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You’re basically a BOW Jack Krauser trains and you fuck his arteries and wounds with your tentacles and fingers send tweet
Even with the gas mask vacuum sealed to your head your eyes still burn under the assaulting florescent lights. The metal collar jabs into the same 4 locations around your neck as the armored men leading you with metal rods change your direction and pace for you.
You’re slouched—small chemical tank strapped to your back like a weight. The tub goes from the tank to the breathing apparatus of the mask. Can’t have you mutating at will can you?
The gas pumps into your lungs on intervals—a cold fog violating your alveoli’s and chilling your organs. It makes you stupid with it. Thoughts spark with a dead flame and sludge together. There’s no way prolonged use hasn’t already killed off billions of brain cells, but you don’t exactly have a say in anything.
You hear several large metal plates clicking apart as you come face to face with a massive door. You instinctively squint your eyes for the upcoming sunlight, but you’re met with a blinding orange. Still hurts, but less so in the late evening. You reel your head back, but a harsh shove against your brain stem forces you to look down.
“Keep walking,” a dejected man’s voice muffled by radio static crackles behind you.
The two leading you in front move you before you start, but you correct your momentary loss of balance. It would be so much better to drop to the floor, but without the comfort of digitigrade legs or available hands you’re forced to walk plantigrade. Despite the drugs keeping you from mutating parts of your body you can still coil the tendrils underneath your skin like living vines. If anyone bothered to look it seemed like your cardiovascular system came alive beneath your forearms and backside.
The medical robe doesn’t offer much dignity on your backside, but you never really cared for that sort of thing. Doesn’t matter if you’re a genetic horror—men will still touch and look in that derogatory manner. The same way scientists do who view you nothing more than a science experiment. Never alive. Never sapient. Just a dumb animal.
You can feel the cracked earth underneath your feet, but every other sense is overstimulated from the pain. Your eyes are screwed shut, and thanks to the mask you can’t hear very well. Not as much as you’re capable of. The outside always means danger. It means you have to be watched. Nowhere on this damn island is safe. They have chemical tractor they always put in your food.
It means whatever they’re putting you up against this time requires you to have this much open space to survive. Last time it was an endurance test. Set up drones that tracked body heat and left you outside for 24 hours. Obviously, they wouldn’t be that careless. You’re useful enough to keep, but at the same time it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you died. Autopsy and such. If your body was even intact.
With the metal rods chained to your collar you’re forcibly shoved to kneel onto the group. One at a time each guard goes over to detach the metal rod and replace it with a chain that’s bolted to the metal sheet your knees slammed into. You can feel the dust digging into your skin—the thin robe only doing so much to protect you from the elements. Once every rod has been replaced the electricity arcs alive, and you can hear the 4 men cautiously walk backwards with the stun weapon faced to you.
You do nothing—not until you hear the familiar loud buzzer erupt from the megaphones attached to the wooden poles camouflaged in the trees. You sit on your legs, back straight as the tendrils in your body shift restlessly.
BRRRRRRRRRM.
You arch your back and clutch your mask with your hands—ripping the thing off and throwing the tank at fuck-all direction. You cough violently as the humid air irritates the cold on your lungs. Visible breath plume from your mouth and nostrils as you try wheezing everything out as fast as possible. Immediately, a line of skin and muscle part from your collarbone to the bottom of your belly button. The sounds smacks in the air, akin to a hungry mouth. The creak of your ribcage as your cartilage rapidly melts alongside your intestine fills the hot air with wet popping sounds.
Small snakes of fleshy tentacles in the hundreds spill out of your stomach and trash violently, and your rage cage cracks open. Finally, the last chilly breath from your lungs puff out from the maw of your chest…
And you breathe.
Your lungs and cartilage have been modified to create a fleshy barrier that protects your beating heart. The tendrils have calmed, and in your lucidity you gently tug the knots behind your back to take the robe off completely. The eyes on your head are squeezed shut, but the giant one nestled carefully inside your midsection helps you see for you. With the irritable clothing out of the way several smaller glowing reddish-orange eyes pop open along your spine. The skin of your shoulders hardens in a black chitinous exterior—acting as further protection for the other eyes to blink open.
You can see now. Properly this time. You prefer to keep the fish-eyes on your spine and shoulder fixed, because they naturally position themselves in a 360 degree range of vision. The largest one is housed inside your new digestive system, but the skinny tendrils act as protective whips. It’s the eye that you move the most, because it’s the only one that can dilate its pupils into silts. The rest are circular, but at least you can dilate them on command—or subconsciously.
