Work Text:
The last thing he remembers before hitting the waves is a wild shriek and the shock of severance.
The distance from Banshee to the ocean must have been significant—considering it felt less like water and more like slamming into a wall of cement, but Miles doesn't remember a single thing between the two. Everything since his son's departure feels like that; as if Spider was the screw holding together some rotor in Miles' brain.
Now that screw is gone. The shutter keeps slipping, and that faulty disc has probably just cost him his second life. Outstanding.
Banshee (that's her name. That was never supposed to be her name. She was not supposed to have a name. Somehow, she has one, and it's Banshee) pitched and wheeled above, baying like her namesake as he fought in the breakers.
She must have known not to dive; some animal intuition, but everything happened too fast to know. Miles just remembers a snapshot of wings silhouetted against fiery clouds (because of course this had to occur at fucking nightfall), and he remembers the cold slam of a whitecap over his skull.
Then nothing.
Miles' projector should have stopped there. He almost wishes it did, but no. It kept rolling—cutting in just enough for him to piece together that a current must have sucked him down. No visual; just an animal terror that screamed, I'm being crushed and I can't breathe.
The next time awareness cut in, Miles was lying prone on jagged rock, cold water sloshing around his hips. His night vision was strong enough to make out that he was in a cave, but even Miles' guttering bioluminescence wasn't strong enough to illuminate much more than a ten-foot radius around him. Vague shapes that might have been rocks swirled before his eyes, drowned in black static he'd never seen in this body: absolute darkness.
Shit.
Miles had scrambled for his handheld, only to find the damn thing busted—probably against the very rock he was sitting on. Only now did he realize the ache in his sinuses and ears. The weight in the air.
That black water at Miles' heels was looking more threatening by the second. How far did he get sucked down? It couldn't be that much, could it? The pressure would have to kill him at some depth…
Suddenly, Miles wished he'd paid better attention to Scorseby's stupid safety briefing—not that he thinks ‘What to do if y'get sucked into the fuckin' mouth of Hell, mate,’ would be on the docket.
Miles doesn't know how long he sat there trying not to panic; trying even harder not to think about the thousands of pounds surely hanging above his head.
… Was the water closer?
The terror of that thought finally sent Miles scrambling deeper into the cave and away from churning death. The stone was pitted and steep further up, hewn by centuries of running water. Miles was far from a tenderfoot by now, but he'd still managed to cut his heel open on a ridge, because of fucking course he did.
So. That's where he's at.
Stuck in some hellhole at the bottom of the ocean with no goddamn comms. Or food. Or light. All Miles has is a three-inch gash in his heel, a horrific cough from several lungfuls of ocean, and the worst luck any motherfucker not decomposing could fucking possess.
Spitting every foul word in the English language, Miles limps up the pockmarked stone and hunches on a ledge like a gargoyle. His IFAK made it through the day at least—drenched and picked over, but better than nothing. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he roots through the kit's meager contents. Must be a chill.
Miles tears open a square of QuikClot, wincing at the burn before securing it with soggy strips of bandage. The chill pours down his back before—
Shh-hhh-hhh…
He freezes.
Miles' eyes target before he even registers he's heard anything: a long, pale tendril that wasn't there before, snaking across the very rocks he just climbed.
Shhhh…
Miles would like to say he reacts smartly. He doesn't. The sight twists something in whatever part of his brain that's oldest, heart hammering as he watches it slither soundlessly over the stone.
Things glow. He's been living on this moon a quarter-century, and Miles knows as rote as his own name that living things glow. There's not one speck of light radiating from this—this thing. But it has to be alive… doesn't it?
The tendril feels its way across the stone until it's only ten feet away from him and still, he can't move. This is one of the rare occasions both halves of his genome are in perfect agreement: which is a neon-flashing, ‘Oh fuck at the front of his mind.
When Miles was in elementary school, he watched a horsehair worm burst out of a locust. Now, he may be an undead chimera of a Marine, but he does not fuck with worms. Especially not alien cave worms the width of his fucking forearm.
