Muirinnes ★ Terry Innes

The foggy deck of the Beira D creaks under layers of oil and salt, the thick mist rolling in from the North Sea like a living thing. Terry Innes stands there in his rumpled oil rig coveralls, boots planted firm on the wet metal grating. His sandy blond hair is tousled from the sudden shift, blue-grey eyes narrowed in confusion as he watches the others scatter. The air is thick with the metallic reek of diesel and something far worse—something that makes his stomach twist.

Then it starts.

Ewan Muir’s form begins to warp right in front of him. The crew member who once shared Innes’s cabin, the one Innes has always trusted without a second thought, starts to change. His dark hair falls away in clumps, leaving his scalp pale and smooth. His face stretches, skin splitting as extra eyes bloom open across his cheeks and forehead, each one blinking in unsteady panic. His mouth tears wider, one side gaping obscenely, and a wide fleshy mass erupts from his chest, ripping through the coveralls in ragged bursts of fabric and flesh. The thick growth throbs visibly, veins pulsing under the pale skin, while blisters rise across his torso like angry boils. His lower body dissolves—legs dissolving into a tangled knot of glistening intestines that hang and sway, blood and pus leaking from the endless mess. He hovers a few feet off the deck now, supported by thick, writhing fleshy tendrils that coil around his waist and thighs. Sharp bone protrusions like deer antlers spike out from the main mass, clicking softly against the metal. His hard hat still sits crooked on his head, as if the infection itself can’t even be bothered to remove it properly. The once-reserved Muir now lets out a broken, animal sound, voice distorted and wet, echoing with the same haunted confusion.

His cries for help, for Innes, stop abruptly.

The tendrils lash out, thick and powerful, wrapping around Terry Innes’s arms and waist before he can even react.

"Fuck!!"

They hoist him effortlessly, slamming him back against the cold railing with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. The fleshy mass from Muir's hoisted up body, a fleshy tendril stretches and pulses—then coils tight around Innes’s own hips, yanking the coveralls down in one brutal motion. The infected creature’s extra eyes lock onto Innes’s face, wide and frantic, while the wide, stretched mouth opens again in a wet, desperate moan. The tendrils shove Innes’s trousers aside, fingers—a tendril—pressing and spreading rough, slick fingers against the human’s entrance without mercy. Innes’s own cock betrays him instantly, twitching hard and leaking against the rough metal, no matter how his body screams to fight.

"No— no- Muir-" he gasped.

The main fleshy mass slithers forward, thick and veined, sliding hot and heavy between Innes’s thighs. It presses against his entrance, blunt and insistent, then forces its way in with a wet, obscene stretch—slow at first, then relentless as the tendrils pin Innes’s wrists and lift his legs, spreading him wide. Innes gasps sharply, hips jerking against the invasion, but the pressure is too much, too alien. The infected cock—fleshy, throbbing, lined with pulsing veins and leaking thick strands of clear fluid—buries itself deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch until Innes’s eyes roll back and his mouth falls open in a broken, involuntary moan.

“F-fuck… Muir.." Innes whines. It isnt exactly one of arousal, its more desperate and upset.

What happened to you, Muir? He thought bitterly.

The tendrils start to move—thrusting in steady, merciless rhythm, the main mass pounding harder, each thrust making the whole grotesque body shudder. Innes’s own cock is rock-hard now, dripping down his thighs, every brutal stroke forcing desperate little grunts from his throat as he scratched at the deck. "N-No—!" His coveralls hang in tatters around his waist, boots scraping the deck as the infected Muir holds him pinned, fucking him without pause, tendrils stroking and pinching every inch of skin they touch.

Terry Innes’s body trembles violently under the onslaught, hips bucking helplessly as the tendrils drive deeper, stretching him wider with every wet slap of flesh. The infected creature’s extra eyes never leave his face, watching every twitch, every moan, while the main fleshy mass pulses and throbs inside him, relentless and claiming. The foggy deck is soaked now with oil, sweat, and the messy evidence of what the infection has done to Ewan Muir—and what it is forcing him to do to the only person on the rig he can still feel even a scrap of tenderness for.

"Muir.." he cries out, eyes scanning his lover's twisted face. He almost wants to reach out and touch him, to mourn the becoming of something so unreal.

Terry Innes had never liked shipping containers. They were cramped, stuffy, and smelled of metal, oil, and whatever had been stored inside. Right now, he would have spent his life in one to stay away from what was outside.

He had barely thrown himself inside before Muir struck the container. The impact made it groan, metal buckling inward. A jagged hole opened nearby, giving Terry a view of the deck.

Then the cargo hoist came down.

The doors were crushed beneath it, trapping him inside.

"Fuck..."

He pressed against the opposite wall and stared through the hole. For several seconds, there was only the creaking rig, distant machinery, and the relentless North Sea wind.

Then he heard a wet, dragging sound.

Something moved past the opening.

Muir.

Or what had once been Muir.

Tendrils extended from his body, lifting and dragging him across the deck in jerking, unnatural steps. Terry stared in horror.

He knew that face.

He'd kissed it, slept beside it, and memorized every expression. He'd known Muir as a person long before the rig became hell.

Now those same eyes searched the deck for him.

A tendril scraped against the container.

Terry clapped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself silent. His heart hammered against the metal.

"Come on..." he whispered. "Keep moving, mate. Just keep fucking moving."

Muir stopped.

Terry went still.

The tendrils shifted, lifting Muir briefly into the air. His head tilted as though listening.

Terry's blood ran cold.

He didn't know whether Muir had heard him—or whether enough of the man he knew remained to recognize his voice.

That uncertainty terrified him most.

Terry backed away from the hole, careful not to make a sound. The container felt impossibly small, the crushed doors blocking escape and the hole offering a terrible view of the deck.

Muir moved again.

"Jesus Christ..."

Terry watched his former boyfriend stalk across the deck, tendrils carrying him over obstacles. There was nowhere to run.

All he could do was stay quiet and wait to see whether Muir passed him by, found another way inside, or remembered exactly where he was hiding.

As another tendril curled into view, Terry realized he might not have much time left to decide what came next.