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Tim wasn’t looking good.
As a matter of fact, Tim just looked downright awful. Which was less than ideal, being as they were trapped together for the foreseeable future. Or at least until they were tracked down. Preferably by friendly folks.
At least the men who had gotten them into this mess were dead. Cluttering up the front porch, actually. Raylan would chalk that up as a small mercy, that they didn’t have to share the mildewy shack, with its charming broken furniture and garbage and dust-covered floors, with corpses. It was irritating enough to be slowly bleeding out, courtesy of a shot to the thigh early on in the scuffle. The tourniquet made from his belt was doing a decent job, but it had already been at least two hours with no sign of help coming soon, which wasn’t great. Now to top it off, he had an inexplicably ill-looking partner.
“You don’t look good,” he told Tim, eyeing the man dubiously from his position on the floor, propped up against the wall. Tim was using his privilege of two functioning legs to pace a slow hole in the wooden floor.
“Well that’s just rude. And you look like you’re bleeding to death, so, glass houses.”
“What’s your deal?” Raylan ground out, meaning the pale, sweaty face and feverish eyes. Not the attitude, which was standard.
“Don’t have a deal. Just focused on getting out of here ASAP. Now, stop shifting around. That thing bleeds much more and we'll be tying another tourniquet on, and then it’s definitely gonna be bye-bye square dancing.”
“Never was any good at it, anyway. Why you look like you’re about to puke? You squeamish all of a sudden?”
“No, just—having an off week and none of this is particularly helpful.”
As he spoke Tim sliced his hand through the air with an aggravated huff and resumed pacing more fitfully than ever, muttering darkly about phone service, by the sounds of it. It wasn’t the most reassuring reaction.
Raylan tried not to pout and went quiet, figuring it might be a solid idea to be a little less annoying for a while. Also, he thought he might be falling into a slow faint. Everything was going rather fuzzy-edged.
Then Tim stopped pacing and looked at him with just the biggest frown. Raylan looked up at him, trying to keep a matching scowl off his own face, so they weren’t just glaring at each other.
He watched the man practically chew his lip off in hesitance, before finally stumbling into speech.
“Okay. Okay. Shit, Raylan, so, uh, if… if I could do something crazy that would help both of us, and would definitely keep you from dying or losing that leg, but, um, it’s—” He blew out a forceful breath, glancing up at the ceiling—“Pretty fucking weird—like, real weird, you get me? And um, probably a bit gross, too—Anyway, would you want me to? If it helps, you wouldn’t remember any of it, afterwards,” he added at the end, like it was an almost-forgotten afterthought.
Um…
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Tim sighed heavily, scrubbed his hands on the back of his neck.
“Alright, it’s crazy family story time.”
And it was crazy. If Tim didn’t look so damn uncomfortable and unhappy while telling it, Raylan would have absolutely figured he was being pranked. Some nonsense about a great great great grandfather and a botched deal with a gypsy—“Probably not what they were, and probably not, uh, nice to say these days, but anyhow that’s how the legend goes”—that left him and all his descendants thereafter carrying, “I mean, ‘curse’ sounds a little, I don’t know, gothic. But that’s probably the best word for it. He wanted all this power, or whatever, and I guess she thought the funniest way to do it was to shove some Lovecraftian DNA in him. Or something, who knows?”
He spoke like it was a moderately embarrassing family heritage. Like heart disease.
Or mental illness.
“You trying to tell me you ain’t a human being?” Raylan asked, embarrassed by the words coming out of his own mouth, but unable to help himself. He just wanted to see how far off-course they were veering here.
“I am mostly a human being,” Tim corrected him promptly. “Human-adjacent. Human enough to fool a blood test and a handful of x-rays, at least. But yeah, there’s some extra in there. It don’t tend to matter except a little bit once or twice a year when, well… there’s a lot of stuff going on. I just take a few days off work and deal with it, get the unholy ya-yas out, and everything keeps trucking along.”
Poor Tim, Raylan thought sadly. The man already had plenty on his plate. Raylan had always respected that, even admired the tenacity of how he carried on regardless of his internal scars and demons (and admired a few other things, too, about the man, in ways that were a little more earthly-minded of him). And now… this? Did this count as PTSD? It seemed more than a little in the schizophrenic family. Assuming he didn’t bleed to death on the floor first, Raylan was definitely recommending to Art that the kid take something of a break.
Tim was slowly talking faster and faster, like he was desperate to get it all out and be done with it.
“Now, Raylan, look—I can, you know, do what I normally do. I know I look like shit, but I’ve done this plenty, and I can hold on till we’re out of this, assuming it’s not, like, days or whatever. But if I do something else… well, then it might actually be, uh, extremely helpful for you. In this case.”