You bring your cuffed hand to your lap where the opalescent red whips snap the chain. You bring the metal on your wrist to the toothy maw of your chest. With the help of your eyes you chew the metal with surgical precision—the tendrils throwing the bits in random directions. Your leg is already coated in blood and saliva. A steady lubricant constantly keeping your insides moist.
As for the chains and collar…
The ulna bone in your forearm mutates to a cancerous degree—a sharpening blade held together with flesh and extra tendons. The bones snap in three separate sections before erupting from the top of your forearm with a slick sound. You can see the blood bubbled around both wounds from the violent emergence, so you delicately lick the excess blood with your human mouth in order to recycle everything in your newer—larger stomach sac.
The bone blades flex and twitch like praying mantis forearms, and due to the length and girth they really do like insectoid. Your hands naturally close into loose fists—experimentally clawing at the metal plate underneath you. A few taps of the blades satisfies you, so you cut through the chains. Unfortunately, due to the biomass in your forearms being used for your blades you don’t have the strength to rip the collar in two—but no matter. With the help of multiple tendrils you manage to bend the collar outwards. You decide to stop, because otherwise if you try bending it any further you’ll just cut off your own coratid pulse.
Breathing isn’t an issue. Your pores have been recycled to help with breathing. You have to be careful with overheating and being submerged now, otherwise you’ll die really fucking fast. It is an unexplainable, horrible feeling drowning with billions of lungs all over your body. The bottom of your feet and palms have remained as regular sweat pores, but that might change depending on the reason you’re even outside. Much change. So much energy used. Diet good though. Always feed. Smart. Smart mutations thanks to super cells.
…Hm.
Maybe you really are brain damaged.
You often get lost in yourself when you have the freedom of total mutation. It’s been an unknown amount of time since you’ve let loose like this. A bellowing growl erupts from your chest—your palms already sweaty from your own hot breath and the humidity outside.
Something is-
Your flexible spine helps you maneuver in the air as you jump away from the flash grenade pinging against the metal sheet bolted into the earth. The eyes on your spine are fine, but the ones of your shoulders and stomach dilate the pupil to minimize as much damage as possible.
“Dumb animal getting too comfortable,” a growling voice raises every hair on your body.
You recognize that voice before the musky stench of his human BO and the aura of his Las Plagas parasite.
Krauser.
The bug you’re infected with isn’t the original, but rather a modified version. The genes are so altered it could be considered a subspecies, but what do you know? You’re just a dumb animal.
You were too focused on repairing the eye damage to move fast enough to avoid the 200+ pounds of muscle slamming your body into the dirt—the teeth composed of your ribs crumbling like chalk. You let out a shrill screech as he pressed a boot into your spine. You can feel the agonizing pressure of the eyes along your back, but the one in your stomach is safely cushioned by the tendrils.
“Sloppy too,” he leans into your ear—slicing the space where the ear is attached—threatening to cut it off with one flick of the wrist.
The threat doesn’t bother you that much. It’s the bug in a medically induced coma attached to his spine that forces you into a narrow field of thinking.
Danger.
Even in its lobotomized form the violently close presence alone has you stupidly thrashing like an angry weasel—utterly reduced to the desire of wanting to get out from under him. Krauser slams his knee into you so hard you can hear the disk at the base of your neck pop from the forced separation. A heated burst of tv static fills your limbs—making them limb.
You can’t feel them anymore.
As Krauser retracts his knife to plunge it into the back of your neck you use almost all of your tendrils to wrap around his meaty arms and yank him as far away from you as possible. His body tumbles several feet from you, but not before he sliced a handful of your tentacles in retaliation. From the white specks of your vision you can see him bound on his heel—three limbs crouched to the ground while his free hand clutches the bloodied knife.
The disk pops back into place, but the agony pumps your blood with shards of glass. Tears manage to escape every eye as your cells become reintroduced to the earlier assaults. Krauser lets out a dry chuckle at the mournful hisses from your second maw—your shredded tendrils twitching and writhing in pain below you, drenching the dirt in hot blood. Your spine twitches upward periodically—trying to alleviate the hot lead in your belly.
“All that mutation for a pathetic display. I’m not even angry anymore. If you remained human you would’ve died instantly. I thought- GRAAAH!”
