I basically created this blog just for all the horny shit I don't want to put on my main! That's probably going to include x reader fanfics/headcanons/etc, yandere and monsterfucking drabbles and thoughts, and just generally whatever kinky nonsense happens to be passing through my head. If you're interested in character x character and gen focused fanfic, I'll probably mostly post that on my ao3 (which is stupiddexter, btw. I don't post super often but there is some stuff there.)
My asks are open, so always feel free to reach out!
What I'm Into
In terms of characters:
Mark Grayson/Invincible + variants (Invincible)
Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow (The Dark Knight Trilogy)
Edward Nashton/The Riddler (The Batman)
Adrian Chase/Vigilante (Peacemaker)
Wade Wilson/Deadpool (Deadpool)
Stu Macher, Billy Loomis, and other Ghostfaces (Scream)
Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Laios (Dungeon Meshi)
Wheatley (Portal)
Bill Cipher (Gravity Falls)
Data (Star Trek: The Next Generation)
Various JJK characters (mostly Choso, Gojo, Nanami, and Higuruma)
Various One Piece characters (mostly Sanji and Law)
Aaaaand probably a bunch more I’m forgetting LOL
I also really love monsterfucker stuff, especially demons and vampires (and robots? does that count as monsterfucking? whatever). And male yanderes have my heart forever and ever, of course.
I also have a lot of kinks, including, but not limited to:
Dominance/submission generally. I enjoy both a male dom with a female sub and a female dom with a male sub.
Degradation
Breeding
Unhinged/toxic behavior such as stalking, kidnapping, etc.
CNC
Group sex/sharing
Exhibitionism
Objectification
Misogyny
Size difference
Primal play
Bondage
Sadism/masochism
Dacryphilia
What I'm NOT Into
Here is some stuff I am NOT interested in posting about/receiving asks about (no hate to anyone who does like this stuff, just not for me):
Ageplay/big age gaps (daddy/mommy kink is fine, just not hardcore ageplay stuff)
Incest
Petplay (a little bit is fine, but I'm not into stuff like eating out of dog bowls)
Blog Logistics
I'll tag shorter posts with #lexa speaks, longer posts with #my writing, off-topic posts with #lexa rambles, and reblogs with #reblog. I'll put CWs above the cut on longer posts and in the tags on shorter ones.
If you got this far, thanks for reading, and I hope to see you in my ask box, perverts! ;)
Thinking about a male best friend who's just so sympathetic every time you come to him, sobbing about being raped. Really, you just don't understand how this keeps happening! Whether you're walking through the park and getting pulled off the path by a man with a ski mask and a gun, getting groped and having your panties cut off for ease of access at a concert so crowded you can't even turn around to see who's fucking you, or waking up with no memory and cum drying on your thighs in a bedroom at a party even though you could've sworn you only accepted drinks from people you trusted, you just can't seem to stop getting fucked even if you want to.
And every time, of course, you come to him. He's your best friend—the person you trust most in the world—of course you do! And every time, he's so sweet, rubbing your back and murmuring comforting words to you. And since you trust him so much, you don't notice things that maybe you should. Like how he always dissuades you from reporting what happened to any authorities, so subtly that you don't even notice. Like how he always positions you so that you can't see or feel his face or crotch—good thing, too, since he just can't help but smile hearing you wail about how he's violated you, and it gets him hard as a fucking rock having you cry into his shoulder.
Eventually, maybe the two of you actually get into a relationship. He's ecstatic, smiling at you sweetly and telling you how he thinks the two of you have always been perfect for each other. Unfortunately for you, the assaults and humiliation don't stop after that, either. Fingered from behind on a crowded train, swimsuit top ripped from your body at a water park by someone who disappears into a crowd before you can see them, and even, one night when your boyfriend is out of town, a shadowy figure crawling in your window in the dead of night, holding a knife to your throat and threatening to cut you open if you even think of turning on the light. But your best friend is always there to pick up the pieces, and at this point you barely notice how dependent you've become on him, how every unknowable man forcing his way between your legs fucks just like your sweet, innocent boyfriend.
And then, the unthinkable happens. You're pregnant, with no way of knowing who the father is—your perfect boyfriend, or one of your mysterious abusers (who, you've noticed, always seem to cum inside). And of course, like always, your boyfriend is there to reassure you, that he'll love the baby no matter what, that you can even get a DNA test if you want to, to make sure that the baby is his, and get rid of it otherwise. You fall asleep in his arms happily that night, and he lies awake with your body against his chest and his hands laying gently over your womb, secure in the knowledge that no matter what you think, he'll always be the only person to ever know the feeling of your beautiful, sweet little cunt.
If you’re at someone else’s house, enjoying a party, all you have to do is give him a look that tells him you’re bored or frustrated and need release before you go on a massacre. Lazily, he strolls to the nearest bathroom, unashamed to leave mid conversation or mid sentence. When you finally walk in some time later so as to not rouse suspicion, you find him inside, sitting on the lid of the toilet, jerking himself off so you can quickly slide down on his length and ride him to an easy release.
“Wait,” he mutters after, bringing your hips back to him. He slides his tongue through your puffy slit, scooping up his cum which oozes out of your cunt. “Need to clean you up, silly.”
Free use!Choso loves being used. It gives him purpose. It gets him up in the morning — figuratively and literally. He loves being woken up with your dripping cunt on his face, throbbing clit rubbed on the tip of his nose. Your juices filling his senses, dribbling inside his nose, sliding on his tongue and down his throat, is nothing short of euphoric.
“Mmm,” he moans, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs and fighting the urge to wrap around his cock (you get upset when he hasn’t asked for permission). “Thank you for choosing my face; you know I don’t like it when you deal with it yourself.”
Free use!Choso often actively waits for a sign. Sometimes he forces one himself. At dinner with your friends, he’ll be squirming in his seat, irritated that it’s taking so long and doing very little to hide it. He’ll openly grumble, “Can we go already? Christina won’t shut up about her boyfriend, Owen, and I don’t like either of them.”
“Choso,” you hiss. “Don’t be rude.”
He pushes away from the table and says, “I’ll be waiting in the backseat of the car. Please come soon so I can fuck you.”
Saying goodbye to a dinner you weren’t even enjoying, you come up with some shitty excuse to get out of there and angrily march over to the car. The door is yanked open and you’re about to tear him a new one, but the sight of his cock out, already hard, and leaking makes it hard to stay mad. You sigh, climbing inside. “You need table manners.”
“I’m polite enough when I eat you out,” he says, not remotely argumentative, simply factual.
Free use!Choso also responds to whistles, like a dog. As soon as you walk in, tired from work, you’ll whistle and he’ll appear almost out of thin air, ears perked up and tail wagging. He helps you shrug off your outer layers, sliding your shoes off and using that opportunity to sniff at your crotch.
“Oh I missed you,” he groans, showing you the wet mark on his sweatpants. “I missed you so much. Please use me, not your toys. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Need your pretty pussy around me or I think I might die.”
Bounce on a cock, save a life, you suppose.
Was feeling a little burnt out so I needed a quick shot of free use choso
Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs
Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ
The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.
Tᴀɢs: male yandere x fem reader, somno, fever sex, thigh fucking, betrayal, kind of sweet kind of bitter you decide, younger yandere/sightly older reader, 5k words
Breakfast is usually waiting for you. The boy always wakes up around sunrise to cook up biscuits and coffee, and by the time you stumble down to eat, there’s a plate of hot food set aside for you.
It doesn't matter if you don't have an appetite, if you only pick at your food because the taste of the outlaws is thick in your throat. He still keeps a plate aside for you. The best part of whatever he's made.
He’s got a great sense for your preferences too — no eggs or meat if you don’t eat that sort of grub, your coffee extra sweet even though you know sugar can get expensive.
It's sweet of him. Though sometimes, when he watches you eat like you chewing is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, you wonder if there's more to it. You wonder if everyone else has food that tastes so queerly salty.
The boy is quiet most of the time. He goes about his work with his head down and his curls in his eyes. Part of it is shyness — he’s as skittish around the bit as a new broke colt — and part of it is inexperience. The other outlaws are hard-edged and hard eyed. You aren’t sure how the boy fell in with them, but you can tell he doesn’t belong. Or at least not yet.
The others must have been this young and sweet once, and you hate the thought of the boy becoming like them, hate watching his softness get worn away.
You see them teaching him their ways a little every day. The gunslingers show him how to take apart a rifle and load a six-shooter, their hands slow even though they both have a tendency to lose their patience quick. The second in command teaches him to read maps. Even the boss takes the time to show him some card tricks now and again, old card sharp that he is.
They teach him things out loud, and they teach him things without having to say a word at all. It’s in his expressions, when you learn how to look. He has the wrangler’s quick eye and the boss’s laconic drawl.
You ought to teach him a little something, too. That’s only fair, isn’t it? He ought to learn a thing or two about civility and honour and justice. He should get the chance to choose his own life, away from the gang’s influence.
But you aren’t sure how to put a name to things like chivalry. You settle for teaching him how to garden instead.
There’s a small garden by the back door of the farmhouse. It’s poorly tended and the peppermint has run wild over all the other plants. Before you, the outlaws were always on the move and you suppose that meant no time to let things take root.
“Poor things,” you say to the boy. You’re looking at a rose bush that’s almost withered away. “My ma would have wept to see flowers kept in this state.”
“Why? They’re only plants.”
“They’re living things all the same. And it’s an awful waste of beauty."
He runs a hand through his curls. He’s wearing a bright red bandanna today and it makes the freckles on his nose stand out.
“I suppose…But what good does having flowers around do?”
“You’ll see. I reckon the rainy season will start soon, and if we work fast enough the flowers will bloom just in time for spring.”
There’s a smudge of black gun oil on his cheek. You lick your thumb and reach up to rub it away.
“You’ll help me, won’t you?” you ask.
He touches his cheek, his face turning a bright red. “Sure, whatever you say.”