“And what’s the ‘something else’, then?” Raylan asked, reaching for his calmest voice.
There was a beat of silence, deeply ominous.
“Um. Mating you.” Tim muttered at the wall, then blew out a breath that turned into a not-very-stable-sounding chuckle. His complexion was now an unpleasant mixture of pale and red.
At first Raylan made a sound that was not a word at all. Then he tried again. “I beg your pardon?” Good God, how long had he been all twisted up into this delusion of Tim’s? How completely mortifying.
Tim rubbed his hands along his sweaty face. He spoke with his eyes covered. “I know. I know. Listen bud, it’s not—I didn’t make up the rules. Twice a year or so the thing in me gets to itchin’ for a scratchin’, and when I let it out it wants all kinds of weird shit. But it also wants to make sure that whoever it catches to, uh, do the deed with is in good condition. It would fix that,” he said with a gesture at Raylan’s leg. “Or at least make it way better. You’d be safe afterwards.”
The way he was talking as if there was a separate entity in himself was making Raylan feel ill.
“Safe, if I let you…” He tried to make his mouth say the words and couldn’t. Just could not. His own face was sort of trying to get hot, too, but with the blood loss he mostly just felt dizzy.
“Cuz it'll heal my leg,” he finished instead, flatly. “I—Tim, I don’t… Shit.” He rubbed his temples for strength. “Tim, I’m gonna be blunt, alright?—we do not have the time or space for this right now. Can you just,” he made a vague, helpless waving gesture at Tim’s general personage, focusing on the head area. “Pack it back in. Keep it together a little bit longer, and we can figure this out later?”
Tim’s pained and irritated look probably mirrored the one Raylan was giving him.
“It’s not a delusion, alright?”
Oh, for the love of God. Raylan wasn’t cut out to be a psychologist. He was bleeding and in pain and probably spoke a little more flippantly than he should have.
“Well then, show me.”
Tim frowned harder, hands flexing as the fidgeting threatened to escalate back into pacing. “Thing is, once I… let it out, I can’t exactly reel it back in. Not until it’s, uh, done. I let myself go and we’re both gonna be locked in, for better or worse. So I can’t just ‘show you’, and do nothing else.”
How convenient.
Raylan sighed. It probably wasn’t medically or psychologically wise to dig in, but he was running out of patience.
“Fine, then. Show me,” he repeated.
“You just think I’m crazy, you ain’t really—”
“Show me what you got, Tim!” Raylan barked. “This is me sayin’ ‘go for it’! Fix my damn leg.” He gestured at the stupid thing.
Tim looked at him with unhappy eyes set in an unhealthy-looking face. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion as his spine straightened up and his eyebrows lifted, and he nodded.
“Okay. Like ninety-nine percent certain you’re gonna be flipping out in about two minutes, but fine. Alright, so, listen, this is gonna get real… really strange, but it’s not gonna hurt you. You get me? It, uh—actually it should feel, um… well, I’ll just let that be a surprise, I guess. And anyway, remember I can make you forget at the end. So just take it easy, okay? Just remember it’s all fine. Gonna fix that leg, man. And then we’ll all get out of here.”
As he spoke a ramble of incomprehensible concerns and reassurances clearly meant for himself as much as Raylan, he was moving—was slowly taking off his clothes, oh shit. It was like a bizarre and alarming parody of something that could have been a fun and good time between them, in a wholly different context, and Raylan was already regretting this very much, unease flooding him. He was opening his mouth to say something and Tim was down to his boxers and Raylan had just a split second to think, ‘why is it moving??’
And then he was screaming.
Tentacles. There were—tentacles. Where Tim’s junk should be. No dick or balls, just tentacles.—What?—Long and short and moving fast. And Raylan was on the floor with a bum leg. And couldn’t run from this thing that was definitely not Tim. Could not be Tim. Or Tim was not Tim, was not—
He tried to flee, limbs spasming as emergency signals reached them, hands digging into the rough floor planks as he yanked himself away. He hissed in pain from his leg and then it turned into a yelp as all four limbs were bound in the blink of an eye. Those things could extend, apparently, whip-like and too fast to track, and now that he was caught he had to feel them, disturbingly smooth and cooler than a person should be. Something textured between skin and scales, holding firmly against his skin, winding tighter around him. He convulsed, bursting into full-body shaking.
“Oh fuck—oh my God. Oh God. No. Shit, Tim, stop. Stop. Put them back, put it back, put it back.” He was babbling in his stunned terror, senses reeling. How—it didn’t matter how. What mattered was getting away. Not dying, not getting eaten, not—none of this. He yanked hard on the things that bound him and tried to flail and it did absolutely nothing. He didn’t even hit the floor, hardly; there were too many things on him, more and more by the second, binding him up into helpless immobility. Like a spider, a voice in his mind shrieked.