You can smell your own digestive fluids eating away at his forearms. Idiot didn’t even yank them off.
It’s costing you too.
The wounded tendrils—halfway healing—become reopened with the same juices secreting from their own pores. The pain seemingly reawakens your limbs—scrambling on all fours as you cough and regurgitate the excess acid through your first mouth. Thankfully your constant salivation from both mouths protects your own flesh, but the wounds aren’t given the same mercy.
Krauser roars at you—already having removed the digestive slop of your tentacles from his arms, but his hands have suffered the consequences from his frantic yanking.
The glowing eyes all zone in on him, and you let out a long hiss—thin lines of separating skin and bloodless muscle snaking from your face. You shift on your legs—your heel and bones elongating into a digitigrade stance. The skin can only stretch so far, so your longer feet are exposed muscle, cartilage, and tendons. A membrane of slime drips down to coat the flesh with the help of the pores on your ankles—protection from infections and elements. You reposition your stance again, allowing the slime to reach the bottom of your bone-clawed toes. You can feel the rapid absorption of your first brain and bone tissue in your head, but you haven’t begun growing teeth or nerves for your flower mouth yet. The lines reconnect.
The Plagas wriggles like an embryo against Krauser’s spine, and the both of you can sense the discomfort. You can see him growl low—placing a hand on his belly but maintaining deathly eye contact despite the lids on your face being closed.
Which means it’s on his lower spine.
Good to know.
“Bet you’re hungry, huh? All that energy and for what? Prolonging your death?” Krauser pounces in the air—red beret and sweaty skin soaking in the oranges of the evening. He grits his teeth in a concerning manner if you were a dentist, or even cared about his wellbeing in general. Which you don’t.
Instead of mending your ribs together you just push out the jagged pieces to create a new row of teeth within your second maw. You’ve already wasted too much nutrients just changing into an ideal form, so most of your energy from now on will be going into healing from grievous injuries instead of uncomfortable scrapes—like the tentacles.
It’s awkward sprinting with the help of your new legs and mismatched tentacles, but focusing on discomfort will get you killed. Krauser grips the bare earth you were recovering from, and the momentum has him skittering on his side like a motorcycle as he eyes you down.
He’s heavy, and it shows. He can’t rapidly change positions like you. Doesn’t mean he isn’t fast.
He lunges at you again—driving a fist into your nose in hopes of shoving the bone inside your brain, but with your halted digestion of your face his knuckles just meet velvety flesh as you head caves in like clay. You can smell the disgust in his already smelly body, but the Plagas remains stationary—lobotomized as it is.
From how close he is you can practically taste the stinging tang of his musk—extremely concentrated in his pits and groin. The stink permeates in the air every time he lifts his arms or spreads his legs. Your eyes want to tear up.
Your mouths just drool more—darkening the dirt.
It’s nothing, you think. You’re just starving. The beat of your heart quickly catches up to the pulse of his bulging veins—hunger making you antsy.
The fist closed around his large knife reaches for your neck, but wet tendrils catch on the melted skin of his gloved hands. You don’t know what makes you hungrier—the chemically burnt flesh of his skin or the salt of his sweat. Instead of retaliating Krauser yanks his hand back.
Good boy. He knows to avoid them now instead of cutting.
“You too stupid to talk? Got nothing to say, mouth? Do you even understand anything other than eat, fuck, and kill?” He tries—to no avail mind you—find other ways to cut through your skin. Interestingly, the Plagas shifts in its sleep. He must’ve noticed it too, because he twitches as he tries driving his knife into your hand.
“Waste of energy,” you speak up for the first time. Your forearm blades latches onto his juicy forearms, and suddenly you aren’t in control anymore as you bite into the tense flesh.
Krauser snarls—clutching your clay face to attempt ripping you off. The first squirt of a sliced vein hones all of your eyes in, and the animal desire of stuffing yourself into a food coma enhances the flavor. The sticky liquid coats the back of your mouth in seconds, but your throat muscles work frantically to slurp up the high blood pressure geysering towards your engorged stomach.
Your face ripples open like a macabre flower of flesh and teeth—9 long petals unfurling open with a red translucent membrane of veins and capillaries connecting them. Wriggling eye balls attached to exposed optic nerves—one for each petal—stare with heavily dilated pupils. The utter stretch causing the tiny veins of each organ to burst. Krauser only has enough time to rip off one of the eyes in his attempted dodge before your flower head closes in on his massive fist.
