Malevolent Fic: Freaky Sex Flowers

This one’s a gift for friends who know who they are! <3 Happy holidays, my dears.

I don’t even know what to say about this but I should say something. It’s real weird. It’s pwp. It’s about having freaky aphrodisiac-powered sex with eldritch plants. 

Maybe sit this one out if trans characters having vaginal sex is not your thing.

Highly NSFW.

Tags & Warnings: Trans Arthur, plantfucking, vaginal penetration, cervix & womb stuff, pregnancy fears, but don’t worry it’s not pregnancy it’s just fucked up eldritch sex!, noncon, with aphrodisiacs

I will probably think of other things that ought to go into the tags here later, but I think that covers the bulk of it.

***

“Arthur? What’s wrong?” John calls, alarmed, as Arthur moans and stumbles forward, catching the back of a chair to support himself. 

His back arches as the thing inside his womb prods with increasing intent at his cervix.  “It’s, I don’t know, it…”

It’s been in there for the past several days, since that thing in the botanical gardens grabbed him and… 

It had been like a huge plant. But it had been animated, twining him in its vines and pressing its flowers to his mouth, ass, vagina. Their sweet, intoxicating nectar had drowned out his every thought while thick, bulbous pistils had thrust their way into his every orifice. Working up into his womb to…to pollinate and seed him. 

It had affected him and John both, the heady stuff of its nectar seeping through their limbs, tingling with pleasure. They had lost hours in a mindless haze of ecstasy. When it finally released him, he and John had staggered out of the little grotto it had pulled them into and had to navigate their way out of the grounds, emptied out and locked up for the night. But Arthur had felt it, implanted in him, and when John had prodded at his stomach, trying to better define it, it had shifted and coiled in him like a living thing, and a wave of pleasure had quaked warningly through Arthur’s body.

Since then it’s been in him, growing and writhing, driving him slowly mad with horrified arousal while he and John have tried to figure out how the fuck they was going to get out of this one. And while he tried very hard not to think about what it would do to him if they couldn’t.

Apparently they’re about to find out.

“John! John, I think it’s…” He moans again and sags over the back of the chair. Somehow he can feel every fucking detail of it. Its tendrils are fine and light in their touch upon him as they explore his cervix, prodding and testing. Apparently satisfied with what they find, they next thrust harder, forcing a grunt from him as they breach out of his womb and begin to widen the sensitive little opening. Each penetration soaks him with unnatural pleasure, pumping want into his body despite his mind’s rebellion against being fucked from the inside out. Each wave of pleasure coincides with the sensation of those tendrils stretching him a touch wider, deep inside, his womb being opened up for something.

“Christ, am I…John, am I going to give birth to this thing?” It feels…okay, small, doable maybe, and it would get it out of him, but…

“Fuck, I hope so.” John’s voice is muzzy, struggling for focus. “At least that would solve the problem.”

It has to be soaking them with that nectar again. The pleasure sucks at his mind, plucking at his ability to string thoughts together. And it’s clearly hitting John, audible in his voice and tangible in the increasing distraction of his movements as he reaches under Arthur to feel at his abdomen. John fumbles with the buttons of Arthur’s waistcoat and shirt, pulls his tails out to reach his skin and oh, that’s such a good idea. He feels fevered. His skin and John’s hand both feel flushed where John pets at him, both of them sensitized with the heat and keenly aware of everything against their skin. 

Beneath John’s touch, the thing inside Arthur presses out against him through muscle and skin, in a way Arthur might almost characterize as welcoming—eager even.  Arthur whines. Is John aware of how he’s stroking at it as he reports? “I can feel it moving. It seems more intentional than it has in the past. Arthur, I think it’s coming out.”

“No…no shit,” Arthur manages through gritted teeth, because his cervix is being held wide and something soft and yielding but thick has begun to push through and…  And, oh.

“John,” he says urgently. “John, I need my pants off.” His clothes are so tight around him, restricting and tantalizing, but what’s inside him needs to be out. He’s meant to…to be bare, and…open…to receive… He shakes his head, trying to rattle his thoughts back into his skull.