Miles watches with slight queasiness as he blunt end of this one parts down the middle—a plume of wet red feelers unfurling like the tongues of Satan himself. Like black threads, pouring out of an insect.
The shutter slips, and Miles is on his feet—first aid kit clattering all over the cave floor. He nearly shits himself at the racket, but the worm doesn't even seem to notice. Instead, it gingerly maintains its course. Right towards—
Miles' stomach crashes to his feet.
Towards the ridge he cut his foot on.
Chills crawl up Miles' back as those awful feelers graze bloodied stone, but it's only the blind swivel of the worm's head to the footprint next to it that turns paralysis to action.
"Oh, hell no," Miles hisses, tail lashing.
He may not have his knife, but if it's just the one, he might be able to strangle it. If nothing else, he could throw it away from him. He hates the fucking things, but fighting one is at least marginally better than being killed by one.
The worm slithers closer, feelers sweeping like a veiny feather duster, and it doesn't seem to be slowing down.
How big is this damn thing?
Miles whips a soggy flare out of his breast pocket and strikes it against the wall. For a few blinding seconds, sputtering light fills the cave.
Miles drops it.
"Oh no," he breathes, sidling back toward the entrance against slick stone. "No, no, no—fuck that. Fuck that, ain't no way in hell…"
He'll take his fucking chances with the bottom of the ocean. Nothing waiting out there could possibly hold a candle to this place.
Miles picks his way down the slope as fast as possible without breaking his neck. His pupils are still contracted from the flare, because he can barely see shit outside of his glinting skin. Stressed panting bounces disorientingly off the walls (stone or otherwise), playing tricks on his ears. Miles swears he hears movement in the blackness.
Then something cold underfoot caves like a roll of slimy wrapping paper, and Miles decides, fuck it—he'll chance snapping his goddamn neck, too. He sprints blindly forward, but he doesn't get ten feet before his foot slips again.
Miles ducks into a blind, crashing roll, every tiny pocket in the flowstone shredding him like a cheese grater. End-over-end, he tumbles… until something stops him. Not water or level ground, but bodies. Cold, slimy bodies.
Miles jerks away with a squeal he'd deny to the grave, clawing back up the flowstone without one fuck given to bloody fingers. In seconds, the stone becomes writhing cords of flesh, and Miles' stomach flips. "Fuck!" he snarls, reeling back the other way.
More worms.
Shutter.
He's standing up—listening desperately for some clue at escape, and that's when Miles realizes he can't hear the water anymore. They must have blocked the fucking exit.
"Fucking—fuck! Goddamnit!"
Something cold drips on his ear, and Miles resorts to swiping blindly in wild arcs around his head. He strikes a wet, rubbery fire hose dangling from the ceiling, and in seconds there's at least ten more.
Miles grabs two in his arms and yanks as hard as he can, but the worms don't budge. They're anchored somewhere above. Miles tries to strangle them, and then his grip begins to loosen.
"What—?!"
Miles jerks back in shock, flexing his fingers.
They don't move. He flexes them again. Nothing. He's numb. And his ear is numb. His feet and tail, too—and just when Miles realizes the slime must be venomous—
"Gah–ah!"
He flails uselessly as a thick rope of muscle loops around his knees and pulls. like the most pathetic oak ever felled, he falls, flopping onto a wriggling mat. Once again, Miles thrashes with a yell, fighting to keep above the surface. Only this time, something far more vile than waves is trying to drag him under.
Whatever toxin is seeping through his skin only marginally helps the worms. Already before now, Miles has fought for several hours, flown several hours more, drowned almost twice, and had the shit thoroughly kicked out of him. He's exhausted.
Miles would say he fought to the end if pressed. He would deny that he gagged, cried, or screamed for help, but he and whatever god that's clearly forsaken him know better.
"No," he gasps, pawing at one with a sluggish hand. "No… No. Stop!"
And just like that… it stops. The worms don't leave, but they do stop moving. All of them, all at once.