Tim’s expression was terrifyingly remorseful. Raylan’s eyes glued themselves to his face, as if avoiding looking directly at anything else.
“Ah, Jesus. You know, it ain’t like this was something I particularly wanted to be right about, but I absolutely called this, did I not? You are ridiculously pigheaded, Raylan.” That part was horrifying in how ordinary it sounded. The almost-normal teasing lilt to Tim's voice. Meanwhile Raylan’s heart was aching with how fast it was beating, muscles spasming futilely.
“But sorry, bud. I can’t actually stop now. Wasn’t lying about that part. But listen, you’re gonna be fine. Dandy, even. See, it’s only gonna seem freaky at the start. Just gotta smooth some edges down.”
As he spoke one of the tendrils was reaching towards Raylan’s face, waving at him in the air, slowly but unmistakably approaching his mouth. As he eyed it in pure horror, head rearing back, others came up to hold him even more still, wrapping around his head and pressing in on the sides of his face. And so he was unable to do anything besides scrunch up his face as the first one wormed its way between his closed lips, forcing his jaws apart with astonishing strength and invading his mouth.
At first he gagged with an angry sound. Then he tried to bite, as hard as he could. The thing in his mouth had a small amount of give to it, but his teeth soon met something impenetrably firm and went no further. Didn’t stop him from trying again and again. Meanwhile Tim gave out a little grunting chuckle.
“Fair enough, can’t fault you for that. Don’t really do much good though, as you have clearly discovered,” he said with aggravating sympathy. “You just hang on a few more minutes and it’ll get way better, okay? Like, uh, you ever do shrooms? Maybe ecstasy?”
It was impossible to make a proper upset or indignant face with his mouth all stuffed with this unholy thing. Or to talk, for that matter. So Raylan had little chance of responding to that with anything besides an incredulous glare, before the tentacle was swelling in the back of his mouth. He gagged more vigorously, eyes bulging, panic rising in a crescendo as his breathing was constricted, practically only his hands and feet able to move in frantic jerks, and then there was a gushing sensation he could just barely feel as the tentacle—erupted—and as it deflated it sent something pouring straight down his throat, which began convulsively swallowing, trying to keep him alive.
Oh, God. Gross. What the fuck?
“There we go. Just think of it like Robitussin, but not as nasty.” Tim seemed pleased, relieved, which did nothing to reassure or relieve Raylan, who was wild with the need to get the fuck out of here.
He groaned, bucking hard as he could, accomplishing nothing besides hurting his leg by flexing it, and prompting yet more tendrils to secure him better. Soon he’d be practically cocooned if this kept up, what an awful thought.
As the tentacle in his mouth finally withdrew he took a spluttering, hacking breath, spitting a mouthful of something thin and faintly sweet on the floor. He turned to glare at Tim and opened his mouth, ready to unleash a tirade of disgusted indignation to help manage his deep terror, when he paused, blinking. His vision was starting to swim, more and more by the second. Tim’s face looked… not correct. Shimmery. And slightly doubled.
Raylan’s brows furrowed, confused by this, and confused by how he was feeling more and more, well, confused by everything, instead of angry and afraid. And by how heavy and… floppy he increasingly felt, in brain and body alike.
“You…drugged me,” he accused, rather stupidly. Holy shit. Whatever it was, it was so fast.
“Yup,” Tim replied matter of factly. A tentacle gave Raylan a little pat-pat on the cheek and he twitched his lip, disliking this and how it made his skin prickle. “Gonna do it pretty regularly. Keeps you high as balls and chilled out, and does, uh, some other stuff too, to get you ready for me. And it’ll start fixing your leg right up,” he added brightly.
“‘Ready for you’ what?” Raylan said with difficulty, borderline slurred. Everywhere that fluid had touched was going tingly and a little numb, mouth and lips and chin. His brain felt a little like being drunk, a thick tide coming in to swamp up his thoughts, faster than his reason could bail it out.
“What I said before, big guy. Once this thing does it’s whole ‘rise and shine’ routine it only really has one thing in mind. Bare minimum a fleshlight and a big balloon’ll do the trick, but every now and then I indulge with some homeless person.”
“What?” he said defensively at Raylan’s face, whatever it contained. Hopefully horror and disgust, but he was feeling a bit separated from his own face at the moment. Either way Tim—Not-Tim deserved it all and worse, having just awful moral grounds to stand on, here. Slither on.
“It fixes ‘em up, least a fair amount of whatever’s wrong with them. And then they get to wake up and wander off and wonder for a while how it is they feel so much better, before they start destroying themselves again. Practically a public service, if you squint.”
