
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11843250.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Tentacles, Derek_Hale/tentacles
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Bee_boys, Tentacles, Plant_sex, Boypussy, Fucking_Machines, Large
      Insertion, Size_Kink, belly_bulge, Inflation, Overstimulation,
      Watersports, Restraints, The_plants_stuff_them_with_pollen, And_machines
      churn_it_to_honey, Inaccurate_biology, I_demand_more_fics_torturing
      derek, This_is_just_clashing_every_weird_kink_i've_ever_had, roll_with_it
      I_guess
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-19 Words: 1949
****** Pollination ******
by stria_terminalis
Summary
     Stiles hears gasps and pained whines from the bee boys around him,
     too; they’re all hooked up to the plant now, and their delicate wings
     flutter excitedly at their backs.
Notes
     Written for a prompt which I'd be surprised if I ever found again.
     What's new! Heads up as this is quite heavy on the kink, though I
     think everything's listed in the tags.
They're all first-timers, nervously flitting from the hive in a flutter of
wings and limbs, each boy following the group instinct toward a sweetness on
the air. Stiles feels a hot jolt in his abdomen when he sees the pollen-rich
plant and he swallows, tucking into the dive. They've trained all their lives
in the theory of pollination, but never in practice - and now, having just
reached maturity, the systems of every boy in this worker group are in
overdrive, their unused wombs aching and bloodstreams surging with hormones.
The deep-green plants form a series of cocoons alongside a fallen tree trunk,
each one large enough to hold a worker swarm twice the size of their little
group. When Stiles lands, the glossy leaves barely dip under the slight weight
of his slim body, and he follows another boy inside through a gap in the
cocoon. It's warm, and the vines wake at the scent of the bee boys climbing
inside - they sense a group which is anxious, but empty, and desperate to
collect as much pollen as their tiny bodies can carry.
Derek - the boy just in front of Stiles - is snatched up first, and Stiles has
just enough time to watch the vines snare and spread the other boy’s legs
before he feels them wrapping around his own ankles, opening his thighs and
dragging him to the side of the cocoon. He can feel his exposed, sensitive
holes being automatically pressed to the wall, which is starting to shift; a
second later, something smooth uncurls and starts to explore his folds, probing
gently. Stiles lets out a high breath and the tip of the vine immediately
starts to drool sweet, thick pollen. It’s like warm syrup pouring over his
hole, and his body quivers, spine arching, sharp hips rocking back helplessly.
The vine’s not deep - only a fingertip’s worth - but his body is overloading,
already into breeding mode. He can feel his abdomen heating up as the thing
gently massaging his channel retracts, and the next thing that the plant pushes
into Stiles makes him groan out loud. The new vine straining to fully push
itself up inside him is still slippery and soft, but it’s much thicker than the
last one, and covered in irregular bumps and ridges which drag along his
sensitive, silky inner walls. Stiles hears gasps and pained whines from the bee
boys around him, too; they’re all hooked up to the plant now, and their
delicate wings flutter excitedly at their backs.
When the pollen vines start to fuck back and forth, Stiles’ hands fly to his
abdomen and he moans at the pleasure, grinding his body back to get it as deep
as it will fit. Faint squelching noises fill the cocoon as the tiny bee boys
are drilled with stiff, bulky shafts as long as their forearms. Training
classes only ever prepared them for this with dildos: a dozen boys bent over
their desks, younger than even these, moaning and sweating as their teacher
crams another inch into their overstuffed channels - they wouldn't be allowed
out for lunch until it was tied in place, their tummies distended around the
heavy silicone.
In practice, of course, plants aren't grown to match identical silicone moulds.
Opposite from Stiles, Derek is wailing. He’s been dragged by chance to a corner
of the cocoon which holds vines that each end in a monstrous phallus - a happy
accident of rich soil and sunlight - and he’s clutching his belly in both hands
like he's afraid it'll burst. Stiles can see the colossal breeding pole surging
back and forth inside him from here, the tip stomach-deep.
“Too much,” the other bee boy sobs, “it's ruined m-my… it's ruining my
insides…”
Even as Stiles watches, he can feel his own abused hole contracting, milking
the plant, and his vision blurs with pleasure when it begins paying off. The
plant swells and dumps the first glut of pollen into his needy, sensitive womb,
unloading in long, sticky blasts. First, he feels a little tender and heavy,
then after a few moments there’s an uncomfortable strain, and then he’s
bloating heavily.
Around him, the boys moan uncontrollably, holding their rapidly swelling
tummies. The fluid is thicker than the kind that they trained with. Some are
crying. A couple have already come, and Stiles feels his body seize up in
orgasm when his insides audibly groan, gurgling under the extreme pressure.
Breathing in deep gasps, Stiles bites his lip and runs shaky fingers over what
used to be a skinny, flat tummy, with a tiny waist and sharp, bony boy-hips.
His whole belly is now obscenely distended, and the skin stretches taut over
his inflated womb. He groans at the extra weight in his guts, massaging in an
attempt to soothe the aching mass. It squashes his organs, the sweet fluid
making him dizzy from the inside. He feels dazed and drugged, the
disorientation only beginning.
His opening gapes as the fat vine wetly slips free, leaving behind a solid plug
of crystallised pollen to be removed back at the hive. Stiles collapses to his
knees, head spinning. He can't stop touching his heaving belly. Even when he
pushes with a fingertip, the skin is taut and solid; he mewls with discomfort
and massages softly, looking around.