When he’s done with the rest of his chores, he comes to find you. You’re on your knees in the dirt, your fingers already coated in earth.
“See these roots?” you ask. “We need to clear them away, otherwise they’ll strangle the new growth.”
He squats down next to you and nudges his cattleman higher up his forehead.
“But shouldn't we leave them? The strongest plant survives, right? Way of the world.”
“You think strength is all it takes?”
You set to cutting the dead heads away. It doesn’t surprise you that he thinks that way. In the lawless west, strength seems to matter more than anything. Even still…
“If we don’t clear it, all the plants will die eventually. The soil is shallow here. Let this one grow too much and it’ll strangle itself in the end.”
He doesn’t answer you. He just picks up a knife and gets to pruning. By the time you’re done, the setting sun is turning the fields golden. There’s a pile of weeds and old growth destined for mulch and the rich smell of fresh turned earth is thick in your nose.
“Thank you for your help.”
He shugs and looks away from you. “‘S not a problem. Happy to.”
He jumps when you kiss his cheek.
“Still. I appreciate it, Red.”
“Red?”
“Mhm. On account of your hair.”
In the sunset, the copper sheen of it is hard to miss.
“I’ve got a name you know.”
You dust off your skirt and start heading toward the house.
“I’m sure you do,” you call over your shoulder, “but I like Red better.”
When he dishes out supper that evening, you can still see the dirt staining his nails. He brushes his shoulder against yours when he hands you your plate.
“Here. Used some of the herb cuttings.”
And true to his word, you can taste just a hint of thyme when you take a bite.
“‘S good. Really good. Where did you learn to cook?”
“My big sister. She was ‘round your age, actually.”
That’s more than you’ve gotten from him before. Progress maybe. It’s a good thing he’s telling you about his past. Most of the outlaws keep theirs locked away tight. And that would mean you were right in your guess — he really is just a few years younger than you.
The next morning, the boy is nowhere to be seen. The only hint that he was around is a single sprig of lavender left on the kitchen table, right where you normally sit.
You get back to the garden as soon as you can. It’s just as you left it last night. Your ma would be in a fit of tears over the state of the place, and you can half hear her scolding you for letting good growth go to ruin. Well, it’s not your fault the outlaws never took care of it. The best you can do is fix up their mess.
By midmorning, you’ve managed to clear most of the debris and neaten up the beds. It looks miles better, though the growth in some areas is still sparse. In addition to the roses and peppermint, there are some struggling daffodils and a pot of climbing jasmine. That would look mighty pretty on the porch, and it would almost smell like home.
You straighten when you hear the sound of hooves. The boy rounds the corner, leading his horse by the reins. His bandana is dusty with hard riding and his boots aren’t much better.
“Where have you been, Red?”
He doesn’t answer. He just drops a small bag in your hand and mutters something about being back to help you as soon as he can. He’s back on his horse before you can ask him to elaborate.
When he’s gone — and he goes mighty fast too, would think he was almost scared of you — you take a good look at what he gave you.
Seeds.
When they spill into your palm you can’t help laughing. Well, ain’t that sweet of him? No matter what sort of man he turns out to be in the end, you know there’ll be some trace of you in him. A lesson in softness and care he might not otherwise have learned.
When the spring comes, the flowers bloom afterall.
The boy takes good care of you. That’s the one thing no one can argue. When you catch an early season fever, he's the one who fusses over you with cool cloths and snake oil.
His other duties lay abandoned in favour of you. The outlaws scrape together their own meals and the garden by the back door collects drifts of dead leaves. When the gunslingers complain, the boss just waves them off. The boy looks feverish himself, though his temperature is perfectly even. There are dark circles under his eyes from long nights at your bed.
The wrangler and the second in command both tell him you'll be just fine. That it's nothing but a passing weakness, brought on by the changing weather.
He nods politely, but anyone can see he's not really listening.
"Reckon he's just scared of losing her," the dark skinned gunslinger says to his partner when the boy goes rushing past them with a bundle of dried herbs and hot water.
"Ain't gotta be. Our girl is tough as nails deep down. She ain't gonna wilt away from a fucking cold."
"Ain't you a little nervous yourself?"
"Nah, she'll be just dandy come next week."
Still, the gunslinger follows the boy with his eyes until he's out of sight.
You're thankful for the boy, a lot more than you let on. Waking from your fever dreams to his cool fingers on your brow is a mercy you didn't think you'd find. You feel bad about making him worry, and you feel guilty about feeling bad. It's a whole mix of things, and they don't help your fever at all.
"I'm sorry," you half murmur, face pressed against your pillow and your throat an aching mess. "Didn't mean to get sick."
It's a hold-over from living with your parents, where even one sick day would throw everyone else a whole heap of extra work.
"Don't talk," he whispers, brushing your hair away from your forehead. "Just go back to sleep."
You do, the ghost of his touch following you into your dreams.
It goes on for a week, and then two. Your fever wanes a little, but always comes back just as strong. The strain of your new life finally catching up to you.
The boy goes from fussing over your blankets and sheets to almost never leaving your room. He sleeps in an armchair next to your bed, long limbs curled under him like a cat.
He talks to you too, though you can only half recall what he says. Stories about his older sister, long dead now, and the way she used to take care of him as a kid. Stories about his life with the outlaws and how he came to be part of their crew.
He confesses his dreams to you. But only when it's the dead of night and you're dead asleep.
"I'd like to be rich some day," he tells you, holding your hand in his. "And notorious. My face on wanted posters from Arizona to Montana. Like the boss."
You murmur something that sounds like encouragement. He smiles in the dark, a little giddy at having you all to himself.
"I'd like to take you away someday too. Just you and me, with our own place. It won't ever happen. They're all so jealously possessive of you, but I like to think about it anyway."
How wonderful would that be? An honest life and an honest wife, smiling just for him.
"I don't care if they hear me say it," he whispers to you. "I want you all to myself. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real friend. I...I love you. I really do."
Maybe you hear him through your dreams, or maybe he just imagines the way you squeeze his hand.
Like you love him too.
He swallows and leans forward to check your temperature. Too hot, still too damn hot to be safe. It makes him nervous, makes him feel about as high strung as a rattlesnake at midday.
"Please, get well. This is how my sister went. The fever burned up everything she had. Burned her up from the inside out. I can't lose you the same."
You sigh in your sleep and it makes his breath catch in his throat.
When morning comes, you wake to find him half draped on your bed, his hand still clutching yours. You sigh and shift your blanket so he's covered too.
"Early morning cold gets in your lungs, kid," you say, quoting your pa. "Didn't anyone ever tell you?"
He smiles in his sleep, his face so much younger than his years. His curls are messy and you reach out and brush them back without thinking.
This life will age you before your time, kid, if it doesn't kill you outright.
But you don't have the nerve to say it out loud. Not when he's been so kind to you. You can only watch him as the sun turns the world bright, half praying and half hoping that he'll find a way out of this place.
Don't become like the rest of them. Please. I can't bear it if what's in them gets in you too.
He keeps dreaming and you keep praying and neither one of you cares to think how little it's all worth.
The others are nervous about your fever too, though they show it in different ways.
The boss comes to kneel by your bed now and again, the bandana around his throat dusty from work but his hands always clean. Always cool.
He rests his palm against your neck, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiles.
"You can handle this, girl."
He sounds so sure of it that you start to believe him. Start to wonder when the sickness will break rather than asking yourself if it ever would.
He always kisses your forehead before he leaves. That perfect wall of certainty never wavering, no matter what he feels deep inside.
The wrangler and the second in command bring you more cures than the boy knows what to do with. Everything from folk remedies to the latest tonics.
Both of them are a little detached, a little brusque. Never lingering long in the room though you can tell they want to. They put barriers around their fear, you realise slowly. Don't admit it exists, not even to themselves.
When your fever takes a particularly nasty turn, the second paces the hall outside your room for hours. And the wrangler sits in front of the fire for just as long, still as standing water.
They aren't like this with anyone else, you think to yourself when you're finally lucid enough to process the thought. If you were a horse with colic, the wrangler would have stayed by your side all night. If you were an outlaw bleeding out on the floor, the second in command would have you stitched up before sunrise.
It's like their instincts and experience are worth nothing at all when it comes to you. And maybe there's a compliment in there — strong and clever as they are, you're still their weakness.
You don't care to think about it longer than you have to. Two more outlaws leaving you alone is more than enough to keep you happy, regardless of their reasons.
Not so for the gunslingers.
You don't expect them to care much, but it's yet another thing you're wrong about. They both come to spend a lot more time in your room than they ought to, cards spread on your duvet as they teach you to play poker. You're wary of them — worried that they'll take your sickness as just another excuse to have their way with you. And maybe the thought does cross their minds — how much hotter does your cunt run when you're burning up? But they don't act on it. They take turns sitting next to you, an arm around your waist or a palm on your thigh while they explain what a royal flush and a two of a kind is.
When you drop off to sleep with your head in one of their laps, or curled against their ribs, the way they go so perfectly still says plenty.
There is one perk to being sick. With you too weak to do much more than sleep, the outlaws are willing to leave you alone with the boy and go off on jobs as a crew. It’s nice to talk about things more freely. And it’s pretty damn nice not having them around. You always seem to get the best sleep when they’re gone.
If it weren't for the medicine, you'd have called your fever a blessing. As it stands…
“Say ‘aah’.”
You look at the boy skeptically. The spoonful of medicine he’s offering you is thick as treacle and smells about as good as an outhouse in July.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Don’t argue.”
He’s picked up a bit of muscle since you first arrived and even though he’s still greyhound lean, there’s a wiry strength to him.
“What are you gonna do if I say ‘no?’ You wouldn’t want to drink that either.”
He eyes the medicine for a second. “It don’t look good, but that don’t mean it won’t work.”
“Mhm. And you’d happily take it if you were in my place?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. Because unlike some people in this room, I would want to get better.”
“Take it then, little doctor. Show some solidarity.”
You’re teasing him mostly for the sake of it. And so it surprises you plenty when he does exactly what you suggested.
