Chapter Text
Eggs. Fucking annoying. When Ishmael had signed up for the G Corp experimental alterations, she hadn’t been aware of how deep the changes would go. And sure, the social stigmatization and the forcing to the fringes of society are definitely the worst parts, but the few times a year she’s eggbound, she’s in such a hormonal flux of annoyance that she thinks this is the worst.
Arms crossed over her stomach, she rides through the cramps of her body forming the eggs, ignoring the burning between her legs from her hormonal desire to fertilize them. They’ve got work to do today, and she tries to focus on that. And for the most part, she succeeds, though she snaps at other members of the Syndicate when they get on her nerves. And it’s astoundingly easy to do that this week.
Heathcliff picks up on it quick. He’s always so annoying when things like this happen, in the best and worst ways. She means it affectionately, mostly, except for days like this when anything is going to piss her off. Today, his presence is driving her up the wall, because beneath the anger, she knows what she wants to do to him. And that night, as soon as they’re alone, she does.
Slamming him against the wall, she works her hands over his chest. He grins down at her, sliding his hands over the sides of her neck, cupping her face. “That time of year, then?”
“Shut uuuuup.” She glares at him with all six of her eyes, then flicks the lower two downward along the shirt she’s starting to tear apart.
“Oi, oi! You’re supposed to ask before—!”
“You should have already had it off.” The exposed curve of his pecs, fat and soft as tits beneath her tongue, draws all her attention. Her body aches for cock, but she won’t indulge it quite yet. She finds that she’s unusually sensitive during this time of the season, and she wants to hold off on the deluge of orgasms she’s going to have. Tease herself. Draw things out. Fantasize about sinking her fangs into his soft flesh and ripping and tearing as she rides him.
That’s one kink she’ll never indulge with him, frankly. He’s the entire reason she’s welcome in this Syndicate. And maybe, maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of her that actually likes him. Just a tiny part. A part that looks at his stupid smile and listens to the way he moans when she takes one of his nipples in her mouth and goes, “I could spend the rest of my life with this man.” Or, more accurately, given his recklessness, his life. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. How dare he make her get attached. How dare he smell so good, mouth-watering, even, and then have a cock that big that she can’t stop thinking about on days like this.
He doesn’t have to be told to unbuckle his belt and pull his pants down. The tattered wreckage of his shirt is warning enough. Two of her hands remain on his shoulders. The other pair traces along his stomach, nails digging into his skin. It’s not enough of him. It’ll never be enough of him when she’s in her brood, she knows, and she laments the fact that he’ll only last so long if she rides him now. She bites his chest, just above the nipple, then starts pushing him downward.
Though he’s a big guy, and she’s smaller than him, they both know she’s physically stronger. That being said, it doesn’t take much force to get Heathcliff to do what she wants. Ishmael has him wrapped around her finger. Promise him a sliver of affection or pussy, and that argumentative nature pulls back. She presses her crotch to his face, allowing him only enough room to undo her pants.
Annoyingly, he draws this out for her. His hand trails along the bulge in her stomach. The action is tender, and she hates him for the way it lights her senses on fire. She’s filled with thoughts of him in increasingly sappy, indecent positions, thoughts of “siring her children” and “carrying them safe.” She pushes them down. Hormones. They make her irrational.
“You’re cute when you’re needy,” he says.
The fur on her neck bristles and she grabs a handful of his hair. “Don’t you make fun of me.”
“I’m not.” Heathcliff grins up at her, drawing a single finger under the waistband of her pants. “Usually you’re more in-control, even when you’re topping, but watching you lose the plot… It’s adorable, what can I say?”
“Shut uuuup.” She pulls his hair harder and jams her hips against his face.
He moans into her crotch, shifting his chin just so that the outline of his lips presses against the front of her pelvis. Just the proximity to her cunt is making her more and more impatient, and she pushes his teasing hands away to undo her pants herself. She rips them in the process, peeling fabric away from skin and carapace alike.
Her pussy is unprotected by exoskeleton. Thick fur grows where public hair normally would, radiating outward along the gaps between the chitin on her legs and abdomen, and while she does her best to keep it groomed, the amount of it makes it annoying to shave. And Heathcliff has told her that while she’s welcome to do whatever the hell with her body that makes her happy, he likes her best as she is. Sappy piece of shit. She hates how much she adores him.
He kisses along her pubic bone, his fingers tracing the outline of her slit, pressing into the fatty outer lips of her labia. She bites down a moan, instead shoving her weight further into him so his head is pressed between the wall and her hips. He grunts, glancing up at her in annoyance, and draws his hand back until she grits her teeth and pulls back, allowing him motion of his head again.
“If you want to sit on my face, can we at least do it lying down?” His hand settles on her thigh, the bridge between fur and carapace. “I would rather you not bash my dome in with your puss.”
“If it’ll get you to do your fucking job faster,” she snaps, “then fine.”
“Forgive me for trying to be romantic.” He rolls his eyes. “I forget those eggs make you barmy. Can’t even make it special.”
She grits her teeth. “I’m being as patient as I can.”
“Are you?” Neither his hand nor his head move.