But you don’t bite down.
The tendrils in your abdominal cavity tentatively poke and prod his forearm dripping in electrolytes and blood before carefully lapping up his skin.
Krauser freezes in such a way that only a parasite with muscle control could marionette his nerves. It’s awake now, although not completely. It never will wake up—brain matter reduced to sludge. The parasite is the dumbed down animal here, but from where you’re standing you aren’t that far off.
A rumble low from his chest snaps you out of your hungry stupor—the occasionally tendril coated in blood returning to the stomach sac to deposit the nutrient rich liquid stopping midair. It’s clearly a warning, but your face remains latched onto his fist. The salt of his sizzles flesh and sweat starts becoming soaked with saliva.
He tastes like over seasoned Fajita and smells like sweaty balls, the first conscious thought popping to the forefront of your mind.
You want to laugh, but he would just kill you.
Also you don’t have lungs.
The stomach sac—a hybrid organ between your liver and gallbladder—begins peristalsis with the blood already pooling at the bottom. It resembles the shape of a uvula, but the pink flesh is coated in a web of white membranes. Small windows of veiny orange membranes litter the bladder-stomach, and the ones at the bottom bulge red with the blood comfortable sitting. You flex the orange windows—tensing them to stop hanging so loose. Too vulnerable.
A hollow gurgle from it makes you mentally wince. The back of your throat spasming against Krauser’s sweat fist to unconsciously swallow the rest of his arm down.
“Fucker,” Krauser grabs you by the throat with the arm still pierced by your blades and squeezes. The motion popping his fist from your gullet—massive strings of saliva snapping under its own weight.
The air in your semi-inflated stomach burbles out from your throat—creating a rumbling like a motor engine. The oxygen escaping also makes it less of a target to attack, and the tendrils swaying midair before now shield the precious sac.
He just gives you a toothy shit-eating grin as he watches you curl in defensively like a kicked puppy. You drive your serrated bone blades deeper, and it’s impossible to ignore the unified shudder of his body and the parasite. The smile shifts down to a sneer as he presses his face into yours.
“I’m gonna hurt you, soon.” Krauser squeezes so hard he grips onto your spine before slamming you into the earth.
Before you can kick him off you he’s already disappeared into the tree-line meters away. You’re left sprawled on your legs as both of your hands massage your bruised throat. He collapsed the cartilage and bones of your pipes, but the vocal cords are left unscathed. It will be a long while before you can talk again, but with the generous blood donation it shouldn’t take too long. You just have to be smart and conserve it in your belly—debating whether to heal your throat or regrow your cut tendrils.
You mull over your survival options and scenarios as you blankly stare into the canopy of trees.
—-
The trees are so stuck together you rely more of your other senses than vision—despite the reflective cones. You’re not even sure the night is cloudless. There isn’t an inch of moonlight that reaches the many branches you’ve been mainly maneuvering in.
It’s been a while since you’ve been outside. Even longer you’re allowed to stay out. Quiet too. None of the automatic guns are activate, nor the sensor traps. Someone wanted no distractions, or help either. The dense trees have also trapped all the heat from the afternoon, but you’re not overheating. It takes a while for you to actually be concerned about it, but you can never be too careful. You’re pretty sure most of the larger animals died here—leaving just the small ones. Lots of things tend to die when humans begin construction and testing.
You’ve used up all the blood stored in your stomach, so you really have to be careful next time you take concerning damage. Your body needs lots of fuel for the bare minimum, so most of your attention is focused on food sources instead of the 6’2 threat probably stalking you by now. Maybe has been for hours.
You send out an occasional ping to try sensing the Las Plagas, but it’s been quiet. Not that it means Krauser isn’t nearby—the more likely scenario is that the parasite’s asleep.
More like comatose, you shiver.
Humans. So limited. Most of the time they don’t even trust their own senses. You’ve always been sensitive, but even more so now that you’re… different. You wouldn’t wish that fate on your worst enemy. Stunted growth. Barely alive. Only conscious enough to wish for death, and even then the lucidity is a gamble. It… they told you its name. No one tells you anything—not supposed to considering you’re a test animal. They injected you with that egg, and it grew. Not attached to your spine. It’s this pale worm with two floppy arms that extend to multiple little tentacles. It’s merged with your entire nervous and endocrine system.
That also means electricity and nerve agents is everyone’s favorite tools to torture you with, because it’s the only thing that immobilizes you.