He brings the spoon to his mouth and sucks up the medicine with a grimace.
“Hey, I didn’t really mean—”
He leans forward and kisses you. You’re too off guard to defend yourself, and when he pushes the medicine into your mouth you have no choice but to swallow.
When he pulls away, he’s wiping his mouth and looking immensely satisfied with himself.
“There. Doctor’s orders.”
You try not to gag.
“Never bring that medicine near me again. It tastes like something from an oil field,” you say.
“If it works then you’ll be drinking it night and day, little patient.”
You scowl at him. “I’m still older than you.”
“Yeah. But I’m taller. And stronger. Seems you look mighty little from over here.”
When did he get so cocky?
“Do you go about kissing all your patients, little doctor?”
He flushes and looks away from you. So, that cockiness isn’t as authentic as he pretends it is. He’s still just as shy deep down.
“Only the pretty ones,” he mutters.
“You think I’m pretty, Red?”
“Of course you’re pretty. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Must not get around much then.”
That annoys him enough that he looks up at you. “Don’t tease.”
“Why not? You gonna stop me?”
“If you make me.”
“I’m shaking in my boots, kid.” Still, you shouldn’t go too hard on him. He’s just a kid, as far from home and alone as you are. “Thank you for taking care of me, Red. I know it’s a lot of work and worry.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “‘Course. Any time.”
You lay back down and pull the covers to your chin. You hate to admit it, but you really do feel a bit better after the medicine. Drowsy too, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. Your ma used to say they used all kinds of fancy ingredients in these things.
“I’m proud of you, Red,” you say quietly, “You’re becoming a good man.”
When you finally drop off to sleep, he stays in his chair and watches you. A good man, huh? He hasn’t met a lot of those, and they never seemed to live long. Better to be a bastard in this line of work. Even the wrangler — soft spoken and patient — is a killer. You need to take what you want in this life or else someone will steal it right from under you.
Ain’t you proof enough of that? There’s probably a fiancé out there looking for you, a family who wants to keep you close.
“I’m not trying to be good,” he tells you.
He touches your forehead. Your fever is close to breaking. You’re still hot, but not worryingly so. After weeks of white knuckled worry, he finally relaxes a little.
You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Less worried, less afraid. There’s a trace of medicine around your mouth and he swipes it off with his thumb. Your lips are nice too. He didn’t get much time to appreciate them when he kissed you.
Kissing you…did giving you the medicine really count as his first kiss? Nah, that ain’t fair. He should get to enjoy his first kiss for a lot longer than that.
He thinks about what you looked like that first day, when the gunslingers forced him to eat you out. You were so scared — big doe eyes still wet with tears, your voice almost gone. You’ve changed since then. You don’t fight, and he never sees you cry.
Maybe you’ve started to like it. Maybe you’ve gotten better at accepting the inevitable.
Hell, you sure seemed to like it when he was tongue deep in your cunt. You were crying, true. But your body was responding to him just fine. What pretty sounds you made…
It’s inevitable, right? That’s what all the outlaws tell him. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, your body will learn to like it. You might even fall in love.
It’s hard to imagine you in love. Who would you even fall for? The boss gets whatever he wants in life, sure, but he’s old. Wouldn’t you prefer someone closer to your own age? And the gunslingers are both handsome but there’s no hiding how cruel they are.
Maybe you’ll fall in love with the wrangler or the second in command. They can be sweet and patient when they need to be, and God knows they’re both stupidly in love with you. They think they hide it well, but a one eyed miner could see the way they fawn over you. Neither one of them cared about being clean shaven all the time until you showed up.
Yeah, maybe they’re the ones you’ll fall in love with.
…They’re both older than you, though. And they don’t spend as much time with you as he does. They’ve never been next to you in the dirt, hands covered in earth and roots. They’ve never coaxed anything to grow from the mud. How can you love them when he’s right here?
It should be him. If you love anyone, it should be him. He’s never forced you. He’s never taken what isn’t his.
And he sure as fuck has never made you cry. Doesn’t that deserve a reward?
Sure, the outlaws said he couldn’t fuck you until he earned it. But they’re selfish, jealous bastards. He might never earn it. Who are they to say when he should and shouldn’t touch you?
He can shoot and he can wrangle and he can steal too, though you don’t know nothing about that last one. Doesn’t that pretty much make him a man?
Besides, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Maybe just a taste of you. He’s been practically saintly in his patience. Not fair that they get to have you and all he’s left with are his fist and his memories.
Be a good man, some stubborn part of him insists, leave her to sleep off the rest of her fever in peace. You’ll get a chance eventually.
No. All goodness gets you is an early grave. It’s about time he did things a bit selfishly. And look at you; you’re dead asleep. Weak from the fever and knocked out with medicine. He won’t get this chance again.
She won’t even know it happened.
And he’ll stop. If you wake up and tell him to, he’ll definitely stop. It’s harmless.
When he slips under the sheets with you, you don’t stir at all. You’re only in a thin nightgown and he can feel the fever radiating off you. He touches a hand to your thigh, trying his hardest to breathe slowly.
It’s really happening. He’s really in bed with you, about to fuck you. God, how many nights has he spent thinking about this moment? He rubs his jeans against the curve of your ass. Fuck, that friction feels good. He’s getting hard fast.
It’s only fair that you’re his first. His sister used to tell him to only kiss the woman he loved, and how else can he describe you?
Maybe he shouldn’t go all the way. Wouldn’t want to push his luck. Besides, when the time comes, he wants you to feel him inside. Wants to see you bite your lip and squirm like you did when he first made you come. He’d fuck you good, he knows that much. He’ll be the only one of them that doesn’t make you cry, the only one you willingly kiss. He can wait for that. Inevitable, right? He can be patient.
He just needs something to take the edge off. Just a taste.
His fingers are shaking when he undoes his belt and eases his cock out. Shit, his adrenaline is pumping like he’s at a midday duel. Do all the other outlaws feel this way when they touch you? Like they’re half about to faint and half about to scream.
Just gotta move your nightgown out the way…
Oh God, your cunt is hot. He nudges his tip against your folds. With the way you’re sleeping — curled on your side, knees drawn in a little — he can run his tip across the entire length of you. Must be the fever. There’s no way you burn this much on a normal day.
His head gets caught on your entrance, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. You’re so close. All it would take is one little push…
No. Better to be patient. It’ll be so much sweeter when you’re awake and willing.
He ruts his cock against you, the shaft sliding through your folds until it's nudging at your thighs. He’s surprised when all it takes is a small nudge to force his way between your legs. With the way you’re sleeping, your thighs are tight together and pillowy soft. Your skin is warm and just a little humid.
Fuck.
No fucking wonder they want to keep you to themselves. If you were his, he’d lock you away so tight not even the coyotes would ever pick up your trail.
He pulls back and then slides between your thighs again. Your clit and labia add a soft sort of texture to his thrusts, massaging his shaft as he uses your thighs. The head of his cock is the most sensitive part — pulling away from you makes him shudder.
You’re so much better than his own hand that it’s not even a competition. Silkier and warmer, your thighs heavy against his dick.
You shift a little in your sleep and he fucking whimpers.
Oh, that’s tight. Your thighs are damn near strangling him.
He spits in his hand and reaches down to his cock. A little extra something to get things moving again. And it sure as shit makes a difference. When he ruts into you again it’s heaven sent.
The spit also means he can move a little faster. Careful though, wouldn’t want to wake you.
He stuffs his fist in his mouth to keep quiet, but his breathing is ragged. No hiding that. No hiding the way his cheeks are flushing almost as red as his hair either.
How the hell do the others last so long with you? He swears the second in command and the boss spend hours fucking you when they get the chance. And here he is — about to come all over you after just a few minutes. It must be the heat of you, and the thrill of being so near. He’s dreamed of you every night since the day he saw you. Is it any surprise he’s so needy and desperate?
Shit, he’s so close. A little faster, just a little.
You murmur something and his heart damn near jumps out his chest. But no, you’re just dreaming. Maybe even dreaming of him. That would only be fair given how often you haunt his sleep.
“I love you,” he whispers against your hair, “I love you.”
He sounds just as desperate as he feels. God, he’s just some stupid boy rutting into your thighs because he’s too weak to hold back and too lovesick to know better.
“All your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking. “You’re too nice to me. I don’t deserve it, but you still are.”
He pulls off his bandana, and at the very last second, rolls away from you and shoves his cock into his fist. He comes hard, his dick a sensitive mess. Fucking hell.
He stays on his back, his hair clinging to his forehead. He’s never felt so spent — his muscles are watery weak and his heart is loud in his ears. His cock twitches in his fist as the last bits of spunk shudder out.
Okay, breathe. Get yourself together. She’s still sound asleep and doesn’t have a damn clue.
That makes him laugh. Yeah, not a clue in the fucking world. I could do this to her again and again and no one would have any damn idea.
“Just our little secret, right?”
You’re too deep in your fever dreams to answer him. He pushes his hair backwards and grins.
“Not such a good man afterall, am I? Not when it comes to you.”
He shoves himself back into his jeans and then straightens your nightgown. So what if you think he’s better than he really is? Let it be a sweet little dream. You don’t need to know the truth — not when the lie will get you in his arms eventually.
At the end of the day, he’s still an outlaw. And he’ll steal all the love he can.
TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Prolonged Captivity, Social Isolation, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, Hivemind Dynamics, Implied Previous Domestic Abuse, Non-Consensual Touching, and Obsessive Behavior.
It had been six days, three hours, and twenty-four minutes since the last time you saw one of your crewmates blink.
Which, admittedly, might not have been the smoking gun you were trying to make it into. Most of your conversations were spent with your eyes cast respectfully downward or held through comms, since they preferred not to acknowledge you directly whenever possible. Still, from the control bridge’s auxiliary seating, you had a pretty good view of their stiff, expressionless faces – the way their glassy eyes seemed to focus on nothing in particular as they carried out their respective roles with all the life and all the energy of clockwork dolls. Really, the fact that they’d asked you to join them on the bridge at all was a red flag. That wasn’t the way things were supposed to work. You were more of an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ issue.
