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It’s nighttime when his mother accosts him. Nighttime when she gives him the full breadth of her attention.
This has always been their routine even before she took him to G Corp. In the baths, behind closed doors, while changing - every time he's left all alone. These hidden gestures he came to know as his mother's love - they were gifts she’d reserve for him, and only him.
Thus, he had no reason to ever refuse her.
"You did such a good job today," she murmurs as her hand curls around his nape. The smell of the apples linger, but her voice is so much warmer. It’s how she loves him. How he knows that he is loved. And he's always been nothing but desperate for her attention.
He soaks in her praise as she kisses him gently. As her tongue slips inside, exploring, loving. Gregor shivers at the taste of her - it still feels funny, but no longer so frightening. The motions are clearer now after the first couple of lessons. All he needed was his mother's patience. Her guiding hand that he's never known his life without. Chop the apple when she tells you to. Kiss her back when she wants you to. It's easy now, so, so easy, even as he feels miles away from his body afterward. It means he’s getting better at it, or so she says.
It means he wanted it, she tells him every time his stomach starts to churn.
On his bed, he stares at the ceiling when she takes off her gloves. When her hands slide underneath, peeling off his clothes as easily as ever. As if he was still a kid, still in need of her help in undressing.
But he always has to look away when she eventually reaches his underwear.
She's seen him naked before - she has to, she's his mother, his doctor - but he's never quite gotten used to her touching him there. It's different from how the school nurse touched him when he scrapped his knee.
Different from how his mother would touch Grete when she was changing her clothes.
But Gregor supposes that's what being special means. It's why she took him to G Corp, why he's the one she loves the most. And despite the bile, the guilt, he's gotten better than before, when he would cry the first few times, shaking in her arms as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Now, he knows what she's really doing, and knows better than to fight it, better than to fight her. He groans as she touches him, as she loves him there too. Feeds the hunger stirring hot in his belly. That's what she called it--a hunger, always there. Invisible to everyone but her, and only her.
Her hand pumps his shaft, slow, hard squeezes that his lip wobbling and arm writhing, a sensation not unlike when she kissed him the first time. He flutters his eyes shut at the sudden spike of pressure, coiling and coiling in his gut like a wire. This too, is familiar, even as his nerves are fraught with tension. But he’s enjoying it now, which he knows because he can't stop moaning.
Shakily, his legs begin to spread wide with each ragged groan. Gregor shivers as he feels his mother kiss him again. Her tongue licks at his teeth, and he responds with the same gesture. Following what she tells him because that's what good sons do.
It feels good, he tells himself. She always knows how to make it feel good. Turning the sharp painful edges of his fear into pleasure. Even if he didn't want it, he doesn't think he'd be able to stop it.
Pre-cum spills out of him as a slim finger teases the head. A groan is pulled from his lips when she briefly dips a nail inside.
"Good boy," she praises. "That's it. That's my son."
His stomach clenches tight at the thick satisfaction in her praise. He’s being good for her, being such a good son for her. Everything she wants, and everything he’s tried so hard to be. A moan breaks from his mouth. He's close, so, so close. Tears spring from his eyes as he thrusts harder in his mother's hand.
But before he can come, she abruptly withdraws. A soft hiss slips out as his cock throbs painfully. Gregor's eyes fly open, wondering what he did wrong, if he somehow displeased her--
Freezes, as he sees his mother tugging away her clothes.
"Mom?" he asks, but his voice comes out small. This is the first time she's done this, and the unfamiliarity scares him. Him being naked, her touching him--that was always their routine. Not this. Never this.
His mother doesn't answer but she's smiling at him, and the taste of apples resurface, too much, too sweet. An awful shudder runs through from the arm to his spine. His stomach churns, causing nausea to flood hotly inside.
"Mom," he pleads again, feeling too much like the kid he used to be. "Please, w-what are you--"
"It's alright, Liebling," she says. "There's nothing to be scared of." Her voice is light and pleasant, a stark contrast to the tremors in his words and limbs.
He watches, frozen, as her coat and shirt fall to the floor. As her bra and underwear are quickly divulged. As she draws closer and closer, suddenly too close against him--
He’s scrabbling back before he even realizes it. "Please," he begs, though he doesn't know why. He shouldn't be afraid, not when his mother never hurt him. She never left any marks or bruises--at least, never from pain--
"Shh, it's alright. Like I said, there's nothing to be scared of. Your mother's with you. Here, why don't you touch her?"
She grabs his wrist, the one that's still human, and pushes his hand to where her breasts are swaying. Gregor recoils as if burned--it doesn't feel like he's touching his mother, but someone else instead, a stranger that wants to hurt him.
"Doesn't it feel good?" she asks, still smiling. "I know you've always wanted this. I've seen how hungry you get every time we’re alone. Such a greedy boy I've raised."