“Yes,” John agrees, with the same dreamy distraction Arthur’s trying to fight off. “That’s the bud, Arthur. It wants to bloom.” He begins to undo Arthur’s fly. John seems to know these things. Maybe it’s the root in his hand. Maybe they talk to each other somehow. 

Pushing Arthur’s pants down takes John longer than it ought to. He keeps getting distracted by textures, stroking the fabric of Arthur’s clothes, then the upholstery, then Arthur ‘s belly where they can both feel the plant moving beneath Arthur’s skin. They’re both crocked on that cursed potion it’s pouring into them, setting them alight with sensitivity and thirst. Arthur thinks he could go mad with how badly he wants to spread his legs and get fucked. He wants John to fuck him, finger him as deep as he can reach. He wants a thick cock pounding inside him. Anything.

The bud fills the bill. It pushes free of Arthur’s cervix into his passage with an intent thrust, and Arthur shoves his face into the chair’s upholstery to muffle his sounds. It follows that up with more, working its way through him with much the same sensations as someone fucking into him except so much more unnerving. 

John is murmuring—to the plant, not to Arthur, encouraging it, god. At the impetus of Arthur’s muffled whines, his fingers skate downward to find Arthur’s clit. “Fucking hell, Arthur,” he moans. “You’re so fucking sensitive here I can feel it shooting through into my fingertips.” Arthur rocks greedily into his cupping hand and John groans, massaging at him, both of them sauced on sensation. “You’re so wet.” He is, and it’s humiliating. His cheeks burn at the reminder of how it’s slicked over the insides of his thighs and under John’s hand. John, the bastard, plays with it, smears it around Arthur’s clit, nudges between his folds and explores him with fingertips while inside, the bud keeps thrusting, those little tendrils catching and tugging at his inner walls, helping it to move the swelling intrusion along inside him. 

Between them, they shortly have Arthur gasping, shaking, sweating into his unbuttoned shirt till the cloth sticks to his skin. Oh the cold air feels so fucking good on his overheated skin. “God, Arthur, your fucking sounds—” John growls, and doubles down until Arthur’s moans begin rising into high-pitched little cries.

He wants to stop but he can’t. He’s past the point of being able to control the sounds he makes while his hips writhe down, striving for more but entirely unable to manage any extra friction. To his own ears, he sounds so pathetic and desperate and wanton, but his noises drive John into a frenzy. Those long fingers wrap over his vulva and three at once thrust into him, rough and demanding, determined to make him go as high-pitched and needy as possible till his climax takes him. 

Oh fuck, the way his body clenches over and over around John’s fingers. John doesn’t relent, still trying to thrust deeper, to milk more out of Arthur, and the plant seems to enthusiastically join in.

He writhes and jerks on them, his body ignoring his commands in favor of squeezing out as much pleasure as it can. But when the strength of the initial aftershocks wane, the flower bud is still thrusting and his hips are already trying to grind on it again, at least halfway to his next orgasm even though his oversensitivity from the first one hasn’t died down yet.

“That felt so fucking good,” John groans. “Everything is tingling.” His fingers keep working inside Arthur, seeking out the bud with his fingers. Fucking shameless, and Arthur can’t chide him because he doesn’t want him to stop. “You’re even wetter now, Arthur. I can feel you twitching and throbbing with reaction all around me.”

“Oh, oh, Jesus fuck,” Arthur gasps. He feels useless, draped like a sex-addled blanket over the back of the chair while the bud thrusts and drags inside him, striving toward John’s touch till they’re nudging against each other, wriggling and twining inside him.

“John, are you even trying to help? Are you trying to get it out, or, or…” He rolls his hips. Can’t keep them still. “Goddamn it, John, it feels like you’re just trying to fuck it inside me.”