And yet, here you were, sitting on a cheaply cushioned titanium bench as a dozen or so scientists sat in complete silence, toiling away at their various monitors with their various instruments. No one had spoken in the past ninety minutes. The last person to stand up had been the engineer, when she’d wordlessly brought the geologist another pen after his had run out of ink a few seconds prior. No one had anything to eat or drink save for the captain, who kept a thermos on the corner of his desk and took a long sip every six minutes exactly. You’d timed it. Somehow, that was worse than if none of them had done anything at all.
For your part, you stayed where you were, doing everything in your power not to move or breathe or think too loudly. You might’ve stayed like that for the remaining daylight hours, for as long as you had to until dismissed, if the pilot hadn’t spoken.
“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”
You startled, then snapped in her direction. The visuals were more-or-less right – her long hair pulled into a thick braid, the sleeves of her coveralls tied around her waist, all the little things you’d subconsciously come to expect after months of living in proximity to one another – but her tone was all wrong, far away and airy where you’d come to expect a certain edge, a directness. She also, notably, had not looked away from her monitor. The captain was the only one with his gaze directed upward, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the bridge’s helm.
You took that as a sign to do the same. Admittedly, the view was beautiful. The sea floor stretched on as far as the eye could see, illuminated by spotlights and roaming underwater drones and what few rays of sunlight managed to dive this deep. When you strained your eyes, you could see the dull glow of bioluminescent animals emerging from the sea floor, always moving so slowly toward the surface, but they tended to keep their distance. The walls of the Mariana Trench sat snugly to either side, your stationary base nestled between them. Usually, you loved it – that feeling of being so totally enclosed, how simple the world felt when cast in shades of blue and green. Now, it just felt a little claustrophobic.
The geologist turned to you, dull eyes over wire-framed glasses, and you realized that you were supposed to answer. “I guess so.”
The captain nodded, pleased. You forced yourself to clear your throat and go on. “How did last week’s expedition go?”
The biologist straightened. He’d always struck you as the quiet type, only liable to respond when addressed directly. Today, though, he seemed more than capable of speaking for the group. “Oh, it was uneventful.”
And then, the engineer, her normally clipped voice melodic, as if finishing the biologist’s thought. “Nothing to report. Just the usual marine activity.”
It was a lie and it wasn’t even a good one. They should’ve corrected you the second you called it an expedition. In reality, the captain, the pilot, and the biologist had taken one of the submersibles on an unplanned voyage to an area worryingly close to your base that had been exhibiting readings no one could seem to make sense of, least of all you. As soon as they’d gotten back, the geologist and the engineer were called to the labs for some unspecified emergency. They’d locked themselves away for hours, not making a sound, only resurfacing once you gathered up the courage to knock. You’d been too shocked to do anything when they actually opened the door, when they invited you inside, when they showed you the deformed remains of a new specimen and tried to tide you over with explanations of unusual geological activity and pre-historic fossilization. The not-blinking had started around then, too.
“Huh,” you said, layering the nonchalance on thick. You pushed yourself to your feet, stretching your arms above your head. “Well, I—um, I better get going. Filters to check and all.”
Five heads snapped in your direction at the same time. Thankfully, your panic was limited to a pair of pressed lips and a small, mostly swallowed squeak. Only the captain actually spoke, his voice calm and his tone easy. Somehow, that made it worse. You would’ve preferred the chorus, discordant and unintelligible, to a lone mouthpiece. “You’re in such a rush to leave us. Did we do something wrong?”
“I have to do my job, sir.”
He hummed. “Make sure to report back when you’re done.” He paused, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Your input is so very important to us, after all.”
You hated the way he said it, like he was fighting not to laugh. You hated the way the pilot was looking at you, now, head cocked and fingers drumming over her desk. You hated the way the geologist was moving, back too straight and limbs too stiff as he started to push himself out of his chair and—
Oh, fuck.
It was time to go.
You offered another dull excuse before slipping out of the bridge and back into the vessel proper. You knew where you were going – hell, you’d spent the last twenty weeks dreaming of the day you’d finally get to make this walk. Down the hall and past the communal spaces, then up through storage – carefully avoiding the labs on the same floor. The transport module (or, more realistically, the elevator shaft) had its own compartment, carefully sectioned off from the rest of the craft. It was only meant to be used twice: on the day you arrived and then again on the day you left, when you would be ferried up to the surface and granted the privilege of never having to think about life on the sea floor again. Only the captain knew the launch code, but there had to be a manual override. And hopefully, you’d spent enough of the past few months wrist-deep in the vessel’s wiring to figure out how to activate it.
You didn’t have time for delicacy. You’d barely stopped moving before you were dropping to your knees in front of the access panel and prying the interface out of its casing. It came away easily, and then you were digging through wires and ports, searching for something to connect, something to pull free, something that would get you out of this godforsaken pit at the—
There weren’t footsteps, or voices, or any warnings you might’ve heard over the sound of your own racing pulse. There was only a hand on your shoulder, another around your wrist – gently easing you away from the open panel.
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” A voice, simultaneously painfully familiar and altogether alien, sighed in your ear. Your captain. Or, what used to be your captain, at least.
You weren’t sure you ought to be calling him that, anymore.
And, judging by how softly he spoke as he went on, he seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“I think it’s about time we met properly. Don’t you agree?”
~
The captain, as you’d known him, was a man just south of middle age with white streaks in his startlingly dark hair, crows’ feet carved into the corners of his eyes, and a scar across the left side of his mouth that he would joke was from biting down on a fishhook in college. At least, you’d assumed he was joking.
You guessed you’d never get the chance to ask, now.
He was also gigantic – taller than most sailors with the physique to match. Even seated, he seemed to dwarf his surroundings, to leave you frail and minimized on the other side of the table. He’d wanted to do this in his office, but you’d insisted on the canteen. At the time, it seemed like neutral territory, somewhere wide and open with plenty of space to breathe. Now, you could only lament not pushing for someplace more closed-in. At least, if you were cornered, you wouldn’t have to keep glancing over your shoulder.
It didn’t help that the engineer was posted by the doors, back to the wall and her unblinking stare focused on you. The captain tilted his head to the side apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ve only just gotten used to having so many eyes.”
“Eyes you stole from my friends.”
“These people weren’t your friends.” Pity dripped from his voice, honeyed and thick. You squared your shoulders. “This one, maybe, but not the rest. They saw you as—What’s the word?”
“A janitor?”
“Oh, dearest, not even that.” He paused, smiled. The expression looked wrong, like he was manually calculating how far to strain his lips. “A criminal.”
You inhaled slowly, holding your breath for a moment before letting it out again. The sting was present, but manageable. You’d known that. You must’ve known that, even when you first volunteered for this. There weren’t a lot of people willing to spend half a year of their life on the bottom of the ocean, and even fewer who would spend that half-year doing laundry, sweeping floors, and changing lightbulbs. But it was better than jail. This way, you could pretend you’d chosen to be here.
“Not to worry!” He clapped his hands together. “They won’t be saying much of anything, anymore. And the names I call you won’t nearly as cruel.”
“They weren’t—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “What are you?”
“You can see that for yourself. I’m sitting right in front of you, love.”
“No, I mean—Where did you come from?”
“You call this the… Pacific Ocean, don’t you?”
You shot to your feet, slamming your palms into the tabletop. “Why are you doing this?”
He glanced over you, then met your eyes. “That would’ve been a question for your coworkers. They were the ones who dug me up.”
You fell back into your seat, huffing. This was getting you nowhere slowly. The captain – the monster – seemed to feel the same way.
“You don’t seem very scared.”
“I don’t have to be. If you could do—” You gestured vaguely to the engineer, still lurking in your peripheral. “—that to me, you would’ve.”
“Would I, now?”
You opened your mouth, but stopped short of spitting anything out. It felt like a dial being turned, a switch being flipped. There was nothing, and then, there was everything.
In an instant, it was all too much. A hundred thousand voices in the back of your mind, chanting the same hymn at their own tempo. A hundred thousand images flashing across your vision, each stolen from a new set of eyes. You tried to focus on something else, to feel the cool wood under your hands, but even that sensation soon blurred into a million others until you couldn’t tell what belonged to you and what belonged to another body, another mind. You were being pulled downstream and the current was using your arms and legs against you. You were listening to the loveliest song you’d ever heard and you couldn’t seem to open your mouth and—
And the music stopped as you fell back into your own body, as you blinked away other perspectives and heaved air into your own aching lungs. You were on the floor, splayed across the tile. There was saliva at the corner of your mouth, and more concerningly, the captain was kneeling over you, his thumb stroking your cheek.
“Do we understand each other?”
You forced yourself to swallow. Your voice came out hoarse, dry. “Get away from me.”
“I can try, but it’s a small craft.”
“Then let me leave.”
His thumb settled, then slipped lower. “You know, there are so many things I’ve always wanted to try.” He cupped your chin, stifling a laugh. “With someone who isn’t myself, I mean.”
Disgust tore you through you, curdled and vicious. You brushed him off and scrambled to your feet, stumbling past the engineer and out into the hall. The captain joined her in the doorway, but only watched on as you did your best to get away.
~
The weeks following your conversation passed slowly, cold honey through a tight bottleneck.
The assigned date of your designated departure came and meant. It was quickly made clear that you weren’t allowed anywhere near the transport module. Someone, usually the geologist, always seemed to be posted outside, just waiting for you to try your luck again. For the first few days, the engineer also followed you in-person, but that wasn’t a permanent feature. You couldn’t get into much trouble nearly seven miles below sea level, and whatever project your captor was working on seemed to be an all-hands-on-deck situation. It had something to do with excavation, but how far it fell outside of the vessel’s expected field of research was lost on you. Still, you were thankful they were distracted. It seemed to be enough to know that, no matter how much distance you tried to maintain, you’d always be within arm’s reach.