Her voice is warm and fond, and it does nothing to comfort him, even as Gregor tries to nod, as somewhere within his pounding heart is begging for her to stop. He wants to be her son, wants to be as good as she always says to be, but his body is falling apart at its seams, his mind full of static.
Nothing moves, no matter how much he wants it to.
He doesn't realize he's crying until she's thumbing away his tears. Her face softens, but her eyes are still so - so hungry. "Relax. All you have to do is listen to what I tell you. Simple, isn't it?"
He tries to nod again, to push the fear to where he can’t feel it. She's right. She's always right. It's just like training, isn't it? All he has to do is listen, and everything will be alright. His mother would never hurt him.
His mother always knew what was best for him.
She climbs on top of him, and he tries not to fight it. Her body is long and lean, her nipples dark against her paleness. He shivers as she drapes over him, the weight of her like she's pinning him down instead. This close, Gregor can't look away, not matter how much he desperately wants to.
He shouldn't be seeing her like this, shouldn't be touching her like this. Not when she's his mother, his world, his reason for existence.
Without wanting to, Gregor starts to squirm, but her hands are there, locking him in place by his shoulders. Both her legs settle against the sides of his waist. It's here he realizes how much bigger she still is. Even as he's gotten older, taller, stronger, no longer the scared child who used to sneak to her bed. There's still a thin thread of fear, one that never truly went away. He feels it as keenly now as he did in his childhood, when she closed the door, when she, she--
It tightens around his throat like a noose as she stares down. Her eyes are glittering, like her teeth, her nails. His stomach lurches violently as he sees her line his cock. As he sees her folds glistening, already wet. Aroused.
"Mom," he whimpers. "Please, I-I don't--"
It breaks off into a wordless cry as the wet heat of her engulfs him. His hips involuntarily thrust in, and there's a sickening roil as she sighs.
"Just like that, Gregor," she murmurs. "You're doing so well already, like I knew you would." She lifts herself up before lowering back down again, forcing him flush against her, forcing him deeper inside her. He moans, writhing, helpless to the little shudders wracking through his body.
Again, and again, and again, and again. His hips snap up into the slick warmth of his mother. Into her womb, the same womb that once gave birth to him. It's awful and sickening, and it's good and what he wants. He repeats it like a mantra, echoing the same words his mother taught him.
He wants this, even as he feels himself thrashing. He wants this, even as it feels like he might be dying.
Fresh tears stream down his face, the chitin of his arm sharpening into a blade. "Mom, please,” he begs, as the hunger coils viciously tight. “N-not like this, please, I-I can't--" He knows what will happen if she keeps going.
But his mother isn’t listening. Even as her eyes are on him, even as she's wiping away his tears, even as she's praising him, comforting him. She still doesn’t stop moving, and the hunger grows and grows--roaring, brutal, the same hunger that has him knowing his mother's touch ever since he was young.
He's hard, he's so, so hard, and he's going to come if she doesn't stop. Gregor tries to suppress his moans, the jolts of his hips, the sheer heat from fully eating him. But too soon, she’s sucking on his neck, digging in where he's sensitive the most, and he’s moaning, begging, thrusting inside her again. Mom, please, please, I don't-- he thinks but cannot say. Somewhere inside, he's on his mother's lap.
Somewhere inside, he's eight again.
She doesn’t stop, not until she gives a moan that has him shuddering violently, helplessly. Not until he comes inside her, his vision briefly whiting out as he's twitching and sobbing. He's never come this hard before, and it feels so much like punishment--the claw ripping out his own heart, the first time he saw himself with the arm.
His vision comes back in tiny, blurred fractures. He sees his mother's smile, her eyes dark and thick. Sees his spend streaming out from where they’re still connected. Her stomach, pale, dotted with tiny stretch marks.
Gregor can't stop tasting bile no matter how many times he swallows. He's her son, but he had sex with her, had come inside her. What if he gets her pregnant? He's knows about the risks. His mother taught him before, with diagrams and textbooks. Even if he's an adult now, even if he's taken care of Grete before, it's still-still--
What if their child is like her? Or worse, like him?
Mandibleswingschitinwrongness--
He flinches, as if struck, when she touches his face.
"There's no need to worry," she says, voice as composed as ever. Even with her son's seed inside her, she's still so calm. "Something like this isn't worth fretting about. There are measures against this. Did you think I wouldn't know?"
Gregor tries to bury the lump inside his throat. She's right. She's always right. All he has to do is listen.
"But Mom..."
"Yes, Liebling?"
It comes out much weaker than he wishes. "I'm still... your kid, right?" he asks, because his tongue is dull and he still doesn't know how to say what he truly wants to her. If he's still her kid, that means nothing has changed. He can be the same kid he used to be, the same kid that clung onto her hand when he was scared.
She strokes his hair, and for a moment, he's six again, that little slice of life where never knew any of these things.
"Of course, Gregor," she says. "You'll always be my baby."