Tugging his hair harder, she snarls, “Will you get me off before I gag you with my ovipositor?”
His brow raises. “Would you?”
Her face grows warm. She’s filled with those thoughts again, filling him with her children, running her hands over his stomach swollen with her eggs. Eggs that she knows damn well he can’t fertilize, eggs she’s probably just going to lay in a pile and eat later, but her hormones are suggesting other possibilities.
His hand slips back between her legs, circling her dripping entrance. “Do you promise?” He presses a knuckle into her. Her knees almost bend, and then he adds a second finger. Not enough to please her, but just enough to piss her off.
“Promise what?” she hisses, tearing at her shirt.
“That you’ll let me suck you off.” He smiles, hooking his fingers into her properly. She whines, bucking her hips down onto his hand as she pulls the rest of the fabric of her shirt away. “I’ve never seen your ovi. You’ve never let me touch it.”
“It’s— Fuck!— usually internal.” Her clit is pounding now, aching to be touched, and while he’s fucking her with his fingers, she needs his mouth or she’s going to lose her mind. She pushes his head forward, whining. “Hurry the fuck up, Heathcliff, I’ve wanted this all day.”
“Promise me I’ll at least get to see it.”
She grinds her teeth. “Fuck, I’ll lay these eggs in you if you want. Will that make you happy?” The smile on his face is all she needs to know. “Wings, why am I not surprised? You fucking freak. Get me off and we’ll discuss it.”
His tongue is a mercy after how long he’s been tormenting her. He sets her tattered wings fluttering with the way he laps at her clit. His fingers continue their steady pace, his hand dripping from the steady rush of her slick. She comes once standing, the pleasure so blinding that she almost falls on him. Once she’s thinking as clearly as she can, she presses her inner thigh to his head and forces him onto the ground.
His fingers can’t fuck her at this angle, but that’s fine. His mouth is all she needs, his lips and tongue teasing at her folds until her clit’s able to be sucked again. She runs three of her hands over her body. Her nipples in particular are sensitive this time of month, and when she teases them in tandem with his lips on her clit, she comes so hard that she cries his name loud enough for the entire Syndicate building to hear. Her fourth hand remains in his hair, guiding him with a mix of tugging and stroking.
Finally, she’s had enough of his face. It’s satisfying, certainly, watching him suck in air the minute she draws her hips back. She stays hovering over him, wet enough to drip onto his face, propped up on her elbows and knees. He licks his lips, glancing up at her as he does so. Is that his way of expecting praise? Her affection turns to annoyance again, and she climbs off him to allow him a moment to sit up and catch his breath.
Her hands stay on her body as he collects himself. Fuck, he’s so lovely. She hates him. She doesn’t hate him, not really, but she hates how much she’s grown fond of him. He’s the worst. The actual worst. Who gave him the right to have a face that pretty and a body that delicious? She thinks about what she promised him. She thinks of that lovely stomach, distended, forced to carry her young. Young that she knows he can’t sire, but her instincts don’t give a shit about that.
Her eyes trace along his cock. Two of her hands reach for his shoulders, the other two for his thighs. She climbs back on him, into his lap, kissing his soiled face. He tastes like pussy, and she’s fine with that. Better for him to taste like her. He’s hers, isn’t he? She holds his hips as she straddles him. His hands run along her thighs, his tongue pressing into her open mouth.
She teases his cock along her slit, a process that leaves her more frustrated than him. Usually that’s the sort of thing that drives him mad, but in her hormonal throes, she’s still sensitive as all hell, and she’s keenly aware of how much she needs him. Is this how it feels to be emotionally enthralled? She’s always had a deep desire for cock during moments like this, but she’s usually able to ignore it, or play with one of her own toys to satisfy the urge. She used to imagine it was Queequeg she was riding, if anything, sharing the other end of whatever dildo she’d filled herself with that day. But Queequeg had never known Ishmael as this… creature, the thing she’d turned herself into on the promise of advancing her own career.
And frankly, she’s having a hard time thinking about Queequeg right now. All she can think about is the shift of her stomach, the rolling of eggs within her. Eggs that need to be given life. Fucking hell. She plunges down onto Heathcliff’s cock, drowning out his moan with her own cries.
“You’re so— so wet,” Heathcliff manages, knowing her love for dirty talk. She doesn’t respond. For once, she’s as unable to form words as he is. She’s a mess of whines and guttural moans and clicks as she rides him. His hips roll with hers, setting her breasts bouncing. He grabs one of her tits and pops her nipple in his mouth, making her scream his name as she falls over the edge again.
Clinging to him, she tries to find the words to offset how crazy she feels in this moment. She can’t find her dignity. Instead, she begs him. “Fuck, Heathcliff, fuck, I need you, I need— Come, come in me, please, Heathcliff, fuck—!” She knows he can only take so much. An unaltered human probably couldn’t give her everything she wants. When he comes, his nails digging into the exposed flesh of her thigh, his hips slamming upward into hers with one final show of force, she joins him in bliss for the briefest of moments.
“Ishmael,” he murmurs, then groans and slumps forward against her, spent.