You spent most of your time hiding. It felt a little childish, honestly. Not very long ago, you would’ve gladly done anything if it meant never feeling alone again, and now you were locking yourself in your bunk, tracking movement patterns on security cameras, pressing your ear to every door before you opened it and praying that there wouldn’t be footsteps or voices on the other side. Your contract was only for half a year, but you had enough food and fresh water to last five times that, meaning that entertainment was going to be more of an issue than survival. You ransacked the others’ rooms, stealing books and card decks and gaming consoles, anything that might help pass the time. And, at night, when the isolation was almost too much to bear, you fled to the atrium.
It was a large, open space on the vessel’s uppermost floor, which was otherwise reserved for vehicle bays and tool storage. The ceiling was high, domed, and entirely transparent, and even before something took over your crewmates and everything went to shit, you liked to lie in the center of the room and watch the dark water ebb and flow. Now, you tried to keep your visits brief, to leave before anyone had the chance to join you. You’d only slipped up once. A swarm of bioluminescent jellyfish was passing over your vessel in the small hours of the morning, and you must’ve lost track of time. A storm of gold and crimson lights was still gently bobbing past when he joined you.
They were all limbs of the same creature, but the captain seemed to be the designated face. He settled next to you, legs crossed and head bowed. You stiffened, got ready to bolt, but he only laughed, waving off your skittishness. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
You swallowed. “…should I not be?”
The way you said it, muted and questioning, must’ve given away your paranoia. The captain shook his head. “There’s no need to worry. If I wanted to keep you on a shorter leash, I could.”
Great. Perfect, actually. He thought he was being nice.
“I have something for you.” He never looked away, but the sound of clipped footsteps drew your attention to the doorway. The biologist, uncanny smile plastered over his face and a small, silver tray in his hands. “A gift. To celebrate our three-month anniversary.”
The biologist stopped in front of you, and you recognized what you’d desperately been trying not to. A perfectly round, perfectly generic cupcake, the icing only a little smudged. Your stomach dropped. Perishable food was hard to get down here, even harder to keep fresh. There was one for every member of the crew, and they were supposed to be saved for birthdays – a little piece of home to keep you all sane, in theory. Anyone taking more than their share would mean there wasn’t enough to go around, which meant someone would be angry, which meant someone would be angry with you and—
And you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look at the biologist’s grinning face.
You guessed you didn’t need to worry about that, anymore.
Still, the idea of choking down freeze-dried cake was enough to make your stomach turn over. “I’m sorry, I—” You pushed yourself to your feet quickly enough to make your head spin. The captain followed you up, catching your arm when your balance threatened to give out. “I really can’t do this, right now.”
“Of course. You must be tired.” The biologist was already leaving. “Let me walk you back to your room.”
It wasn’t a question, but you shook your head regardless. “I’m alright, just a little—”
“I insist.” His hand slipped from your arm to your upper back. “Unless you’d prefer the captain’s quarters?”
“No.” Bile rose into the back of your throat. The repulsion was instinctual, the rejection reflexive. “Please, no.”
“How you break my heart, love.”
This time, his hand slipped down to yours, squeezing gently. You should’ve just taken the fucking cupcake.
“It’s a good thing I have spares.”
~
Four months. That was how long you made it post-invasion, trying to live every moment as if you were under constant observation, ignoring every base human urge that might’ve been at odds with your all-seeing captor. Sixteen weeks. One hundred and twenty days. People had cracked under much more banal forms of torture in much less time.
And, in your defense, you had the foresight to take precautions. An especially busy day that saw all useful members of your crew posted at their stations. An unused wing of the medical bay rather than your own room. An allotted fifteen minutes to do what you could. You figured, failing everything, you could be proud of yourself for giving it your all. Admittedly, you hadn’t spent much time thinking about worst-case scenarios.
This was definitely worst-case.
The pilot stood on the threshold of the medical bay, the door hanging open behind her. Heat flooded your face, your cheeks, and you made a valiant effort to pull your hand out of your pants and wrestle your coveralls back up to your waist – as if that’d do anything to undo the damage. She waited until you were (mostly) redressed and scrambling off of the cot before edging forward, careful to keep her body between you and the door. That was fine. You were too mortified to so much as think about going much of anywhere.
“It’s a—a human thing,” you rushed to explain, as if it made this any better. As if it would get her to stop staring at you like that. “To blow off steam, and kill—”
You tried to step around her. An arm lashed out to stop you, barring any hope of retreat to your left. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. “I’d like to go back to my room. Please.”
The pilot didn’t respond. Her attention flicked downward once before returning to your face and refusing to let go, pinning you under the weight of her wide-eyed gaze. You were stuck there, trapped and immobile, as her free hand found your collar, then drifted south, lean fingers grazing over your collarbones, your midriff. Finally, she dipped below the waistband of your coveralls, dragging her two fingers over the seat of your panties. The material was still disheveled, too flimsy to provide any real sense of comfort. Her thumb caught on your clit and—
“Please,” you gasped, surprising yourself. She didn’t seem fazed. “Stop touching me.”
A second passed, then another. When she eventually did draw back, it was with an airy sigh, the smallest quirk of a frown tugging at her lips. “Fine.”
You waited for her to pull away entirely, to lose interest and return to the bridge with the rest of the crew – not totally unlike the previous inhabitant of her body had, on the rare occasion she was forced to speak to you. Instead, her hand curled around your wrist, blunt nails pressing into your skin as she tugged toward the door. You half-expected her to take you a little too literally, to drag you back to your bunk and lock you inside, but she passed the rooming area entirely, taking you down the hall toward the captain’s quarters. Your heart seized up inside your chest, but you tried not to let the panic seep into your voice. “Where are we going?”
“To do different human things.” And then, more cheerfully, “You’ll like it.”
You doubted that, but her pace was steady and her grip was unwavering. It didn’t seem like she planned on giving you another choice.
The engineer was already waiting by the door. She followed you and the pilot in, keeping close in case you tried to bolt. You were given all of a second to take in the massive, king-sized bed before being mercifully pulled in another direction, into the en-suite. The engineer must’ve worked quickly. The shallow tub (an Olympic pool compared to the shoulder-width shower stalls in the communal bathrooms) was already full, steam still rolling off the water’s surface. A body scrub and matching oil sat on the low wall, neither used. You did your best not to wonder who’d brought them.
You looked to the pilot, then the engineer, who both watched expectantly. It took an embarrassingly long moment to realize they were waiting on you. “Oh, I’m supposed to…?”
You nodded to the tub. The pilot’s smile turned sympathetic. “Before the water gets cold, yes.”
The engineer chimed in, “You have taken a bath before, haven’t you?”
“Shut up.” And just like that, more out of spite than anything, you were wriggling out of your uniform. Your clothes formed a wrinkled heap where you let them drop, each layer leaving you that much more exposed, that much more desperate to crawl back inside of something thick and warm and protective. Covering yourself would’ve been an admission of defeat, so you kept your arms stiffly at your sides as you stepped into the tub. The scalding water burnt at your numb skin. You hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until you started to thaw.
Surprisingly, they didn’t join you. The engineer perched herself on the basin’s wall while the pilot leaned against the vanity, taking in the view. You pulled your knees up to your chest, but it was clear you were being overprotective. The engineer only hummed as she cupped the water in her hands and poured over your head, soaking your hair, your face. It reminded you of something else, something sacred. You had to hold your breath, but that part was holy, too.
The engineer’s hands found your shoulders, massaging gently. The words caught in your throat and snagged on your lips, but you spit them out regardless. It would’ve been more painful to let the silence sit. “Is this your idea of what humans do? Or did you just want to embarrass me?”
“Partially,” the pilot answered. You chose not to wonder which question she was responding to. “My other reasons are much less selfish.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s a little silly.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought she sounded shy. “I wanted to see what it was like to take care of something else.”
Oh.
You sank that much deeper. The engineer’s hands followed you down, never leaving your skin for a moment.
You’d never noticed how cold she felt, before.
~
“I really didn’t mean to.”
The biologist hummed. He was sitting at your feet, leaning against the wall next to your cubby of a bed. He’d brought tea, the mugs mismatched and the contents still hot enough to steam. You were determined to let yours go cold, and he seemed happy enough to run his thumb over the ceramic rim, soaking in the warmth as it seeped out.
“You did an awfully thorough job.”
“I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, sucking in a deep breath and pressing your cheek into your stiff pillow. Behind you, the geologist shifted, slotting his chest against your back and draping an arm over your waist. Your captor had become increasingly more interested in that type of thing, recently – touchy, sentimental, human. You would’ve liked to say that they wore you down, but honestly, you hadn’t put up much of a fight to begin with. “It was self-defense.”
“You didn’t call the police.”
“I was going to, but there was so much blood, and—and then they were already outside, banging on the door. Anyone would’ve frozen up.” You let your voice get very, very quiet. “He kept me in that apartment for sixty days. Two months. What was I supposed to do? Go outside and make small talk with the neighbors?”
“And the trial?”
“I wasn’t allowed to talk at the trial, the lawyers—” Again, you cut yourself off. “And you already know this. You’ve been in my head.”
The geologist’s forehead settled against the back of your neck as the biologist spoke. “I like the view better out here.”
“You’re so creepy,” you huffed. “It’s just, if this is hell, or some stupid karmic punishment you’re all in on, then—”
“You don’t think I’m real?” He almost sounded offended.
“I don’t think you deserve to keep me here.” There wasn’t a point in answering. Whatever was happening to you, it was real enough. “I’ve got family waiting for me to come back.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Fine. I have friends. People who are going to miss me.”
The biologist sent you a skeptical glance. You bit down hard on the side of your tongue.
“You can’t keep me here forever.”
The geologist’s hold on you tightened abruptly, crushing your ribs into your lungs before going slack just as quickly. “Not forever,” the biologist mused. “How long do you think the oxygen recyclers will hold out?”