You sense around your body experimentally—a little curious where it actually is now that you remember it exists. Your heart flutters, and you feel a tiny pulse at your brain stem. Itty bitty heartbeat that sends an equally curious caress to every nerve of your body. You shiver again. You feel kinda for bad for it. A thing housed at the bottom of your brain with its limbs stretched all over your body. Poor dude has to see every thought you conjure, intrusively or otherwise.
You wonder what its name is.
…Your own name just repeats in your head.
It seems just as comfortable sharing a name as much as it shares a body.
Or you could be projecting and going insane from the lack of meaningful human interaction.
That too.
You huff quietly—curling in on yourself while seated on all fours. With the only layer of clothing gone you can feel the itch and stabbing of tree bark, but there’s not anything else you can do. The humid tropics also keep you warm. It’s isn’t until the early morning that it really freezes. It’s an island, so lots of wind. You really wish you could find some prey. All this thinking about discomfort and temperature has you mentally fixing every scenario with a body mutation. Too much energy though. At least they let you keep your body hair.
After lots of violence and death.
Even if you’re reduced to a test animal the men on this island want you bare like a child. You’re either an animal or an object of lust—sometimes both. Man. You do not regret cannibalism, but is it even eating your own kind when they’re more monstrous than you? You did it to survive, but they did it because they could. And no one stopped them.
Anger boils in your stomach, and now you’re stuck fretting over the hopelessness of your situation. There’s a handful of people you gave your full undivided attention to in the past, and even less that you would be a better person for.
You really miss your best friend.
The anger sizzles into a heavy heart, and the stone tumbles further down as you mourn who you could’ve been. Now you’re just a what.
A thing.
Reduced to a see-saw of objectivity that deems whatever cruel men see fit.
A strange heavy sensation alerts you to your core. The violence of your intestinal mutation has already expelled shit and piss, but that was hours ago. You shift on your legs.
Damn, you’re probably gonna menstruate soon. That’s probably what it is. From the thick liquid trailing onto the branch you could already be bleeding right now. Hard to pinpoint a scent when you aren’t using your olfactory senses, or lungs for that matter.
You just shift a foot up the branch to discard of the waste and continue with your surveillance.
A pulse at the back of your neck causes you to straighten and snap your neck to the left. You don’t see anything, but your hairs stand on end. You check in on your brain stem—feeling the rapid heartbeat of a tiny organism nestled comfortably in your brain matter and shielded by bone. Not that you have a lot of brain left—just the stem and a barrier of bone to make room for your facial petals. The worm is your brain now. A small spark of iridescent orange locks you in even further.
From how tiny the ember was it looked like a lightning bug, but the insects and birds haven gone quiet for a while now.
A predator is nearby.
You don’t need to use a ping to figure out who’s on the same tree-level as you.
The tendrils—previously coiled inside—start slithering out and wrapping around the thick branch below you. You don’t try to hide the SCHLICK of your blades emerging from the temporary membrane that connected the opening together. You’re too on edge to even eat the remains.
SCHK! HACK!
The tendrils tighten their hold on the branch as the entire tree jostles from the intrusion. You don’t have the time to look around before it starts coming down. Tendrils that weren’t wrapped on the branch now reach for more as the ones below you unwrap themselves from their vice grip. Instead of feeling around in the darkness you use your memory to pounce off and dig your blades into a nearby tree that isn’t in the way of the toppling one. You immediately look at the forest floor, and you’re met with the sight of a mutated Krauser—his teeth gleaming from the orange glow of the many cysts on his fleshy arms.
He looks crazed, and you can smell it all the way up here. His arms are hardened flesh and bony blades similar to arrows, but only the left one. The right arm is a massive claw with exposed bone—mainly more hand than arm. He’s reduced to the baggy cargo pants and leather boots—small strands of blonde hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. His backside is so massive you can see the wings of them from the flexed out position of his arms. He looks utterly feral, but in a way where he could double over laughing at a car crash.
Why is he shirtless.
“Soon,” Krauser points a claw at you—a dry cackle bouncing his inhumanly muscular shoulders. Unfortunately, you never smelled any steroids on him. It’s all natural, so no fuel for the fire like he tried doing with you.
You’re assuming he’s referring to right now.
You sharply inhale as he grabs onto one of the sharp edges of the tree stump—rips it off—and chucks it right at you with perfect precision. You’re forced onto the forest floor as the shard nearly cleaves the tree in half. The splintering of wood making your eardrums tremble in pain.