Tim waved off this disturbing tangent with an impatient hand, growing more serious and still, aside from the endlessly-shifting inhuman parts of him. Then he let out a deep breath, rolling his shoulders a few times before settling his gaze back on Raylan.
“Anyway… better get these clothes off you, else they’ll be no good by the end. Sorry to move things along. Don’t normally talk this much before the main event. Getting a little antsy.” Tim’s voice went lower, rougher by the end of his statement, and though Raylan couldn’t make himself focus very well on his expression, the overall intentness of his demeanor made him shiver. Or at least, it would have been a shiver, if his muscles weren’t drugged-up jello.
“Tim. You should, um, let me go.” God, it was hard to sound demanding when your brain was full of soup. “Or if not that, least let up a bit. Asshole,” he complained with a discontent wiggle at his bindings. The tentacles were never quite still, and that was…odd-feeling, he decided, and he didn’t like the constant reminder of how they were alive, and coming from Tim’s crotch. That was definitely very impossible, he reminded himself.
“What, and let you bash yourself into dumb pieces on the floor? Really prefer to not. And listen, dude, I really would let you go if I could, but it’s not…You ever try to keep from blinking? Like, forever? Holding these babies back is pretty much like that. ‘Cept less possible.”
There wasn’t much Raylan could say to that, or do to keep Tim from tugging his clothes off. Though he did weirdly appreciate that the man (or whatever) was at least using his regular hands to do it, while the extra appendages just kept him bound and moved him around. It was the little things that helped.
God, he was stoned as hell.
For the first time, it occurred to him he was seeing his coworker buck-naked. While he was naked. And was presumably about to do some kind of sex thing with him. It had gotten a little lost under the tsunami of high strangeness.
“Didn’t even, ugh, buy me—dinner first,” he managed to groan as Tim was freeing his pants from his ankles. Underwear, too. Whoops, now they were both nude. Weird. Good? No, bad. Because tentacles.
Tim snorted a laugh and rolled his eyes like things were normal, which was nice. Raylan liked that. “I’ll get you dinner afterwards, sound good?” he said as several of the things coming from him shifted their hold on Raylan’s legs and thighs. Which—he looked down, suddenly remembering, and was dully surprised to see the hole in his flesh looked like it had stopped bleeding. Or maybe he just couldn’t tell. Either way, it wasn’t bothering him like he thought it probably should have been.
Neither was the way Tim’s crazy appendages had him bent up and spread open, leaving him stuck with his cock and balls and asshole on full-on display, which really should have been very alarming. Upsetting. He just couldn’t pull his thoughts together enough to manage it, though. It was like all the anger and fear was getting stuck in the dense cotton in his head, and only mild confusion and a weird calm was trickling out. Maybe the faintest trace of chagrin. Tim’s alien dicks were such cheaters, he considered accusing aloud, but his mouth and head were very goofy-feeling by then, and it seemed difficult to do, and he figured it wouldn’t come out right.
Mild confusion and weird calm and something else, a squirmy feeling that spiked when he felt something brush against his asshole, drawing his attention to how exposed it was to the chill cabin air. He couldn’t immediately tell if it was finger or tentacle, and wasn’t inclined to check. He just gurgled, or let out some sort of choked groaning noise, anyway, when it slid in a smooth circle around him, prompting Tim to grunt a little sound back at him, hand squeezing the leg it was keeping a loose hold on. It was slick and a little cool, and between his bindings and drugged laxity he was unable to move beyond a weak shudder as it pushed its way right into him.
It was a tentacle. That much was apparent very quickly. It slid inside slowly, carefully, and with the smooth glide of something wet, and his nervous system immediately went haywire in a chaotic wave, sending him gasping, his fingers and toes wiggling. A strange, artificial warmth was flooding him, emanating out from the bizarre intrusion as it slipped further in. His eyes rolled and a guttural sound crept up his throat and out his slack mouth. He tried to clench down instinctively, muscles squeezing weakly, doing nothing to stop what was happening.
It didn’t hurt. Far from that. The manipulation to his flesh was slow, and his body was too pliant to fight back, offering no resistance to the penetration. Besides, things in his ass were quickly going tingly and strange, like his face and mouth.
But he could absolutely feel what was being done to him, and it felt invasive in a way that was unfathomable, terrifying if it weren’t for the chemicals keeping him dumbly tied away from his terror, mentally slack as his body. Inwards it went, deeper and deeper, in an unending smooth stretch to both ass and insides, beyond what should be possible, beyond what should be agonizing. Filling what felt like every inch of his intestines with itself, pressing on all of his insides at once. As it went further in, it slowed down more, to where he swore he could feel every fraction of an inch it progressed. It should have been killing him.