This time, you didn’t bother responding at all. The geologist seemed content to draw you that much closer, and the biologist was more than happy to sit at a distance and watch.
~
You found the captain on the bridge, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the glass wall. The room was dim, the overheads switched off in favor of the softened blue of the emergency lights. No one else was there, his spare sets of eyes scattered to different parts of the vessel. It looked like he’d been waiting for you.
The jellyfish were passing through again, too. The swarm was dense and close, the view all-but completely obscured by bobbing golden lights, casting the bridge in a ruddy bronze. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought you were on another planet.
…you did know better, and the thought still lingered longer than it should’ve.
You sat down next to him, legs bent in front of you. It was uncomfortable, but that didn’t matter. You doubted you’d be staying in this position for very long.
“If I—” The words burnt like acid on your tongue. You rushed to find a less corrosive replacement. “If I do what you want me to, I can leave, right?”
“I don’t remember saying that.” His voice was lilting, tone playful.
“Then say it now.” You huddled into yourself. “I need to get out of here, and this is the only time I’m going to ask nicely.”
“I don’t seem to recall you ever being particularly nice, either.”
Something shifted out of place deep in your chest. You moved to stand, but he laid a hand over yours, laughing. “Sorry, sorry. I should know better. I know what it’s like to be trapped somewhere very, very small for a very, very long time.” He lowered his voice. “Let me have this. You’ll get what you want out of it, too.”
“Just this once?”
“Just this once. Then, I’ll take you back to the surface.”
You didn’t want to. No part of you wanted to give anything to the monster that’d held you captive for over a year, but you needed fresh air in your lungs. You needed to see another person, someone who didn’t look at you like something to cut open and dissect.
This didn’t seem like a lot to give up, in comparison.
You nodded, and his hands were on your hips immediately. He hauled you into his lap, and then you were straddling him, your legs clumsily thrown around his waist and your chest pressed into his. There was no pretense of reluctance, just his mouth on your neck and his fingers working at the buttons of your uniform, haphazardly pulling and dragging until fabric slackened and you felt cold air wash over newly exposed skin. This close, he should’ve been enough to warm you up, but even that small comfort rang hollow. His body was malleable stone against yours – willing to give, but so undeniably lifeless below the surface.
A calloused hand cupped your breast, groping harshly. A pained hiss slipped through your grit teeth, and his head tilted back, wide eyes meeting yours. “Can I kiss you?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
“Of course.” His smile had turned simpering. “I would cherish any reaction you showed me.”
That didn’t mean he would listen, though.
His lips were chapped and tender against yours. There was nothing romantic about the way he kissed you, just a heady sort of affection and a curiosity that made him lap over your tongue and push into the hollow of your cheeks like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. At the same time, his thumb swiped over your nipple, fingertips biting into the plush flesh of your chest. It was almost a relief when he moved on, his touch skirting over your midriff, your navel, your stomach before settling just above the waistband of your panties. You wished you hadn’t worn them at all, in hindsight. Anything to save yourself the stabbing agony of realizing he would have to take them off of you.
Not that he seemed to be in a rush to. The pad of his thumb dragged over your clothed slit, mapping the terrain, before pulling back and pressing into your clit. His mouth fell to your throat, sucking harsh bruises into your skin as he traced mindless patterns into the most sensitive part of you. It was humiliating – how quickly your deprived boy gave in to the first hint of stimulation you’d gotten in the better part of a year. You could feel yourself getting hotter, getting wetter, the seat of your panties soon uncomfortably damp. You felt the captain’s grin against your jugular and clenched your eyes shut.
His touch was sickeningly exploratory. Your panties were pulled to the side, two thick fingers eased inside of you. Even that was too much of a stretch after surviving so long on nothing at all. You buried your face in his chest as he rocked his palm against your cunt, doing your best to keep your teeth planted in the flesh of your cheek, your nails burrowed into the back of his neck. It was unfair – he was still dressed while you were being split in half. He was going to get what he wanted and you’d be the one to suffer for it.
A third finger, added while the heel of his palm ground against your clit. You jerked forward, a strangled moan escaping before you had a chance to swallow it down, and the captain cooed in sympathy. “That’s it, love.” He pressed a kiss into your temple. “I’m only trying to make what comes next a little easier.”
“I—” He curled his fingers and you sucked in a shallow breath. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes, you do.”
God, you hated him.
“No, you don’t.” There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your mouth. You were beyond caring where he touched you, how he touched you. Minutes too soon, you could feel a steady pulse playing in the pit of your stomach, a tightness in your chest that wasn’t entirely due to burning hatred. You felt his tongue against the side of your neck, following the curve of your throat once, then twice before biting down – teeth sinking into skin too fluidly, too easily. It took you a second to decide why it felt so unnatural beyond the initial shock, but not much longer.
He hadn’t hesitated. Not the way he should have, when he knew what he was doing to you might hurt. Not the way anything human would have.
He stayed there, latched onto you and sucking gently, as what was left of your self-control eroded and fell away entirely. Your hips bucked against his hand, the movement jolting and involuntary, and then you were moving on your own, working to fuck his fingers that much deeper, to make up for that many more days of your third and final stay in prolonged captivity. When he raised his head, it was only to chuckle, to nuzzle against you, to pay more attention to the angle of his wrist, to how exactly he nudged you closer and closer and closer to the ledge. “So beautiful,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear for his voice to echo in your mind. “I could keep you like this forever.”
You made a mewling, pained noise, cut off abruptly as your body went rigid against his. He led you through the worst of it, pace slowing as he drew out every little clench and tremor, but his patience was clearly thin and his attention clearly elsewhere. You felt him shift underneath you, and then your body was being lowered to the floor by too many pairs of hands. You didn’t realize that you’d shut your eyes until you had to force them open, until you saw the pilot’s smiling face above you, her unblinking stare fixed on your face.
Dread and embarrassment and panic flared in your chest, driving spikes into your heart, your lungs, your throat. “I don’t want other people to—”
“They won’t.” His hands were already pulling at your uniform, dragging it off. Your panties were stripped away just as quickly, just as heartlessly. You tried to grab for his wrists, but the pilot was faster, catching yours instead and drawing them above your head. “It’s just us. It’s only ever been us.”
But it wasn’t, not really, not in the way that matters. You could see the others in your peripheral, made shadowed and faceless by your refusal to look closer. It was almost a mercy when the pilot ducked, lowering her head to your chest and latching onto your breast, reminding you that there were worse things in the world than unwanted voyeurs – worse things you were currently experiencing, in fact. The captain’s hands found your sides, then your hips, pinning you to the floor as he settled between your legs. You whimpered, sobbed, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sounds of rustling fabric and hitched breathes, to distract you from the feeling of something hot and blunt pressing into you pussy.
He hesitated there – the pilot, too, her tongue going still where it was lapping over your nipple. “I love you,” he said, nearly under his breath. “And I wish this wasn’t the only way to make you understand that without getting rid of the you.”
You didn’t know what he was talking about. You didn’t have time to figure it out, either.
He was already inside of you.
Big. He was too fucking big. For the first time, you genuinely resented – sincerely, deeply, searingly resented – that the captain had been chosen as the dominant mouthpiece, rather than one of your much more moderately sized crewmates. It felt like you were being torn open from the inside out, his thick cock splitting your cunt in half, jagged veins and liquid heat arousal only making it more overwhelming. Your legs snapped closed around his waist, hips bucking against his hold, but the captain didn’t seem to notice. He buckled, head falling low as he caught himself with a palm planted next to your head. The pilot moaned against your skin.
Long, agonizing moments passed before he started to move. You became terrifyingly aware there was still more of him that he was trying to ease into you. His thrusts were short and slow, every inch another way to make you squirm and clench. You weren’t in control of your body, anymore. If you cried, if you struggled, if you went limp – that wasn’t your fault. You were only doing what you had to.
Finally, finally, you felt him bottom out, his hips pressing into yours. There was an airy grunt, another less dignified noise, and then he fell into a steady pattern of grinding down and pulling back and thrusting in with enough strength to force the air out of your lungs, to make your back arch off of the unforgiving cement. Your hands grabbed for his shoulders instinctively, and he let you, falling that much closer. The pilot retreated, but only far enough to pull your head into her lap. Touching wasn’t the priority. She and the others were just there to observe.
His cock twitched inside of you. There was no cursing, no unconscious reactions, but his hold on you tightened and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath cold and wrong against your skin. “I’m sorry, I don’t—” A rough groan, a stilted thrust. “I don’t want to, but—”
He didn’t have a chance to finish. It was already happening.
It wasn’t like the first time. That day, it’d been deliberate, a calculated plunge into the middle of a very large, very cold body of water. This time, his influence came in fragments, pulling you into the river but giving your mind a chance to cling to the shore. You could feel the ground against your back as you blinked through a hundred million sets of eyes, and you were aware of the pressure in your core as that pulsing, heartbeat choir overwhelmed anything else you might’ve heard. There was water in your lungs, but at least you still knew which lungs were yours.
Your orgasm came in waves, flooding in from multiple perspectives. There was your pleasure, strained and confused, and then his, tender and so loving and filling you to the brim. That was enough to bring you back to yourself, although there wasn’t anything you could do to mitigate the damage. His hips were pressed flush against yours, his hands clamped tight enough around you to bruise, excess cum dripping down your thighs, the curve of your ass. You couldn’t be sure how long you stayed like that – a second, a minute, an hour. It didn’t matter. It was all an eternity to you.
Eventually, he seemed to catch himself, straightening with a slight laugh. “How embarrassing. I—” He cut himself off, smiling. “Next time. I’ll be more considerate, next time.”
Your only response was a low, disgruntled whine. Sympathy softened the corners of his expression. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”
“And then—”Your voice gave out immediately, dissolving into a coughing fit. The pilot rubbed the back of your neck. “Then the surface, right?”
“Of course, love.” The words might’ve been more comforting if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at you. “And then, the surface.”