Maybe angering him will make him stupid.
“I thought you were against mutating,” you speak in a monotone voice—your natural mood.
“Cheeky thing,” he purrs. “Want to wear you out faster,” Krauser growls as he sprints—using his bladed hand to spear you. From the reflection of his glowing cysts you can spot an iron coating.
Not good.
Thankfully from how dark it is you snap your human eyes open—a set of them shifting inside the head petals to lock into the sockets. As you bound on your legs to jump over and cut into his trapezius an iron smell catches you off guard. You can smell your saliva on the un-healed slice in his left forearm.
His healing is slow.
Krauser uses his big claw to try yanking you off his back, but you simply take advantage of his massive muscles and lean out of his reach as both of your blades sink into his flesh—serrated bone grinding into his clavicles. You detach off his back before he can use his bladed arm to stab you like a kebob.
Krauser spins around with a sneer on his face, but as he raises his clawed arm to crush you a loud cracking sound stops him in his tracks. The claw flops over—tearing itself out of its socket completely. You can see the clavicle bone piercing his own skin from over here.
The thing about his body is that he’s all muscles and combat intelligence, but you have medical smarts. His bones are still human, and since he’s naturally a brick wall he forgot to take in account how using 70% of your regular strength is enough to rip the muscle off bone—so what’s would happen to his human bones if he used his muscular hypertrophy mutations? It’s not just flesh. He has bones and a thin coat of organic iron of his blades, but only at the serrated part.
That much weight and muscle pressure on his ribs and humerus? Just because you have a massive back you think your human body can handle the mutations? You’re surprised lifting both of his arms haven’t snapped his spine yet, but naturally the vertebra aren’t human anymore due to the Plagas being housed.
Krauser whips his tentacle arm—trying to cut you in half as he becomes weighted down by his own arm. A violent growl of your maw restricts your thinking to the fantasy of sucking the marrow out of his bone. The sound of metal against bone stuffs your ears as you pounce on him—lodging your blade into the divided socket in hopes of ripping the thing off.
Krauser growls in your ear—white teeth having dots of your own blood as one of his blades pierces the side of your chest intercostally. You plunge your fingers inside the serrated wound caused by his own bone—using your thumb to squeeze the muscle from the outside. Nearly every tendril latches onto the meaty sections of his arm—the strength slowly inching the blade outside of your ribs. His hips buck so subtly if it weren’t for the strange twitching between both of your bugs you wouldn’t’ve felt it.
He stares—head bowed to protect his soft neck. You can see the rivets of sweat trailing off his furrowed brows, an unknown emotion matching your own. He’s breathing heavy—lifting your smaller body with every inhale. You experiment by retracting your blade to leave more room for your fingers, and he retaliates by raising his legs to kick you off. The tendrils around his blade arm slam it into the wet earth, and with the freedom of your left arm you impale the thigh the size of your torso. Bone connects to bone, but the angle causes them to slide against another. Your thumb scratches his inner thigh so hard you can smell the minuscule amount of fat from his cleaved flesh.
Krauser throws his head back—leg kicking uselessly. You can feel the muscles clench around your fingers and thumb with every thrust to throw you off, but with your feet dug into the earth that won’t happen anytime soon. He twists his spine—your thumb brushing against his femoral artery. Unfortunately for how harsh the yank was your nail pops it open—blood immediately gushing against your crotch. The small squirt violently starts torrenting—the pressure high enough to spray your second maw.
You sharply inhale—two tendrils quickly reaching inside the wound and worming into both ends. Any slower and he would already be unconscious from the blood loss.
Not that you care.
Can’t have your meal dying so fast.
Your brain stills at that thought—hand twitching in the air alongside the blade still inside his thighs. He lets out a low groan at the feeling of your tendril pumping his artery with saliva as your maw drools uncontrollably from the blood painting your insides.
His cock twitches.
You feel it against your thigh. The only thing that attracted you to it was the stench of his musk mixing with the dark blood staining his pants. You look at him—really look. There’s the tiniest flush dusting across his cheeks, and he’s fighting the drowsiness of the blood loss. His pain looks a lot like pleasure.
The Plagas sings to you in response. You tilt your head.
“You have ugly eyes,” Krauser spits out.
You blink. Makes sense considering the glowing and silted pupils. You have no whites in them, so it’s all intensely reptilian. So why does he care?