And Raylan could vaguely understand that it was only because of the drugs kicking in ever harder—terrible, terrible drugs—but it just felt fucking incredible.
His breath was ragged, interrupted by groans that were urgent and instinctive and trailed on brokenly as the sensation never let up, the pressure, the slide against sensitive places, and if he’d have been more in his right mind his face would have burned at Tim’s low sound, huffs bordering on a laugh. His cock was aching, poking between living ropes that didn’t quite stroke it, but certainly didn’t seem shy about brushing against it, and he couldn’t even say when that had started to happen, or when he had started to get hard. His head was a balloon rising away, while his body was filling with molten, heavy pleasure.
“You’re doing a real bang-up job, buddy. Definitely taking well to it, which is just—God, let me tell you—a big relief. And hey, your leg’s already way better from what I been pumping into you.”
Leg? What leg? Raylan blearily attempted to lift his head and focus his eyes on his leg, where he saw a smear of blood that definitely seemed way less important than whatever Tim was doing to his midsection.
The tentacle was still moving, in some direction he couldn’t even discern, forward and back and up and down and just everywhere, in all of him, making him feel so incredibly full. And yet even as he groaned and shuddered under the pressure, the more it wiggled and nudged and shifted inside him the more he almost grew accustomed to it. It started to feel less invasive and overwhelming, and more…satisfying. Better. And he grew hungrier for it.
It was like it was pushing open a space inside him. Making itself at home. Modifying him to suit.
The thought was scary even through his drugged haze and he groaned, twitching against the tentacles that grasped him. They moved with him, holding him snugly, stroking his sweating body.
Another one went into his gasping mouth and he didn’t have the presence of mind to fight it before it slipped to the back of his mouth and released another load of drugging liquid. He was too numb to gag and instead just whimpered and swallowed around it, wheezing a little when it left, and at the endless shifting of the one buried in his ass.
God, it felt so huge. Raylan hadn’t done much besides the rare mildly-adventurous exploration in those parts and this far surpassed that, in every conceivable way.
“Just a bit more, Raylan,” Tim muttered above him. “Big finale, then we’re done here.”
Raylan didn’t know how he felt about that information, or what it meant. He couldn’t do anything about it, anyway. Christ, this thing in him felt massive. That was so crazy. Why did it feel so good? And not just the limb moving inside him, but everything; his skin was buzzing all over, the sensation of tentacles constantly adjusting and moving against him having turned from eerie to erotic. Like endless soft caresses.
“Copy that,” he replied vaguely, then laughed dizzily at how stupid he sounded. Whatever.
Then Tim made a sound, something between a grumble and a hum, as his arms and tentacles all tightened their grip on him.
And then there was something pressing on him. Something firm and large pressing against Raylan’s asshole, while it was still being stretched wide open by the tentacle. It paused there, camping out with weighty presence at his rim, sending ripples of sensation through him.
Raylan whined and wiggled in protest as best he could. It took his addled mind many seconds to understand that the thing was inside the tentacle, passing down through it, and was now insistently trying to nudge its way inside Raylan.
It was big, bigger still than what had been inside him so far, and firmer too. His muscles were drugged into tingly inertness, particularly down there, and there was nothing he could do as it pushed against them over and over, stretching and weakening their remaining resistance a little further each time, getting a little bit closer to its goal. It didn’t hurt—nothing hurt—but he already felt so sensitive and softened-up, like his asshole was too open, and it was making it so much worse.
Finally it succeeded, and he was gasping as the large, smooth object was sucked in by his muscles and pulled deeper inside him. A lightning bolt pulse shot through him head to toe to cock, which spasmed with sharp pleasure between his legs and then kept going, pulse after pulse of hot bliss, and he looked down and saw confusedly that he was coming, cock spilling onto himself and the tendrils all over him alike. His moans were lost and overwhelmed, and he was grateful for the hands Tim had on him, how they squeezed and rubbed reassuringly, much as they made him whine and frown. His belly felt…faintly but distinctly fuller, and he distantly understood the object was still moving slowly deeper inside him.
Then there was another rapidly increasing pressure against his asshole, while he was still catching his breath from the first onslaught, and he moaned and panted and made himself ask Tim the terribly absurd question, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together,
“Wh—Eggs?”
And found himself terribly unsurprised when Tim nodded, grimacing at him with a touch of embarrassment. “Fraid so, pal.”
And then his eyelids fluttered and his expression went a bit slack, and then a moment later the pressure against Raylan increased tenfold, and he shut his eyes and warbled out a broken cry as another egg pushed its massive way inside him and he immediately came all over himself. Again.
“Oh, God,” Raylan panted, sweat and tears stinging his eyes. “Is it—Is this gonna be—” He had to pause and shudder from the sensation of the two eggs moving deeper in him. Fuck, his insides felt like they were way over-sensitive, shoving him right back to the brink, holding him hostage on pleasure’s edge—“Every single time?”