~
Half an hour later, you found yourself slumped against the captain’s side in the transport module, still not quite able to rely on your own legs. Both the elevator walls and its shaft were entirely made out of glass, but even as you ascended out of the abyssal darkness, through the brightening twilight and back into the more hospitable sunlight zones, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to enjoy the view. A few stray jellyfish from the previous swarm were still bobbing diligently toward the surface. You tried half-heartedly to name the species, but nothing came to mind. You’d had a tense conversation with the captain (the real captain) early on about deep-sea life, but he didn’t seem to think you’d run into anything more interesting than—
You straightened abruptly. The captain hummed, holding that much tighter. “Is something wrong?”
“There aren’t supposed to be jellyfish this deep. Not in a group this size.”
“So there aren’t.”
You hesitated, then tried another angle. “Whatever you’re doing down there, is it—”
“The work will carry on, but the worst of it is over.” He squeezed your side. “You’ll understand, soon.”
Neither of you spoke for the rest of the ascent. There was a brief depressurization, and then the doors opened into the sterile, chromatic control bay you only vaguely remembered from the day you were sent down. You let go of the captain, rushing forward. You were going to get out of here. You were going to breathe fresh air and feel the sunlight and talk to someone else, anyone else. You were going to kiss the first person you saw. You were going to—
“But, it can’t be—”
You made it one glorious, euphoric step outside of the module, then came to a stuttering halt. A half-ring of strangers stood perfectly still in front of you, a mix of scientists and engineers and operators you wouldn’t know if you recognized. Any familiar traits, any human spark – all of it was made alien by identical, calculated smiles and those unblinking, unfeeling, unthinking eyes. You were tempted to rush to the closest window, to hope beyond hope that this hadn't spread any farther than the facility, but you smothered the urge quickly. You already knew what you were going to find.
The captain stepped behind you. “You can go on running, if you’d like,” he said, resting a hand on your shoulder. “I shouldn’t have problem catching up.”
“It is.” He laughed, the noise bright and giddy. For once, it sounded natural.
summary: The raw amber goo that the butterflies eat looks really good, doesn't it? Vigilante sure thinks so.
cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, sex pollen, the aliens made them do it, goff the voyeur, exhibitionism, voyeurism, manipulated by a bug, vigilante eats everything he sees, reader would jump off a bridge if everyone else did, dirty talk, couch sex, rough sex, and then gentle sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, glove kink, mild praise kink, pain kink, biting, scratching, masochist adrian, soft!dom adrian, adrian busting it way too quickly, face reveal, marvel references because, canon divergence- I have no idea what timeline this is
a/n: goff watched all that. f in the chat
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
A warm breeze sighs through the trees as you stare up at Peacemaker’s, uh, house? It’s a mobile home, at least, but it’s painted in such a gaudy stars and stripes way that it makes your toes curl just looking at it. Stepping up to the place, you have to weave around multiple little garden ornaments that are weather-beaten and moss covered to various degrees.
You couldn’t get ahold of Peacemaker, but you still have to retrieve the dossier on Senator Goff from him before he can get into any more trouble with it. Knowing him, the guy probably smoked a joint and is laying passed out on his bed right now. You don’t really care, as long as you can get back to Project Butterfly HQ without a fuss.
You rap on the door twice, turning to look over your shoulder at the kids across the cul-de-sac riding their bikes. You don’t hear anything behind the door, and it occurs to you that maybe he isn’t home, and you briefly chide yourself for not checking the tracking in his head to find out where he actually is. But then, a second later, you hear a shuffling and then the bright red door pops open to reveal… not Peacemaker.
“Vigilante?”
You squint up at the red visor on the masked man in front of you, just barely able to pick out two eyes staring back at you. Admittedly, you only know Vigilante superficially at best; you couldn’t tell anyone his name, and even less what he looks like under the mask (just that he has a nice ass). You’ve barely even had a full conversation with him thus far, even though you’ve often caught yourself checking him out from across the room. He strikes you as a little too unhinged to be approachable, and he tends to linger around Peacemaker more than anyone else.
“Yeah, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” His voice is way too bubbly and chipper for that sarcastic of a statement, but you don’t think he really absorbs how snotty the line is supposed to be. His head dips as he pointedly looks you up and down, and then his head snaps up in the direction of the kids across the way. “Oh, fuck- come in, quick.”
“I take it you’re not really supposed to be here. Where’s Chris?” you grumble as you step into the messy house. It’s apparent that someone has been trying to clean it, but whoever it is hasn’t gotten very far.
Almost as if he reads your mind, Vigilante picks up a trash bag and sweeps his arm along a line of empty potato chip bags and water bottles on the kitchen counter, knocking them all into the bag. “Well, uh. ‘Supposed to’ is kind of a choice of words. Peacemaker had to go do some shit at his dad’s house, but didn't say when he’d be back. It seemed like a while, though, he told me to stick around and watch Eagly and Goff.”
You stop dead, staring at his broad-shouldered form over the kitchen counter. “Goff?”
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, and then sort of turns on his heels to shoot a look over his shoulder at you. “Uh… Goff? What Goff? I don’t know a Goff-” You fix him with a dead eyed stare that makes him falter, his hands fisting in the plastic bag in his hands. You could swear he looks almost meek when he blurts, “We sort of kept Goff sorry.”
“Motherfucker, I will bury you- what do you mean, ‘you guys kept Goff?’”
“W-well,” he tilts his head back toward the ceiling, his posture so rail-straight that you know he’s completely tense. “I didn’t, it was Peacemaker. I just kinda helped him wrestle it into the jar-”
“Jar? What the fuck is going on, man?”
You can see him blink at you in stunned silence from under the visor. Then he sighs and, tossing the trash bag onto the floor, reaches under the kitchen counter and pulls out a pickle jar with a perforated lid.
“Holy shit,” you breathe, inching closer to squint at the thing in the jar. It looks like a cross between a moth and a mosquito, overly large for a normal insect and bright turquoise. It blinks at you with glassy black eyes. “That’s Goff?”
“Well, it’s… it’s the thing that came out of the dude’s head when Peacemaker blew his brains out.” Vigilante shrugs, tilting his head as he stares down at the jar. “I dunno, I think it’s kinda cute in a weird praying mantis type of way. Y’know, I used to keep mantises as a kid, whenever I found them. I thought they were cool as hell. Did you know they’ll eat anything smaller than them? And the females sometimes eat the males after sex. I mean, talk about a way to go, right?”
You glance up at him during his impromptu National Geographic lecture. “Aren’t praying mantises protected? I don’t think you’re supposed to keep them.”
“Hey, Peacemaker has a bald eagle. I don’t see you raising an issue about that.”
You shrug as you draw back from the jar. “I dunno, I feel like you’ve killed people for less.”
“I have, but Eagly loves Peacemaker. Who am I to fuck with the natural order of things? The little guy would be heartbroken.”
“No, I meant- ah, forget it.” You blow a harsh breath out as you straighten your spine. “Have you seen the file Chris has on Goff? I’m only here for that.”
“Bedroom, maybe.” As you trod past him toward the back of the house, he goes back to clearing piles of trash off the counters. A small smile quirks your lips; Vigilante is playing housekeeper while watching Peacemaker’s menagerie. The concept is… well, not really surprising, but just odd. You wouldn’t have imagined it happening, except that now that you see it taking place it makes sense.
“Where’s Eagly?” you call as you walk the length of the hallway and still don’t find the bird anywhere in sight.
“Went for a fly, I dunno. The skylight’s open, so he’ll be back. Hopefully.”
The bedroom isn’t much better than the kitchen, with piles of clothes and empty bottles of every description covering the floor. Thankfully, and as the rest of the team had feared, Peacemaker isn’t very concerned with hiding sensitive documents. The classified file on Senator Goff has been tossed freely onto the bedside table, some of the contents poking out of the corner of it. You sigh and scoop it up, leafing through it briefly to ensure that everything is there before making your way back to the kitchen.
As soon as he hears you coming, Vigilante is right back to talking. “Hey, have you ever seen anything like this? It’s fucking… what’s the word… effervescent?”
You turn your head to find Vigilante dipping two gloved fingers into a mason jar filled with the amber goo that had been found at the Goff residence. The food that the butterflies presumably live off of glistens on his fingertips, vaguely sparkling in the light. You freeze in place as he curiously rubs his fingers together, pulling them apart to have the viscous liquid cling together and create a web across them. In the silence, it makes a soft, wet sound against the textured pads of his gloves.
“Iridescent,” you correct, watching. There’s absolutely no reason why that should look as suggestive as it does, but you find yourself swallowing past an inexplicable dryness in your throat all the same. “Why are you playing with it?”
“I’m not… I mean, I’m just curious.” He shakes his hand roughly, but the goo remains stuck to it. “Y’know, there’s a fine line between scientific research and just dicking around, and the line is writing shit down. Go grab a pen.”
“You are not a scientist,” you object, but you hand him a pen from the cabinet behind you, anyways.
“Don’t be presumptuous, you don’t know shit about me. I could be a biochemist for all you know…” Instead of writing anything down with the pen, he dips the end of it into the jar and swirls it around before pulling it out, covered with the amber fluid and pulling a long string of it out of the jar. “I gotta be honest, it looks like honey. I want to eat it.”
“That is so inadvisable, I don’t even know where to begin.” You shake your head. “If you were a biochemist I promise you would not be talking about eating the suspicious alien substance you stole after killing said aliens.”
“But you gotta admit, it looks fucking delicious,” he continues, gathering all the goo from the pen onto his fingers again. You tear your eyes away just before he starts playing with it again, and stare down at your shoes as he says, “We should totally try it together.”
“We should not.”
“Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“UM, let me think. Hives. Anaphylaxis. Sepsis. Organ failure. Probable death.”
“Damn, you really know how to turn a guy on, huh?” Vigilante gives a crazed little giggle that makes your heart do a flip in your chest. “Anyways, I know you’re probably thinking about it, too.”
“Why’s that?” you ask challengingly.