Miles lays on his back in a live hammock, so stunned he almost forgets his fear. He must have just snapped. There is no way—no goddamn way that subterranean worms from an alien moon just understood and responded to English. None.
… But on the other hand, Miles isn't really in a position to be picky.
"Let me go!" he bellows.
…
Damn it.
Slowly, the numbness fades, and then Miles realizes he is not, in fact, being paralyzed. The more time passes, the more it starts to feel like he's just had a bit too much to drink. His ankle aches. If anything, his skin feels even more sensitive. Hotter, too… Miles didn't even realize the tendrils had segments at first, but they're there; small, interlocking ridges underneath the slime. Miles blinks.
It hits him like a train. He's not terrified. Worried, yes. Pissed off, yes. Scared? Maybe.
Maybe?
"Th' fuck…?"
Stress gnaws haphazardly at Miles' stomach. Okay, maybe the shit he's steeping in is doing more than just getting him tipsy. A horrifying idea enters his mind.
Oh god. Oh holy God—is he being digested?
Static fills his eyes. Then the shutter slips again, and Miles cuts back to himself as he's trying his best to crawl anywhere else. After a few minutes, he slumps again, panting like he's run a marathon. His skin is so flushed the slime could just as easily be sweat saturating his clothes. Either way, he feels like he's on fire.
"Okay," Miles rasps—if nothing else to hear something besides his own struggling. "Okay, okay, fuck—Don't lose your head, dammit, think!"
Unfortunately, Miles has no time to think, because between his shoulder blades, a warm tendril is skating up his back.
Oh no—
Another tendril shifts against his forearm. Then another, and another. And then the whole goddamn tangle is moving—kneading Miles like dough between a thousand slippery bodies. Spadefoot toads go limp when you pick them up, sometimes—like they already know they've lost. That's how Miles feels; so drugged and stressed it all cancels out somehow.
(He wonders if horsehair worms eat toads.)
All over, the worms poke and prod. Miles weakly shakes his head, eyes and mouth shut tight as the worms coil around his arms and constrict, pulling Miles almost spread-eagle. When one of them slips down his shirt collar, he yelps.
Great. Fucking great. It's probably going to burrow through his navel and eat his guts. Wonderful.
Weakly, Miles writhes in the makeshift web, managing to wrest one arm and leg free. He pitches forward, but he's too tangled up to escape. Slowly, they pull the wayward limbs straight until Miles is flat on his back again. His skin is so sensitive he can feel the skin bunching up on every creature as it contracts. When the one inside his shirt brushes against a peaked nipple, Miles shivers, breath hitching.
Then his eyes fly open—another train crashing through his mind.
Did that just happen?
Dismissive, Miles tries to shove it out of his mind, but his mind is already taking notice of other touches he's been blind to. The one in his shirt is still sliding over his nipple, but there's also one prodding his lower abdomen, one skating across his inner thigh, and several snagging around his tail. Only now does he feel the slight tugging…
No, Miles hisses inwardly, shaking his head as best he can. No! What the fuck is wrong with you?!
Miles thrashes, trying to get the hellspawn out of his shirt, but that must piss it off, because the worm thrashes too, slick coils undulating rapidly against his torso.
Miles hisses, snarling curses as the worm tries to dash out of his sleeve, dragging its thick body across his other nipple.
"Get—the fuck—out!"
The damn thing finally shoots out of his collar, but the other end of its body comes with it—along with the hem of Miles' tank top. "Oh shit," he breathes—fruitlessly arching his back. The fabric pulls tighter, which only makes the creature panic, and his shirt rips in half a minute later.
Miles stares in shock at his own bare torso before a dozen slender forms close around it, and soon the stress wringing his gut is joined by pooling warmth below it.
"No, dammit—Stop!"
Miles doesn't know who he's yelling at; the worms, or himself. Staying still barely helps. The sticky tendrils caress every inch of his torso, stomach lurching when he feels the hint of pressure in his sheath.
Fuck staying still—Miles is a rabbit trapped in a tangled snare of bodies, trying to close his legs. He accidentally twists his hurt ankle and the pain is bad enough to make him gag. When one drags across the front of his fatigues, Miles has to bite his lip.