“Sure looks like. Wasn’t kidding about ruining your clothes,” Tim replied rather glibly. His many limbs kept Raylan firmly in place as the largest one deposited his—his clutch within him. Escape wasn't a remote possibility, even if he could coordinate his limbs. Even if he could focus and sober up enough to fully want to.
Another one was pushing at him, and he was whimpering not just at the stretch, so keen, so sweet, but at how quickly and readily his body gave in to it, his asshole almost immediately acquiescing and allowing the smooth, hard orb up inside him, where it pressed against him and did some cataclysmic thing to eke a third orgasm from him, like it was unavoidable reflex. His cock twitched as chemical bliss washed over him, releasing a weak trickle of fluid. It was in some misty limbo state of hard and soft by now, dazed and constantly aroused. Much like the rest of him.
And then there was a fourth, already nudging its way inside, just as terribly big and unyielding as the ones before it, but going inside him so terribly easily. His orgasm was a merciless wave, emanating as much from his ass and head as his cock, making his eyes roll and his hips try to buck towards the thing doing this to him, even as he sobbed from the intensity. It was like he was being remade, each thing being shoved inside him forcing him to be a little better suited to his new purpose—accepting egg after egg deep into himself.
It kept going, and as it did, he became more lost. Shattering into smaller and smaller fragments of himself.
A tentacle filled his mouth and a keening sound that had been filling the air stopped, and then he was sucking on it blindly, tongue pressing on it, with barely the presence of mind to blink when it released its fluid in his mouth, soothing and sweet. He just swallowed it down eagerly. When the wave of fluffy, lustful bliss emanating from his mouth and stomach reached his brain his eyes rolled. He thought he came again, too, but wasn’t certain. His whole body felt sticky and hot and coursing with strange, powerful currents.
Raylan shook and went nowhere, cradled in these inhuman, too-strong things that held him. Trapped in pleasure.
He felt heavy. Why was he heavy?
Raylan was high, he was horny in an endless, bone-deep way, and he was so, so heavy. It felt good but… strange. He made himself think enough to open his eyes and look down.
His belly was too big, round and stretched. Like a cartoon, like a… like something, and he didn’t understand how it had got that way. He couldn’t see his cock, but wasn’t sure that mattered, because all his cock did was ache and twitch and leak and he couldn’t touch it anyway, couldn’t use his hands but didn’t quite remember why that was. Was too distracted to focus on it.
When he came yet again alongside the next egg popping almost gently inside his over-stretched and lax hole, it was with his whole body, a convulsive wave that went from top to bottom and back again, forcing nonsense babble from him. His fingers and toes wiggled at the noticeable increase to the endless, impossible (comforting) pressure within him, pinning him down to the ground. Swelling his body like a drum, into a new shape.
He looked up and there Tim was, all naked and sweaty, and he smiled vaguely up at him. Huh. He tried to piece together what was going on, what they were doing, and the closest thing his mind could come up with was having sex with each other. Something like that.
What they were doing was much stranger than sex, though. Tim wasn’t moving like it was sex. The parts of Tim that he recognized as Tim were mostly still, aside from the touch of hands here and there, nearly jarring in the warmth and animal comfort they brought. It was the foreign parts, the impossible parts of him that were in constant motion, manipulating Raylan, coring him out and depositing within him.
And it was unlike sex because no sex had ever been this… wholly consuming. Bound and helpless, drugged and wracked with orgasms, he couldn’t do anything in response to his plight besides make overwhelmed sounds and come on himself. His will and wits had been displaced by drugs and endlessly building sensation, becoming fuller and fuller, egg by egg, until there was little of him left. Just places of focus and pleasure.
His asshole felt so tingly and prominent, throbbing around the tentacle that held it open. Squeezing it greedily with its own will, or trying to. He felt the pressure of yet another egg seeking entry and relaxed instinctively into it, swollen body trembling and blinding him with the keenness of release as it found its way inside. He had come so many times he was starting to forget what they really were, besides just a constant condition of his existence. What they were supposed to be like, rather than endless cycles of tension and release. Shaky little fits that popped like bubbles in his body and brain, and made him go stupid and drooling and make sounds. And then the aftershocks of pleasure would just bleed and build into the next one, over and over, as endless eggs pushed their way inside.
Except, abruptly, it did end. Raylan realized hazily that it had been some time without a new swell of pressure, a new burst of climax. His first instinct was to whine and shift restlessly, seeking, body grown accustomed to the relentless stimulation.