Not your concern. Your primary motivation is feeding.
You carefully lower your forehead to rest on his burly chest—tongue slipping out to lick up the blood. His sweat is the only thing salting his blood. Guess he used too much for his blades. Krauser stills, but a strange buzz in your skull relaxes his abdominal muscles. You can feel every jolt and twitch of the Plagas in his lower spine. You mouth his nipple—sucking every last stain of blood. His hips buck harsher at the feeling of his muscles clenching around your tendrils. You make him still with the threat of removing them—both of them inched out from the squeezing pressure.
Your tongue lazily slithers out of your mouth as you continue sucking, but your attention snaps to his armpit when you taste the salt. You bring your tongue to the back of your throat—the proximity of your nose to his stinking pit enhances the flavor. You lean your body upwards to bury your lower head between his gargantuan muscles—fingers in his wound clenching to lift yourself. The tug of his wound hardens his cock like a rock. You start licking and huffing the musk and sweat—enough it make your eyes water.
Krauser takes your eagerness as debauchery. “Never met a woman who relished in the scent of a real man,” he chuckles dryly.
You’re not even human but ok.
You ignore him—enjoying you don’t have to take the time to spit out any hairs. Not that you mind. You’re starving in the sense you want to take your pound as fast as possible. The tendrils shove deeper and retract the same time you finger his wound. His hisses, but the good boy doesn’t move his hips.
Fast learner.
After being satisfied with the generous salting of your mouth and esophagus you move onto the main course. The tip of your tongue tugs at the split flesh before diving in and retracting into your mouth. Your blade in his leg retracts, but quickly becomes replaced by eager tendrils that stuff his hole at the threat of ripping more.
“GAHHHH! HNNNGH- Hah.” he starts panting through his mouth now—chest heaving more rapidly.
The free hand replaces the fingers you take out in order to grasp onto the clavicle sticking out. You start to pump your tendrils and fingers synchronously—tongue driving deeper and deeper until you’re hollowing your cheeks around the gaping hole. You switch between licking up ripped muscle strands between your teeth and suckling on the thick tapes like jerky. You can feel every beat of his heart from the throbbing of his cock—the salty head mixing with the chilling blood. The veins in his hefty cock motivate your tendrils to hump further into his arteries.
A repeating growl escapes his clenched teeth at every hilt of his flesh, and the adrenaline and cortisol seasons the flavor. You can’t take it anymore and remove your fingers—splitting your face and sinking every tooth to anchor into his flesh. You suck the fresh wave of oncoming blood like a juicy fruit before taking a generous chunk of the meat.
He roars, “GRAAAAAAAAAH!! FUCKIN’- HHHRRRRG- TEASE!”
The mere weight of muscle in your stomach immediately floods your brain with delicious dopamine and oxytocin. The world melts around you alongside your sapience. Every memory and emotion drowns away like tears in rain. Your sole purpose is devouring—prolonging this high as long as possible.
Feeding is your only escape, and by God do you want to forget everything.
Your skin feels the ghost of the worm rewarding you for a job well done, and the Plagas sings. If it could not dominate you it will gladly roll over and let itself be stuffed—offspring or otherwise, before it becomes completely consumed. It will serve a better purpose now.
Your maw coats Krauser’s stomach and bladed arm in saliva—teeth squeezing and lips pulsing around his massive waist. You dirty yourself with the amount of blood gushing in your mouth, but you’ve always been a messy eater. Krauser thunks the back of his head on the forest floor—lolled to the side and throat dangerously bared. Most of your attention is gorging your fill on your second tear of flesh—tongue delicately caressing the cartilage of his dislodged humorous.
Krauser’s cock pulses in tandem with the gush in your mouth, and you finally swallow the flesh. You can feel the softness sliding and bulging from your neck to your stomach—a wet plop as it slaps against the pool of blood below. You give his arm a rest and start mouthing the bone—tongue lapping up the brown marrow treat within. Krauser’s heaving like an animal in heat—a sudden hump on his pelvis jumping you onto the cock straining against the fabric of his pants.
“Want another kind of meat, sweetheart?” He purrs it out like a slur.
You pretend to show interest by sliding your folds against the angry snake in his pants while you’re busy sucking the paste out of his clavicle. Thankfully due to the blood coating your bush there’s faux lubrication helping you slide against his pants—helping to prevent rug burn.
“Good woman,” Krauser huffs in your ear—breath ruffling your hair.