Most of the bee boys have been similarly dumped to the cocoon floor, though two
are still impaled, their wombs near-bursting. Several are hiccoughing weakly
from the battering that their diaphragms have taken. Derek - ruined by the big
vine - is barely breathing, the mass of his pollen load almost twice that of
the boys next to him. His body is far too slender for its obscene quantity, his
syrup-bloated insides distended far beyond their limits. Derek moans softly in
pain, eyelids fluttering. He dazedly fingers the wet ruin of his pollen-hole,
feeling how thoroughly it has been resized.
The journey back is pitifully slow. Each pair of glossy wings limply flutters
against the bee boys’ backs, useless with the extra weight. Each boy clutches
his belly, stumbling on, pausing often. They can hardly draw breath. Every step
lurches, the sloshing mass inside threatening to unbalance them. To fall now
could cause serious internal damage. The air is filled with high, soft,
desperate whimpering, and the low, dangerous gurgles of their abused
reproductive systems. Stiles and another boy attempt to support Derek, as their
weakest and heaviest member. He bravely bites his lip with tears in his eyes as
he staggers onward. “Get it out,” he moans quietly, “oh god please, I need to
get it out of me.”
“I'm too full,” another sobs.
“I don't feel right-”
“My little tummy,” one cries, “it hurts so much.”
Hive workers arrive to help for the last part of the journey, lending arms for
many and stretchers for some. It's with deep relief that Stiles is finally in
the hive’s breeding chamber, strapped into the extraction machine, a leather
belt carefully fastened around his girth to help support its weight. Derek is
hooked up next to him, still softly moaning in pain. His deformed belly is
flushed a deep, angry pink, the internal pressure high enough to cause bruising
and swelling. Stiles offers him a tired smile, which is weakly returned. Behind
them, the machines hiss and swivel into position.
With their tummies hanging beneath them, the machine’s attachments have full
access to the bee boys’ holes, and the first probe sinks into Stiles to loosen
his pollen plug. It works with gentle thrusts and soft, steady vibrations. He’s
never felt this before and he whimpers at how good it feels, his clit
throbbing, limbs squirming in their restraints. Beside him, Derek is sobbing
gratefully as the stimulation makes him come on the spot. Once the plug is
loose, their passages begin to cramp and push it out. Stiles whines at the
stretch and his pollen hole gapes afterwards. It's been reduced to a fucked-
out, plush tunnel to his soaked, packed core.
The next device inches up into him before any pollen can escape, and it's so
fat that the machine has to pull downwards at his ankle straps to ensure that
he’s properly impaled. Stiles feels tears spring to his eyes as it stretches
out his cervix. When it gives, the machine plunges into his womb, punching out
a little wail as his belly bloats even further.
The attachments at the device’s tip open up. They're like windmill blades which
rotate around the central shaft, but they're scoop-shaped, designed to stir up
the pollen in the boys’ tummies like slushie machines. Stiles knows that
they’re lucky - the escaped charges of human beekeepers tell stories of how
they are routinely submitted to repeated overstuffing without any time for
their wombs to recover, and that many of the more sensitive and fragile bee
boys die from inflation fatigue. Worse, the pollen is also pumped up into the
anus, dangerously bloating up their intestines and stomachs, the weight
unbearable and confining them to the extraction machines for life. Stiles feels
his tummy strain to accomodate the big, ribbed dildo. He can’t imagine his
stomach being loaded to bursting too - espectially not for days, while his
holes are plugged and overstimmed to enhance the pollen’s flavour.
A heavy jolt kicks through Stiles as they switch on the machine. First, it
rotates, the motor purring as the sails churn inside Stiles’ packed little
womb. The heave of pollen stirring clockwise makes him scream and clutch his
belly, the entire thing visibly churning. Then, the dildo pumps inward, ramming
all the way to the back of his womb and abusing his sore stomach, stirring and
grinding by force. Stiles’ eyes roll and his legs spasm. He pisses himself on
the spot and, all around him, at least three or four of the other bee boys feel
their bladders collapse, too. Stiles bursts into tears of humiliation, but then
- finally - the dildo vibrates to encourage the loosening of pollen clinging to
Stiles’ inner walls, and within seconds he’s reduced to a quaking, squirting,
moaning wreck, rocking back and forth, his eyes wet. The colossal vibrator
grinds and pounds and stirs his insides without mercy, shaking him like an
impaled ragdoll. He can’t breathe. He can’t remember his name.
By the time the pollen has been churned to honey, each of the bee boys is hit
with waves of contractions, and the dildos are retracted with a series of
squelching sounds. Stiles gingerly touches his deformed tummy, sweat trickling
down the curve of it. Each cramp squeezes the crystallised honey down to his
cervix, and he can feel the solid, slow mass of it sinking past his wrecked
muscles.
It's a long, heavy birthing. Stiles watches the boy across from him - Derek is
drooling, shaking, belly drenched in sweat as his near-failing womb slowly
evacuates. The machine can tell that he’s struggling, and it starts to
automatically tighten the leather belt around his middle. Stiles looks away,
but he can hear the tortured sounds that the bee boy’s body makes as the
machine squeezes him empty like a tube of toothpaste.
"I'm coming," Derek sobs, his legs spasming, and torrents of honey hit the
floor.
Every boy in the chamber is either unconscious or mindless within half an hour,
and the large honey tank against the wall is almost overflowing. Stiles’ eyes
are already slipping closed. A blissful, worn-out ache spreads from his belly,
and he lets a hive worker detach him from the extraction machine. The bee boys
are soon curled up in a communal bed together to recuperate, some not waking
again for days.
Next week, they go out all over again.
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