The wrong feeling grew worse when the unimaginable happened, and he felt the tentacle start to slowly, but unhesitatingly withdraw itself from inside his body. And the others were gradually leaving him, too, uncoiling from his limbs, leaving him feeling weirdly… naked and exposed.
He heard Tim shushing him and his dumb sounds of protest, and opened his eyes for the first time in he didn’t know how long to see his sweating face squinting down at him. His first semi-lucid thought in ages was that Tim’s post orgasm face was both appealing and about exactly what he’d envisioned on occasion—flushed, hair mussed, mouth slack and panting. Eyes soft.
His second thought was something verging on sorrowful, or as much like it as he could manage, all strung out as he was. Because this wasn’t anything like that, right? This wasn’t—Tim wasn’t. Wasn’t anything like he should be. Like he had pretended to be.
His third thought was that his ass was—felt—
Raylan groaned, doing his best to writhe in the remaining few tentacles that held him loosely. Holy mother of God he needed, needed in the most intense way he had never imagined, a horrible aching emptiness, open and unfulfilled to the point of emergency. He needed to be full, to be stretched and snug, to have his ass safely stuffed to the brim the way his bulging belly was. It was an unspeakable and perverse craving, part of him faintly understood, but one he couldn’t escape.
Finally he gasped, “Tim, I—Fuck! Can you—” and looked at him pleadingly. He even went so far as to let his hips thrust, or at least the best they could do under the ball of a stomach pinning him down. Tim, not-Tim, his need did not discriminate.
Tim’s nod and lopsided smirk had him collapsing in relief, even before something pushed into his willing, opened asshole. Yet another tentacle, of course, that slithered its way inside and then swelled up, making Raylan grunt in satisfaction. There it stayed, mostly unmoving, taking the edge off of that strange, unshakable desire. He relaxed.
He was still unbearably full. His stomach was visibly bulging like a pregnant person’s, swollen round and taut. The pressure was indescribable.
Worse, the sensitivity within him wasn’t stopping. Was catastrophically heightened, even, by the endlessly shifting objects in him, the way they moved and rolled and pressed, feeling like they were tumbling around one another.
He accepted Tim’s hand up and breathed hard through the sensations standing up sent into him, clenching and insistent not just in his ass, but in his entire middle. He vaguely noted his blood-streaked leg. Wasn’t there a tourniquet on it before? It felt completely fine. Then he took a step and gasped at the sharp pleasure that rolled through him. Then he took another and the pleasure bubbled over as he came yet again, spasms that left his cock twitching and throbbing completely dry, and his body shaking in unwanted bliss.
“Oh, fuck, fuck!”
He thought he might die from it, the extreme excess of it all, before it was all said and done.
“Yeah, that’s a little extra,” Tim said philosophically, watching him. “You must really like this. Or your body does, at least,” he corrected with a shrug at Raylan’s feeble attempt at a glare.
It was hard to keep a stern face in the throes of an unwanted orgasm, but his internal panic was real.
“How am I—ah—supposed to function like this? All… blown up and everything. My ass all—Jesus. An’- and what’s gonna happen with the eggs? What’s—” All good questions he wished he didn’t have. He squeezed Tim’s hand, unthinking in his simmering panic and Tim squeezed it back.
“You just, uh, don’t worry about the eggs for now. And the swelling’ll go down in a few more hours. Orgasms’ll probably get better then. Less pressure on everything.” Tim sounded and looked a hundred times better than before, Raylan was relieved to see, then he remembered awkwardly that he wasn’t supposed to be relieved because this was tentacle-Tim. Tim was tentacles. As his eyes kept unhappily reminding him. Then he frowned.
“A few more hours? And what—how much better?”
The ‘don’t worry for now’ part he didn’t have the fortitude to touch on. And was still a little too stoned to hold firmly onto slippery ideas like ‘the future’. Or really much beyond ‘constant compulsive orgasms’.
He took a breath in, too deep and too fast, and then came again when it pressed down on the eggs in his belly, shouting out as his neurons fired like bullets, sending him falling over in the split second before Tim caught him, which nearly set him off again.
Raylan couldn’t take it. He was going to go insane, permanently, if he had to endure coming every four seconds for the next several hours. With a tentacle lodged in his gaping asshole.
“I—I can’t handle this. It’s—“ he swallowed. “It’s too much. I can’t do any more, Tim.” It sounded like a beg, because it was.
Tim nodded, swinging his arms—the human ones— like he was limbering up, and then rubbing his hands together briskly.
“Loud and clear, bud. Was gonna give you the big ole redose soon, anyway. Shot of this and it’s off to La La Land while you apparently come your fuckin’ brains out.” He smiled with one side of his mouth there, like he just couldn’t help himself. “And when you wake up you’ll be spared remembering any of this shit, leg good as new. Pretty good deal, right? If I could do it to myself, I would.”