And she tries not to hate him for it. She knows damn well how hard she’s just pushed him. Before this body, she recalled moments in the cabin where Queequeg could keep going for another few rounds, but Ishmael’s cock just wouldn’t respond and all she wanted to do was cuddle and sleep.
Her instincts are somewhat sated by warm cum, but the insectoid part of her brain suggests that perhaps she should seek out other males. A whole goddamn swarm of them, all beholden to her, enraptured by her scent, ready to please her. She waves the thoughts off. She runs her hands up Heathcliff’s back, nuzzling into his shoulder. He rumbles contentedly. She can feel his cock slide out of her, and she indulges her instincts just enough to lean back so as little of his seed is lost as possible. She lets Heathcliff lie on top of her, stroking his back. He’s so warm and so pretty, and she’s not going to eat him, but maybe she’ll think about it as he adjusts himself against her body.
The gorgeous span of his shoulder, the way muscle and sinew connect to bone, how she could easily separate them all and take him into her, feeding her. The father of her children and their first meal, combined. All of him given to her, willingly, because in her thoughts he’s never afraid. She knows him too well. He’s a goddamn freak, he’d probably get off if she told him about these fantasies.
He kisses along her shoulder. She can faintly feel the pressure of his lips on her carapace. She rolls her shoulder and nudges him up to her neck. If he pulls back the thick fur, he can reach actual flesh. His lips against her skin, even through the haze of fur, sends shivers down her spine. His weight presses against the eggs in her belly. Half-formed. They should be ready soon. Her lower set of hands trails down his back, cups his ass with consideration.
“Do you actually want me to lay eggs in you?” she says.
Heathcliff hums against her throat. “You said they don’t hatch, yeah?”
“No. And even if they did, I don’t think I’m the kind of bug that eats whatever they’re laid in.” She squeezes him, clicking thoughtfully. “That’s a wasp thing, really.”
“Yeah, I…” He draws back slightly, brow furrowed. “I think it’d be weird if they were, y’know, actually gonna hatch?”
“How so?”
“Well, at that point, they’d be our kids…”
Through her haze of hormones, she supposes she hadn’t thought of it like that. Never, actually, in her life had she looked at her eggs as actual children. She’d looked at them as an inconvenience that she’d then devour to get her nutrients back, shell and all.
And if she’s laying them in Heathcliff’s ass, actually, she’s not sure she wants to eat them, either.
“I don’t think you and I are genetically compatible. I don’t think there’s a single G Corp experiment that’s been able to have children, at least from those of us that got our junk swapped.” Her antennae flick back. “Which is a good thing, to be clear. If I call them our children, that’s my body talking. I don’t actually want to have kids with you.”
“Specifically with me?” Hurt crosses his face.
She pats his cheek, squeezes his ass reassuringly. “With anyone. Come on, Heathcliff, get with the picture. If I wouldn’t do it with you, I wouldn’t do it with anyone I liked less. And that’s a lot of people.”
He bends his head forwards, bumping his forehead against hers. “Okay. Good. I just… I should know you don’t hate me, but sometimes…”
“Yeah. Yeah, that part of you that says I must hate you? Tell it to shut the fuck up.” Because as uncharitable as her line of thoughts could be about him, she knows it’s defensiveness. If she acts like she cares less about him than she does, she doesn’t have to worry herself sick about how reckless he is. That this tactic doesn’t work is irrelevant. She traces his cheekbones with her thumbs. “If I couldn’t stand you, I would kill you. In a heartbeat. But damn you, you’re too cute for that.”
“You’re the only one that thinks that,” he laughs, curling his hands around her waist. They roll together onto their sides, easier to hold each other, still cuddling on the floor.
“And what have I said? That I’m smarter than everyone else you know?” She crushes her body against him, nuzzling him, all four arms finding a means of holding him tight. He squeezes her back with equal vigor, his legs tangled through hers.
“Mm. Smarter, prettier, better at just about anything you make me say you are.” He shifts. “Can we get off the bloody floor? I don’t want to fall asleep down here.”
“I’d carry you to bed if you did.” She carries him anyway. He always fits awkwardly in her arms, given that he’s taller than her, so she doesn’t do this often. But right now, her mind swims with possibilities. She runs her hand along his belly as she lays him down, feeling the warmth between her thighs again. “You know, I was serious. About the eggs.”
“Mmm. Would be hot.” He draws her down with him, pressing up against her, his hand brushing over her scalp and carefully along a fluffy antenna. She shudders. Damn him, knowing how much she enjoys that. “I’ll think on it. Let you know if I got any concerns. But aye.” He smiles as he kisses her forehead. “I’m interested. Very, very interested.”
“Good.” Ishmael pets his hair until he nods off. All the while, her mind burns with the promise that hangs at the end of the week. She’s never done this sort of thing with anyone before, but then, she never thought anyone would find her desirable after G Corp took her in. That Heathcliff looks at her the way he does feels unreal. Sure, she knew about monsterfucking in a fictional sense, but she always assumed that it was something most people kept in fantasy. Actually having an insect lay eggs in one’s ass is way different than reading about it and stroking off to the thought.
Here’s to hoping he wouldn’t chicken out, because now he’s got her excited about it. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.