Shit…
A well-timed drag over a nipple wrings a delicate twitch out of him, and Miles cringes as the heat in his belly sinks lower. Prickling. Seeping—
It happens before he has time to react.
At least ten sets of feelers bloom from ten different heads as every worm not occupied with holding Miles lurches for his hips. One snakes up his pant leg, prodding and scenting with its tiny limbs. Heat punches up his backbone as feelers attack the damp spot like they're trying to punch through the fabric. A dozen limber tongues—
No!
He tries to jerk away, but it doesn't work. Miles bites his lip till he tastes blood, staring straight ahead into nothing. Delirious, he conjures up locusts, horsehair worms, his busted ankle—but none of it can stop the fluttering of his core or the twitch of his sheathed cock. One particular jab has control slipping just long enough for Miles to bear down, and the fabric unsticks from drenched folds as his dick pushes free.
By the time he regains enough sense to suck in his gut, it's too late. A sizable tent is already forming in the scant coverage he has. Miles balks. Why the fuck are these things going for his junk? And what's going to happen if they get to it?
Against all logic, he tries to will his dick to soften and tuck back into him, but all those little tendrils poke and rub like they're trying to punch through his jockstrap. His glans throbs helplessly, completely exposed. Miles jerks at the barrage of contact, afraid to breathe at every cold nudge that has his pelvic muscles churning.
That's when the tingling starts.
It starts with numbness. Then numb becomes itchy, and then Miles' eyes snap open, every inch of his groin bristling with unbidden heat. If he was sensitive before, his nerves are spring shoots pushing out of his skin. The next flurry of caresses have a yelp flying up Miles' throat. He wrangles it into a growl at the last second.
The fuck? What the hell is happening to me?
Miles tries not to register his toes curling. The pleasured, tumbling pull of his tail between bodies. Waves of pre that burn his skin. He fails. Thrashes in his prison with a sound that borders on a moan.
What kind of fucking poison is this?!
The shutter catches again, and this time Miles returns to his other life. One tiny, inconsequential moment out of thousands; pulled out of hiding and ironed flat by reupload. There's no visual. He must have forgotten when it took place—but Miles knows it has to have happened at least six years before his death.
"I just can't figure it," he hears himself say. "How does some big, freaky mushroom figure out what makes people tick?"
"Trial and error," Grace Augustine's disembodied voice echoes in his head. "And a few million years, I venture to guess."
"Is that how long I'm gonna be waiting for, then?"
(A sigh—annoyed. The staleness of cigarettes. He'd meant it as a joke.)
"You'd bust your head open on a rock if you thought there was something in it for you, wouldn't you."
(A laugh.)
"Aw come on now, Doc. Somethin' like that can't honestly be bad for us—"
"It isn't for us. There isn't an us. That's exactly the problem here; you think every goddamn thing on this moon is for you, and it's not. It's for itself, and some people have to learn when to goddamn respect it."
"… Owch."
In the present, Miles laughs like a bitter drunk, tears stinging his eyes.
"Well, ain't you just a comic fuckin' genius," he slurs angrily. "Goddamn, you sure showed me. Son of a bitch—I'm crackin' the fuck up down here! 'Ha, fuckin' ha'—A-ah!"
Miles jerks with a hiss as one of the smaller tendrils on his glans swipes through the divot of his slit, and the ensuing gush of precum is scalding. The sting only feeds the fire in his loins, as Miles snarls in weakening defiance. He kicks haphazardly, trying to throw the fuckers off so he can shut his legs and put an end to this nightmare.
One of the wet, sturdy lengths, and Miles nearly whimpers. He can see his abdomen tensing and quivering in the dark, muscles fighting to unsheath him. His pussy—a duller, deeper ache than his cock—clenches so fervently Miles wonders if he's going to shoot before he's even out of his sheath. If it's even possible to fuck himself that way. His knot is barely discernible; just slight pressure trapped above his cervix. If he just squeezed hard enough…
As soon as Miles gets the idea, his body cruelly betrays him with a deep spasm, forcing more of his cock out. The pocket of air grows wider, and Miles' heart drops when he feels the hem uncling.