“My skin against yours,” John pants, and oh god he sounds gone. And Arthur knows…fuck, he knows. He wants this godforsaken thing out of him but right now if John had a cock he could stick inside Arthur, he’d bend over and beg for it. “You, Arthur, so soft and supplicating around me. You feel so good to touch, to pet, to feel you parting around me. Arthur, oh! The way it laps at my fingertips, seeks for me, quests for more of me.”

He wants, oh god, he just wants to give in. Wants to stop thinking and let the pleasure take him, listen to John’s voice growling and throaty in his mind, telling him filthy and beautiful things while he rides those long fingers till his thighs give out.

John’s fingertips flick and wriggle inside him, trying to entice the bud while its tendrils wind around his fingers. The tips of its petals unfurl till their edges tickle and lick at Arthur’s inner walls. He digs his fingers into the chair and growls into the cushion. “John…do whatever you’re going to fucking do. Please. Before I get down on the floor and fucking ride you.”

“Maybe you should,”John says. The wicked purr in his voice is the least helpful fucking thing in the world. Arthur begins to slide to the ground, knees buckling. “Drop your head and look, Arthur.” When Arthur doesn’t obey quickly enough for his liking, he wraps his hand around the back of Arthur’s head to point his eyes where he wants them.

So John is watching when the bud emerges from Arthur. He gives a hungry little growl when it nudges out just enough to part the lips of his pussy. The thing slips back into him almost as if John scared it into hiding, and Arthur is so fucking sure that if John could, he would shove his face into Arthur to chase it. 

He can feel John positively vibrating with anticipation when it pushes out again, just a little more. and then again, working the thickness of its core a bit closer to Arthur’s entrance till it’s clear enough to begin to bloom.

The stretch starts in a place deep inside him and spreads, swelling toward his entrance. It’s stunningly erotic in a way he struggles to accept: the sensation of being forced open, held wide by something inside him as if it’s putting him on display for anyone who might see him. He whimpers, pain and pleasure sparking through him by turns as his muscles flutter and clench and relax again, trying to come to terms. It coils tight and tighter, all of it, till he comes again, his back pulling tight into a bow with the intensity of his sheath bearing down on the thickness. The blossom pushes back, refusing to be squeezed, and he cries out at being stretched in the midst of an orgasm. 

John’s hand shakes as hard as the rest of Arthur, but he keeps Arthur’s head in place when Arthur drops onto his elbows, too overwhelmed to keep his balance on two knees and a hand. Both of them lost to endorphins and…Arthur isn’t sure what kind of feedback John is getting from all this, but it has him panting like a huge hound, crouching low over Arthur’s body, enshrouding him— Arthur whines at the mental image, and again isn’t sure whether he wishes John had a body or is grateful just now that he doesn’t.

His orgasm is still quivering through him when the tendrils wriggle out of him. They grope about and then coil around his labia and clit almost as if they’re deliberately stimulating him. he’s not sure if the sound he makes is pain or pleasure. “It’s beautiful, Arthur.” John sounds shaky but enthralled. Really enthralled, almost entranced. “A deep, blushing red like the color of your nipples, blooming from you. Keep watching,” he hisses—almost gasps—and then he lets go of Arthur’s head to reach down.

Arthur feels it when the flower’s tendrils curl in welcome around John’s fingers. He feels it when John lets them tug him in amongst its petals. Parting them, slipping between them, his presence a warm, gratifying living thickness that they rustle and clasp around. The sensations shoot from where John makes contact with it upward into Arthur, to—”oh god”—to where the plant is rooted in his womb. His hips buck back and up, hungry for more of the too-much-stimulation. 

John growls eagerly in response.

“John…” he manages, voice thin, as John’s fingers push deeper into the bloom’s heart. They sink into its core, into him, he can feel them like they’re fucking his womb, and he’s shivering and sticky-slick around them, with nectar that drips from the petals and trickles down his thighs.

John’s fingers thrust into the welcoming bloom of Arthur’s body, and John groans like he’s the one getting fucked while Arthur writhes, ass in the air and unable to spread his legs where they’re still tangled in his pants about halfway down his thighs.