Raylan frowned as best as he could, not particularly liking this, somehow, and tried to make his brain form a coherent rebuttal, if it had one. It didn’t seem like he was going to get the chance to mount much of one, not in the time he had left as a tentacle swayed ever-closer to his face, while its companions crept back into place to hold his body. He tensed as he was rendered immobile again, but only for a moment before his muscles gave up. It didn’t feel bad, honestly, if he didn’t freak out. Kinda…secure. And tingly. Cozy, even.
Drugs. Crazy drugs.
“Wait!” he said at the last second, and the tentacle froze an inch from his mouth as Tim eyed him.
“Yeah?” he prompted when Raylan remained silent and still.
“Just—wait,” he repeated stubbornly. He couldn’t actually think of anything yet, but it felt wrong, just letting this happen.
His gaze drifted to his impossible belly, swollen with—with Tim’s eggs. Jesus Christ.
There were things he felt compelled to say, brewing in his throat but ugh—too mortifying and weird, even now. Least there was the drugs to blame. And apparently he wouldn’t remember afterwards. But Tim would.
“You, um, you gonna be all good now?” was all he could ultimately make himself say, even while high.
“Er, yeah.” Tim blinked with surprise. “For sure, Raylan. You were a great lay. Better than your average homeless bum by far.” He laughed at him drily, pulling a face. Regardless, his eyes were soft. Raylan could tell even in his current state.
The tentacle returned into focus, waving threateningly, coming closer.
“Wait!”
“Jesus, Raylan!”
Raylan tried to think fast.
“Just, uh. You think, um, maybe I should remember this?”
Once again he immediately regretted his own words, the plummeting sensation in his stomach informed him.
Tim—the new, weird Tim that was confusingly like the old weird one (plus tentacles!), tilted his head and gave him another long look, a kindlier one. Their eyes met and Raylan couldn’t help but hold his breath.
“Nah,” he finally said, then poked the tentacle the rest of the way into Raylan’s mouth.
Raylan made a discontented sound and narrowed his eyes, but didn’t fight it. May have even relaxed a little. Though he did whine loudly when another tentacle brushed too hard against his rounded stomach and accidentally forced another orgasm from him, in a syrupy bath of bubbled-over bliss that swept him off his bearings yet again, to Tim’s murmured apologies.
He may also have sucked on the smooth tentacle that pressed on his tongue, when it began to drip sweetness down his throat. Just a bit. It was just reflex by now, and he heard Tim make an odd, soft little sound at it, and inexplicably, for the first time in all this madness Raylan’s face went powerfully hot, and he shut his eyes in embarrassment.
And then a dense cloud of fog was rolling down over him, smothering his thoughts in sticky relaxation and warm desire, just in time for yet another wave of intense pleasure to crash down, seeking to shake him and drown him. But he was light, too light to sink, and instead he floated away, bobbing like a cork.
Raylan didn’t understand why he was propped against the wall, or why there was blood on his pants. Particularly given that his leg seemed completely unharmed, besides some weird little pink mark.
“My blood,” Tim explained rather flatly, pointing at the gash on his arm. “Must’ve bled on you while I was out. Assholes.”
This did not make a whole lot of sense, considering Raylan’s pants were also inexplicably torn, but neither did Raylan not remembering the last several hours. Or a bunch of other stuff, actually. He vaguely remembered the bodies apparently piled outside being not-bodies, and accepted Tim’s explanation of them both being drugged because while it didn’t make sense, everything else his very foggy brain could think up made even less.
Also he just… wasn’t that concerned about it? For some reason. The bad guys were taken care of, one way or another, and aside from Tim’s arm, which the man insisted was fine, nobody had gotten hurt. Raylan actually felt—weirdly good, come to think of it. Once he accepted Tim’s hand up instead of just staring stupidly at it, and took stock of himself, he found that aside from a weird sort of vaguely bloated feeling in his midsection, he felt better than he had in… shit, ages. Like that drugged nap had done him a world of good.
(He even felt a little bit… frisky. Which made no sense remotely.)
Maybe he was concussed.
But mostly he felt hungry.
“You feel up to getting some food?” he asked Tim as they finally clambered out of the rank little shack and started down the dusty path to civilization. It would likely be the dead middle of the night by the time they found a ride out of here, but there was always gas station delicacies, worst came to worst. Then he might get the joy of watching in fascinated disgust as Tim slammed down those horrifying hamburger-roll-up abominations they had rolling next to the hotdogs, like it was his second job. He had no idea how the man could stomach them.
For some reason Tim laughed like the simple question had been the height of wit, grinning at the dark forest before them. Raylan raised an eyebrow at him.
“Hell yeah. My treat.”