Shit.
However long it takes, it's too soon. Chilled to the bone, Miles feels a glossy, unopened head snake into the sweltering pocket, and every shudder makes his dick inch forward a little more. In the near-black, Miles makes out the glans poking through his soaked fatigues before tentacles swamp him.
The seconds dilate, icy horror slamming into Miles as he processes that this is it. There's nothing else between the most sensitive part of him and swarming, tangling hell. The first nudge to his flushed vulva feels like an ice cube, and Miles' entire body jerks in shock.
"Stop!"
It doesn't.
Undeterred, the worm writhes against Miles' burning flesh, and every cold touch stokes far more intense heat in his core. He's so wet he can hear it, even without the tendril's slimy skin. Miles has been listening to the hellish things squelch around him for untold minutes, and he knows that's not what he's hearing. No—this is the siren song of cunt tickled pink, and some firewall in his brain prevents Miles from believing it's the same cunt attached to him. Even as he twitches. Even when he slicks the bulbous head with his arousal.
He feels everything from ten inches above his body; as if Miles is only a balloon tied to a malfunctioning mass of nerves; primal and stupid.
Against his dripping folds—swollen and tingling already—Miles is sensitive enough to feel the creature's blunt head opening up like a flower. The dark plume of feelers scenting his blood on the rocks flash through his mind, and Miles almost gags.
"No," he slurs, squirming in his binds. "No, no, no, no…"
Then, ecstasy.
Miles' jaw snaps shut on his tongue, but he barely tastes the blood. His sheath, his pussy, the tip of his weeping dick—all of them erupt into a mesh of stimulation too dense to process. It's the prodding, rubbing mass of bodies multiplied by ten and scaled down to his cunt.
Miles bursts from his sheath so fast it hurts. His knot catches on the way out, and Miles grunts, fluttering at the pressure with a stream of pre to rival a full load. All too quickly, he pushes out of the squeeze, dropping down a pant leg and away from the stroking, tickling, pushing mass.
The flail of tongues is a rain of cinders on raw flesh, and it only worsens as they begin to focus their attack. Miles' fangs grit in a guttural hiss as every one of them lashes his pussy; petting between his swollen labia and dipping past his entrance. He clenches in a desperate attempt to keep them out, but they're just too small.
They don't feel small. Every one of those fleshy points is a railroad spike on Miles' fried nerves—tingling inside and out as they pour into him. One of them snakes blindly up between his folds, and he arches with a shout when it finds the small bud tucked under his swelling base.
Miles hits his climax like a speed bump—jarring, slight, and all too quick. Miles clenches hard, clit pulsing so hard he feels the ricochet all through his cunt. His poor cock dribbles down his thigh; no more than a long, throbbing bruise. Miles knows the only way he's shooting like this—from this—would be by a good squeeze, and the odds of that aren't looking stellar. The goddamn things are laser-focused on pussy.
Something cold wets his lips, and Miles snaps his jaw shut before he realizes he's done it. The worm crumples in his teeth, and Miles nearly snaps his neck spitting the fucker out—gagging on a mouthful of cold slime.
The feelers; blind, cruel, or both—don't react to his botched orgasm. Hell—the guilty tendril has barely moved from its spot against his clit. Miles' post-nut shaking doesn't fade; pleasure-pain sparking brighter with every teasing touch. The recoil climbs higher and higher until Miles' lungs are rocking in waves of heat.
Ears flat, he rides the wave as long as he can on willpower and a held breath—until a fatter length popping inside makes Miles burst into a coughing fit.
Fuck!
The tendril bores deeper than any other, skating up along heaving walls until Miles can barely feel it. Then—
"H–oh!"
Lightning erupts behind his navel, shocking everything else with it.
