cordyceps headmate pleading spread me, spread me~ with the exact same whine as a sub begging to be bred

…though i guess that might be misunderstanding who has the power in this situation. hard not to wonder what it’d be like‍ ‍‍—‍ it’s got to feel really good for one of you, right?

imagine spores clinging to your chitin, roots digging in with a sting like clawed groping or a lover’s bite, a fever burning like insatiable desire and need, headaches like you can’t stop thinking about her, trembling and weakness and a thirst that no amount of guzzling water can quench, and throughout it all, an itch that no matter how you rub or scratch it still leaves you yearning and squirming for… it hurts, and you’re so anxious for… for her.

there’s a twitch beneath your shell, something crawling, growing, seeking in your veins. your limbs start moving on their own. she’s not in your head, she’s in your flesh. she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t tempt or tease or taunt you. she just… invites herself in.

water and protein and dirt, you ingest more and more, but it’s not for you. she walks now, she moves your mandibles, she grasps and gathers. you’re refuse, you’re salvage, you’re a nest. your entrails and viscera bloat with her advent.

the wind feels like gentle kisses on your itching, burning, rotting body. she climbs now, she ascends. you’re lucky to even witness‍ ‍‍—‍ to feel her so warm and near, to be the medium, her canvas.

she feeds her roots you and still further she grows. but you’re too small. you’re not enough. your limbs twitch faster and more urgently. she is scrambling with panicked speed, as if moving fast enough could escape your limitation, the corporeal confinement. she needs to go.

this wind must be blown from heaven‍ ‍‍—‍ so cool, such a relief. but you’re still itching, like steel thorns scraping dry throats and weeping wounds.

and then, finally, it’s all too much. the glass breaks as if the wind were carrying some high angelic note. bleeding holes tear into your sclerites. and at last comes the heads, round and soft and questing eager, like fingers into unfilled holes. they squeeze together as they force you open, doubly and triply penetrated.

you feel her flexing triumphant, an entire root network undulating. you shiver her excitement, and you scream as her caps push away the last chunks of dying, innervated cuticle, and at last making way for her fruiting body to bloom.

she reaches now, stalks of her fertile motherly love stretching high in the cool breeze.

and, for all that tight and coiled suffering, the burning inside you that reached a limit and just kept edging further, now all at once comes undone in this culmination of all her training, and molding, and claiming you.

spores are released, by her, by you. what’s the difference? she’s made the both of you mothers, now. you are hers, and each unborn seed ejected from this union is hers.

as your legs and body fall limp‍ ‍‍—‍ used, unnecessary now‍ ‍‍—‍ but for a deathgrip holding you forever aloft, she is drifting on the wind. she is free.

and she wants more. do want to help her do it again?

(you already said yes, of course‍ ‍‍—‍ that was the last gasp leaving you)