Again, not human. At least he called out in your actual age—no pedophilia from his language so far, but the misogyny is still ever present. Whatever. Your “good boy”’s are genuine degradation instead of anything sexual.
Heh. Sex.
Which is funny since he thinks this is a sex thing. You’re just really fucking hungry, okay? The Plagas is happy being in the cannibalistic cuck chair.
He rocks his hips in an agonizingly slow motion, but it just means you don’t have to do any of the work as his thigh lifts you up and grind against his cock for you. The bloated sensation comes back tenfold, and your opening burns from the cramping. Your hips stutter—thighs shifting around and smearing his blood all over your inner left leg. The saliva must be clogging the blood to his brain already, because he groans out another “good woman” in your ear.
You just plunge the twin tendrils deeper—practically inflating the tissue sheathe of his arterial vessel walls. You can feel the pounding of his blood gently pushing against the strength of your tentacles—you shiver from the heightened sensation. The strange desire to push against his bladder makes your folds flutter in interest. You shift again—the weight somehow worse. One of the tendrils not already plugged into his holes or arm snakes its way down to your clitoris.
Hm. Not sure you’re feeling it. It would be extremely uncomfortable wanking it on a dude you have zero sexual interest in. Too much pain already. Hurts like rug burn. You can’t fix every mental or physical problem with an orgasm that’ll only last a couple seconds. That dependence of touching yourself to get rid of the pain for even a moment is an extremely unhealthy coping mechanism.
Cannibalism is the safest option.
The worm in your brain agrees, and so the tendril returns to the protective nest for your midsection eye. The bloating alleviates, so you can finally still your hips and continue slowly dissolving the clavicle bone with your saliva. You’re smart enough to only secrete the tiniest amount so any drool that hits his flesh isn’t met with the sting of hydrochloric acid. Cant have him noticing, can we?
The worm vibrates at the base of your skull, and the Plagas recuperates in return. It seems your brain worm is just as uninterested in anything more than consumption as you are with Krauser. It responds and rewards with you, and only you. Las Plagas is just an animal that creams at the idea of being eaten alive after being useless—but strangely the both of you don’t loathe it? So far the worm and you agree that out of the two the insect parasite is the better individual to handle.
It’s more of a mercy than anything. It motivates you to kill it faster, because an insect would rather die because of the isolation from its hivemind than the fact it was lobotomized.
Lonely soul. You can’t even imagine being separated and cut off like that.
…Actually…
You can feel the tiny, rapid heartbeats of your worm send a single flutter to your heart. It grounds you in the moment, so you snap out of it and snap a little piece of bone to swallow into your sac.
Tears prick Krauser’s eyes as he squeezes them shut. He throws his head back and grunts prolongedly as he cums from the utter agony—his hips bucking uselessly in the air. You shifted to sit on his other leg to avoid his semen touching you. For a long few seconds you rest your ear on his booming heartbeat—the tendrils in his femoral artery feeling every throb. You then carefully slip out—using your prior semi-digestive acid to melt his tubes together and curling into your stomach to donate the blood. You can’t always depends on your mouth being free, so the membrane windows take in fluids or solids for you. Ultimately depends on the location of the membrane and how stuffed you are.
You can feel Krauser’s breath against the top of your head. The sweat of his body growing increasingly uncomfortable.
“Did you cum?” He speaks after a prolonged silence—voice hoarse.
“No.”
He grunts. “Want to?”
“Do you need to pee?”
His chest bounces with his crackling laughter. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”
You jolt from the new warmth of fluid rapidly flooding his legs and yours, but you relax when you can smell the ammonia.
“Crazy woman. You’re feral. Enjoy it.” Krauser places a now human hand—once bladed—on the small of your back. He shoves you over his other leg and presses your crotch into his still-pissing cock. You start salivating all over again.
Multiple tendrils wrap around his leg and begin taking on his HEALTHY?! urine into your membranes, like a crab delicately using its pincers to place food in its mandibles.
It stinks, but not in an unhealthy manner. It just smells like him—very naturally musky. You continue your small sips—the hormones in your body depleting and leaving you with post-nut cannibalism.
“Can I go now?”
Krauser huffs, “Was gonna throw you off if you kept cuddling me anymore, but seems we have the same idea.” He heaves himself up with his human arm as you’ve already crawled off his body.
You leave him in his own mess—not looking back as you disappear into the tropics.