Miles throws his head back with a throat-shredding howl, vision flaring white before it stops. The tentacle is already retracting; pulling its demon hoard of feelers back into itself as it finally leaves.
Did he cum? Did he cum again so soon?
Miles has no idea. He's shaking like he just blew, but it didn't feel like a climax; it felt like a goddamn cattle prod. His cunt is still tightly-wound as a spring, pants wet all down one leg—and an edge to the clammy air tells Miles it's not anything an orgasm did.
Great.
Miles doesn't have time to feel ashamed before another problem presents itself: in the form of a worm pushing past his teeth. He was so focused on everything else he's been panting with his mouth wide-the-fuck open.
Miles thrashes like a caged animal, clamping down as hard as he can, but they must be made of sterner stuff past the head, because the worm doesn't budge.
Plugged yells clog up Miles' throat as another slick head presses against his pussy. It doesn't open, and he can already tell this one is far bigger than the last. It pushes again, squirming against his hole, and Miles whines around the counterpart inching past his tonsils.
Time slows to a crawl as that slick cudgel works him open. Miles doesn't think he breathes once—not until the thick head suddenly shunts inside, and he gasps so hard he gags on the other one.
The creature responds with a burst of fluid at the back of his mouth, and Miles has no choice. He swallows, and he knows the cocktail can only be more poison when it tingles all the way down.
It's faster than the strongest liquor. Miles' breath hitches around the tentacle as sweet, syrupy heat pours down his throat and past his belly. It pools like thick magma in his cunt, and he can't stop the groans already dragging out of him.
Fuck…
Miles' walls massage themselves on that thick length, every squeeze another wave of heat through his body. In contrast, Miles' mind rages in its confines as a muted voice of reason raises hell.
What are you doing?! it shrieks. Get those fucking things out of you!
Miles would like to say he does his best.
In reality, he whimpers around the slick caber fucking his throat. The one in his hole keeps going too—lighting up spots he didn't know he had until Miles feels himself dripping down its body. He can't stop his legs from shaking, and at last he gives up trying. Lets something between fog and cream soda fill up the space between his ears. Someone with his voice moans.
God…
The blunt head soldiers on, grazing a spot that makes Miles squirm. He clenches like a whore when a ripple meets one of his own contractions, and the rocking of his hips is primal. Every tiny ridge in its slick carapace drags against his clit; so hot and tingling from sweet poison he's going to explode—but even that's not enough to push him over. The slippery rod splitting him in half does so very efficiently and very boringly—with no illusions of kindness such as pumping of bending.
No; itakes Miles like a jaded commuter takes the beltway. Unenthused. Utilitarian. He writhes desperately; shuddering when that deep, mind-breaking pressure returns. with a muffled yelp, his pussy spasms, gushing down the pale length with a wanton flutter. Still, it's no orgasm—more like ballast desperately thrown in the wake of the torture. Like he'll die if he blows all at once.
Fireworks burst in front of Miles' eyes at another firm push to his cervix—more of him trickling down the creature's body. He can't manage much more than a whimper.
Fuck. Goddammit… Fine. You win. I'll play the goddamn game…
Miles pants, hips rocking as he fucks himself on the intruder; thinking in a moment of insanity that if he just cums, this will be over somehow. That has to be what this is about, right? That has to be why these things are taking so long to rile him up (there's no way it's… Miles who's riled up. None).
The worm writhes at the movement, knocking a whine from his lungs with a delicious shudder.
"Hmnn—"
He's so close. So fucking close to what he needs—and then the pressure disappears.
Miles thrashes with a snarl that would send hell running, writhing on the unmoving length.
God fuckin' dammit, you fuckin'—fucks! he shrieks inwardly, feeling closer to insane than any other time in his life. At least kill me if you're not even gonna finish the goddamn job!
The tentacle twinges, and then something shifts inside of him. A featherlight brush against his womb has him whimpering before something pushes out, and Miles flashes back to the worm's head opening with a rush of nausea. At the same time, his cunt clenches. If those tendrils mob him here, every man and Na'Vi in this hemisphere will hear how eagerly Miles Quaritch put out for a goddamn worm.