“Arthur, oh fuck,” John says thickly, almost stunned. The bloom clings tight around his hand. Tendrils wind up around his palm to his wrist, trying to draw him deeper yet into it. Into Arthur, who clenches his fist in his own hair tight to try to keep it together while John’s fingertips prod into him with tiny shallow thrusts and John makes little low, needy noises right into his ear. “Arthur. Can you feel that?”

“Yes, oh, fuck, oh god, yes I can feel that.” There’s nothing he can humanly do to resist rocking back against John inside him, trying his best to ride those fingers as they push into the flower and seem to penetrate him straight to his core. It’s unreal, in a way he’s coming to associate with eldritch beasts and gods that fuck his mind. His body doesn’t feel hijacked so much as doubled.

“I think I can feel it too.” That deep voice is syrupy with captivated pleasure. He has, Arthur thinks disjointedly, been feeling it all along. Hasn’t he? When did it start? “It wants me inside it, you should see how cravingly it coils around my hand, lavish in its coaxing. How velvety the petals feel—” 

“I can fucking feel them, John,” Arthur breaks in, voice high with strain.

“Yessssss, Arthur. I can feel your pleasure for certain. I can feel it filling us, quivering through our every limb and leaving us weak.”

“John, oh. Oh, please, I don’t want to think about how weak we feel.”  About how their limbs are ready to collapse beneath them, at the mercy of this thing. About how tempted he is to simply melt into a puddle and let it have them–have them both, wind them tight around each other and pierce them through with itself till… How deep does the fucking flower go? How deep is John inside him right now? His thumb is still against Arthur’s clit, but he feels buried to the elbow. 

“Arthur, come now. Please, I need us to come,” and John fucking begging, snarling with desperation, even though he’s taking it all out on Arthur’s body, every thrust rough and deep and eager–

He comes. How can he not? He wails as he comes, because three fucking times, his own body is finishing him off, wringing him out to the last dregs of him. And John roars along with him as his entire body screws tight, climaxing on John, on the flower he’s buried in, on its fucking shaft that seems to run in a thick stem all the way up into Arthur’s core.

It’s not an afterglow so much as semi-consciousness. In the floating haze, he feels the bloom untangle its grip on John and withdraw, pulling itself back up into Arthur’s body.

In his mind, John rouses blearily. “Arthur? Did it…?”

Arthur shudders. “Yes. Good god.”

Gingerly, John lifts his hand and sets it to Arthur’s abdomen to prod delicately at him. The touches ache, the muscles there complaining from their overuse. “I can still feel it there. I think it’s intending to stay.”

“Oh. Oh, fuck, will it do that again?” His body doesn’t feel sore except when John prods at him; it’s too awash in endorphins to feel anything but glowing. But like before, the effects of its nectar wear off fast, leaving room for his crawling unease to begin mixing in with the afterglow.

“I think it may, yes. That’s…how it feeds. On our pleasure. But I—”

Arthur sits with the silence of John’s cutoff for a moment, weighing whether he has the wherewithal to know what it is John isn’t sure about saying. But curiosity overcomes. “Yes?”

“It…felt good, Arthur. Very good.”

Arthur pushes himself up to his knees. This time, his own hand falls to his bare stomach. It rests quiescent beneath his skin now. He thinks probably he’s imagining the glow of satisfaction from it.

“It doesn’t mean to hurt us,” John adds with quiet reassurance. “That would be counter-productive for it.”

“Well. That’s something, anyway,” Arthur mutters. Then, “That felt good.”  

The implications of that sink in.

“Very good.” Maybe John recognizes the uncomfortable implications too. He isn’t quite defensive, but he’s arguing for something when he adds, “Just as good as it felt for you.”

Arthur heaves a sigh that, for John’s sake, he tries to keep silent, and reaches up to grope for a grip on the chair to drag himself upright. He doesn’t have the energy to argue right now. They both know all the pros, cons and what-ifs anyway. “Well. We’ll…we’ll take it one day at a time, I suppose. Like everything else that happens to us.”