken's soiled belly.
The fabric, long since crumpled beneath them, could safely be discarded.
However, perhaps he'd manage to find some pervert in the Southern Isles.
Tiziano helps him maintain some balance, spreading his legs so that he too can enjoy a marvelous view of the swollen walls stretched around his organs.
Gritting his teeth—if that made sense given his inhuman form—he involuntarily closes his eyes in a surge of ecstasy, groaning softly for a second before he thrusts all the way in, hitting painfully with the thick bases.
– You fuck-!
Squalo would almost scream, if not for his weakness and hoarseness, sharply sucking in his stomach from the restless churning within.
He wiggles excitedly, twitches, and convulsively, if not in panic, tries to pull away and run, but Tiziano grips him with a death grip, yanking him back.
– Shit-no no no ffuuck!
With the same force with which the Kraken destroyed ships, with which it ravaged harbors, he holds Squalo's arms, immobilizing them and pinning them to his body.
He tucks his legs under him, cutting off any escape route and completely enveloping him, clinging to his head with tentacles.
With a jerk, they fall, rolling onto their sides, onto the bunk.
Squalo spasmed, pressing his free hand against the stone shoulder, choking and gasping, as each nerve jolt filled him with seed.
His belly bulged with a profusion of translucent capsules, a thin membrane containing the seed within, surrounded by a thick mass of cloudy mucus.
He opens his mouth in a pathetic attempt to say something, but ends up spitting out a trail of pale liquid.
His Adam's apple jumps, crowding with several capsules, pushed further out by his constricted, prone position.
They almost fall out of his mouth, leaving an unpleasant bitterness on his tongue, but at the last moment, one of the tentacles wraps around his mouth, tightly blocking the exit and leaving him no choice but to reluctantly swallow them back, feeling them sink down his throat one by one.
Blue eyes water, lids grow heavy, closing weakly and sluggishly accepting the residual, mostly reflexive urges.
His stomach rumbles, and not from hunger at all. Squalo chokes painfully, fighting the sensation of the sperm balls rolling back and forth inside him like a roller coaster.
As the churning slows, gradually ceasing, they both freeze, not counting the time, breathing heavily and tightly pressed in a sweaty, slimy embrace.
The two organs inside slowly moved occasionally, until finally completely still, as if falling asleep, immersed in the warm, moist tightness.
Squalo had no strength left, not even reacting to the tentacles that began to slowly, hesitantly release him, leaving behind a patterned labyrinth of red rings.
The clawed hands, which had previously firmly gripped his helpless human body, loosened their grip, settling softly and tenderly on top instead of a vice.
– I think I'm gonna throw up...
– Yes, almost.
Squalo groans softly, hiccupping from a cut gag reflex, his heavy eyelids drooping under the pressure of his furrowed brow.
Tiziano smiles softly, reaching out, his fingertips gently tracing Squalo's waist and hip, his thumb sliding over slightly protruding belly. Pressing lightly, he involuntarily bites his lower lip, feeling the capsules rolling inside.
– I'm pulling out.
– No.
Squalo spat with the last of his strength, causing Tiziano's eyebrows to rise in surprise as he looked up.
– Give me a couple of minutes to catch my breath...
Tiziano couldn't help but laugh, barely audible, short, soft, touched by such a reaction.
Exhaling deeply, allowing his body to relax in the presence of the only person in the world, he gently pulled Squalo closer, burying his nose in the curve of his hollow collarbone and squeezing the compass between their bodies.
– You have all time in the world.