Instead, something prods his cervix—something almost sharp—sending shock punching up his spine. He quivers once before everything begins to slow and slacken around that taper. Venom.
Miles whimpers, nothing left to stop liquid want from running down his legs, but it doesn't dull the pleasure. Rather the opposite. It's like his pussy has been locked into a one-way feed; oversensitive and unresponsive both. He wonders if cumming would even be possible right now—or if his nerves will simply take and take until they burn out from the overload.
That hard taper presses against his womb again, shallow-fucking the swell of it with not an ounce of tenderness. It feels like someone hammering a chisel, and Miles' eyes water at the sheer intensity of it as more fluid dribbles pitifully down his calves. He tries everything to clench, to cum, but the lights aren't on. He drains without release, leaving a horrid, unsatisfied emptiness he's never experienced. Like the things have discovered how to milk cunt like a cock.
(Dear fucking God, his cock. He's doing his best not to think about his cock.)
Dry and tender, Miles whimpers as he rolls his hips. Something gives inside of him, sending dazzling pain up his spine. With an undignified yip, hot chills erupt all over Miles' body.
What—
The tentacle moves, and he arches with a yowl that bounces countless times off the walls before Miles runs out of breath. His cunt doesn't even twitch. It just gives way for the slick pike working his cervix open, so soft and yielding it's frightening.
"Mhmm-mmffff!"
Something is happening at the other end, but even that doesn't get Miles' attention until pressure in the right spot makes him gasp, dribbling down the tentacle—which is swelling, he realizes.
The whole thing is swelling; knobby pressure following the bulge at the front like train cars.
Oh shit—
"Hf, Hff—Hmn…!"
Christ, is it trying to fucking kill him? Make him bleed out by his goddamn cunt? What kind of roundabout shit is that?
The swell reaches his cervix just as the tip makes a brutal push, and Miles' entire world spirals down to that spot as it breaches his womb.
He couldn't move even if he wanted to. Any part of him—not even just the paralyzed ones. Then he starts to shake.
The shutter slips again, and when Miles comes back he feels something pushing through his deepest channel, stretching places that have never even been touched. The shaking worsens as a burst of heat bathes his deepest entrance, and a dull thud in the pit of his gut burns the world.
Miles screams, blackness flaring white as a wave the size of a planet crashes down on his head. His nervous system is in flames, pleasure searing him with unmatched clarity without seizing muscles to expel it. This isn't orgasm—this is rapture, plain and simple. Even his cock, unable to take any more, twitches and spills in his fatigues at last.
Miles whimpers, tears slipping down his cheeks in relief. It's not even a full shoot, knot still hard as steel, but the break in pressure sends shivers all up and down his body; stomach clenching in sympathy for his listless pussy. Miles' throbbing pulse is the only resistance against the chain of bulges milking him from the inside. Stuffing. Shifting…
A mortifying moan trembles out of his throat as the tentacles throb in tandem with two jets of fluid; the one in his mouth sweetens the impact of the one in his cunt—which resumes filling. Whatever he's being pumped full of is slippery; squelching and rolling in his womb like a mass of kegel balls. Something dribbles down Miles' leg. His pussy ignites likes a flare, muscles limp as a world-ending orgasm wracks him.
The shutter is open. It's been open, and yet—
And yet…
Fuck.
Miles swallows hard, moaning around the slick length.
Fuck…
… Yes…
His stomach aches pleasantly, skin stinging. He can feel it weighing him down. The stretch. The heat. The movement.
Yes—!
Miles jerks in another climax, squirting weakly. Part of him wonders if he'll ever stop; unending pressure and friction nothing short of transcendent. He's already hard again.
"Mmmf! Mmmn…"
He doesn't know at what point he starts to grind. All he knows is rippling bliss that makes his cunt throb and his dick weep, sticky heat stuffing him to the hilt. And honestly? It can fucking have him.
The last bulge slips firmly into place, and Miles cums screaming.
This time, when the shutter slips, it doesn't open again.