“Because you haven’t left yet.” He shrugs, and even though you can’t see behind his mask, you can almost guarantee he’s smiling at you. “Unless you’re staying for me, in which case I’d be like, sweet! We should totally go out for drinks. But like, I can’t take off the mask, so… that might not work out so well-”
“Maybe I’m sticking around because you’re talking about eating that, and I won’t be held accountable if I knowingly leave you and you die. If I have to rush you to the hospital, I will.”
“Aw, that’s so nice. I think there’s a romcom that starts that way. Or maybe it was a horror movie? I don’t remember.” He pauses for a moment like he’s thinking. “Oh, hey! I know! We can ask Goff if it’s safe.”
“Goff can’t speak.”
“You have like zero imagination, you know that? Watch this.” Vigilante leans down to look directly into the jar. “Hey, Goff. One tap is yes, two is no. If we eat the honey stuff you eat, will it kill us?”
“This is so stupi-”
Tap tap.
Your face falls, and you blink down at the alien in the jar. “Did it just…?”
“Hey Goff, if we eat it will it make us sick?”
Tap tap.
“Works for me,” Vigilante says in that same chipper manner, and moves to scoop a glob of the stuff into his fingers.
“Hey, wait,” you snap, reaching forward to catch his wrist. “How do you know that thing is even trustworthy?”
“I dunno. He has honest eyes.”
“What, the creepily sentient insectoid ones? Yeah. Super trustworthy.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, didn’t it try to kill you before?”
Vigilante stares at you- or, you think he does. With the mask blocking out all his facial features, talking to him is kind of like trying to uphold a conversation with a mannequin at the GAP.
“You’re sounding kinda prejudiced towards aliens right now.”
“Dude!”
“What? He can’t help it if his eyes are insectoid. He’s a butterfly.” He shrugs again, and this time he tilts his head to the side, reminiscent of a confused puppy. “Besides, what would be the advantage of killing us? He’s literally trapped in a jar and we’re the only ones who can get him out. Also, I’ve never been able to stay away from sparkly gold things. Like, I remember I had this one shiny gold book about Egypt as a kid-”
“The Egyptology book?”
“Yeah, that one! You had it?”
“Yeah, I had it. It was fucking awesome.” You stare down at his hand, his two fingers extended toward you, covered in sticky gold syrup. “Fucking… fine. I don’t like it, but I won’t stop you if you insist on shoving random things in your mouth.”
“It’s not a random thing, Goff said it’s fine.” He says it with such conviction, but he still hesitates when you let go of his wrist. There’s a pause, and then, “You sure you don’t want to lick it off my fingers?”
Your face heats up, and you clench your jaw as you look away. Is it bad that you’re almost tempted to? “Nice try. You’re on your own, buddy.”
Vigilante sighs and leans back, looking down at his fingers. “So… how am I gonna…? Can you, like, turn around or something?”
“Why do I need to turn around?”
“This mask doesn’t have a mouth hole, dude.”
“It’s elastic, right? Just pull it up a little bit, don’t be shy. It’s like a strip tease.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “That’s… the weirdest way you could have put that. Are you trying to Spider-Man kiss me right now?”
You squint at him. “Am I what?”
“You know. In the Spider-Man movie with Tobey Mc-whatshisface and Kirsten Dunst, when she pulls down his mask so she can kiss him upside down?”
“I’m not trying to Spider-Man kiss you, man. Now just do it if you’re gonna do it so I can figure out whether or not I need to call an EMT.”
“Okay! Geez!” He hooks his thumb under the bottom edge of his mask, yanking it sharply outwards to tent the fabric around his jaw. You only catch a glimpse of his throat before he shoves his fingers under the fabric and, presumably, into his mouth.
He makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, and it sends you into immediate panic mode.
“Oh, fuck, is it okay?” He mutely shakes his head. “Is it bad? Gasoline? Motor oil? Sewage? Can you fucking breathe? Dude, talk to me!”
He pulls his fingers slowly out from under the mask, and they still glisten with a certain amount of the syrup on them. “No, it’s… it’s way better than okay, it’s like… like milk and honey? With apricots? It’s like the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life-”
You snatch his hand and lift it to your mouth so that you can wrap your lips around his fingers. He stills, his mask snapping back into place over his jaw as he lowers his hand to brace himself on the counter. You can feel his eyes trained on you, but you’re not really paying attention to him anymore.
You’re focusing on the absolute burst of flavor on your tongue. You know what he means by never having tasted anything like it. It’s composed of the most incongruent, fantastic flavors melded together, but somehow they work; chocolate and orange, kiwi, strawberry. You do taste the creamy bit of milk and honey on the back of your tongue, but it’s like each flavor changes from taste bud to taste bud. Like, somehow, your brain doesn’t know exactly how to process what it’s tasting.
You succeed in cleaning off his gloves, until the Willy Wonka bullshit dissolves into the flavor of leather and gunmetal. And Vigilante lets you- granted, he’s standing rigid and staring at you, probably like you’re just as insane as he is, but he doesn’t try to pull his hand away from you. You might imagine it, but you think his forefinger twitches against your tongue like he means to shove them further into your mouth, but he doesn’t.
He lets you pull his fingers from your mouth, and his grip on your hand lingers for half a second. Quietly, he begins, “Do you want to…?”
“Get a spoon?”
“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I was gonna say.”
“What’s your biggest fear?”
Vigilante passes you the jar as he snaps the edge of his mask back against his neck. “This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had on a first date.”
You feel like your blood is boiling beneath your skin, but you’re trying your best not to show it. Your eyes track every little glimpse of his skin you can get like you’re ravenous for it- every time he pulls the mask away from his jaw to stick the spoon under it, your eyes are on his throat. You swear you caught sight of his jaw at one point, and you nearly fell out of your seat over it.
You run a shaking hand over the back of your neck, finding it a little bit damp with perspiration. You’re not hot, you’re just way too worked up. It doesn’t help that you’ve always had a thing for guys in gloves and masks. God, you sound like you’re begging to be mugged.
If you were being mugged, Vigilante could save you. And then fuck you up against the wa-
“This is not a date, man, I’m just trying to talk about something other than Meet the Robinsons with you.”
“It’s a cinematic masterpiece!”
“So you keep saying.” You sink back against the arm of the couch, propping your feet into Vigilante’s lap as he turns to face you. “How many dates have you been on if this is the weirdest it’s gotten?”
“I’ve been on, like, two actual legitimate dates,” he sighs with his face pointed towards the ceiling. “And they didn’t really end well. One girl didn’t have any idea where she wanted to go so I took her to an ice cream shop, and she failed to mention she was lactose intolerant so she puked on my shoes. And then the other person I was really into, but they took me to a rave and then disappeared in the crowd and ghosted me. So that’s why I don’t date.”
“Cool. So, what’s your biggest fear?”
“Man, you’re really not gonna let this go, are you? I was just being honest with my feelings, a little sympathy would be super nice.”
“Sorry. Poor baby, I would never eat ice cream and then puke on your shoes. I’m built different.” You give him a noncommittal hum as you pop a spoonful of the alien honey into your mouth. You stifle an obnoxious moan that threatens to bubble up out of your throat, despite the fact that you’ve been passing the jar back and forth with him for nearly thirty minutes now. Every time it hits your tongue it’s entirely different, gliding sweet and almost hot down your throat like whisky. “Now tell me your fear and I’ll tell you mine.”
He bends his knee, sort of spreading his legs to accommodate yours as he leans back against the armrest across from you. You notice that he tends to lounge like a king from a medieval painting, and it’s absurd how everything between your legs draws up tight and aching at the sight of it. “Uhhhhh… radiation poisoning.”
“Are you fucking serious? That’s it?”
“What? Do you know how many times I’ve had literal nightmares about all that shit that happened in Central City with S.T.A.R. Labs? It’s scary.” He shifts, and his leg bounces up against yours, knocking your legs apart in the process. It takes everything in you not to snap your legs shut as he continues, “Anyways, I can’t imagine a big fucking explosion rocking the city and then suddenly waking up with, like, X-Ray vision. Having to see everyone’s boners and skeletons and shit? No way… well, actually, I don’t think I’d mind the boners as much. But I don’t like skeletons. And then if it doesn’t give you mad superpowers, it just melts your skin off. Sounds bonkers.”
A smile curls your lips. “What if the radiation gave you super sex magnet powers? Would you still be scared of it then?”
He shakes his head. “Why… why would it make give me super sex magnet powers? What basis does that have? You think I fuck like a maniac or something?” A pause. “I mean… not. Not saying that I don’t fuck like a maniac, I mean, I get tons of, uhhh. Pussy. And dick. But like, would that even affect my superpower? Theoretically?”
Your face grows hot at his rambling, and you bluster for a moment looking for a reply. “I don’t know, maybe? Why would it give you X-Ray vision?”
“Because I have… because the visor…” he gives you a perturbed sigh. “Doesn’t matter. You promised you’d tell me your fear.”
“Mm. Rejection.” The metal spoon clinks against the glass rim of the jar as you hand it back to him.
“Who the fuck would reject you?” He even has the decency to sound genuinely confused, bless him.
You scoff. “Plenty of people, believe it or not. Turns out that if it happens enough, you can develop a fear of it.”
“That makes no sense,” he begins, and you open your mouth to start waxing on about the psychology of traumatic reactions, but he cuts you off before you can get a word in. “You’re gorgeous, like I swear I can’t stop staring at you no matter what I do. And you’re smart, and funny, and you stopped what you were doing to make sure I wasn’t going to die if I ate this stuff, even though you don’t even really know me, which is probably more than even Peacemaker would do and he’s my best friend.” His voice drops in volume as he concludes, “You’re just… good. You’re so good. And I like that about you.”
“You’re good too, you know.” Your eyelashes flutter as you take him in, staring down at the jar as he swirls the spoon around, seemingly lost in thought. “And I can’t stop staring at you, either.”
The leg that he has braced with his foot flat on the floor bounces twice, and then stops when he realizes he’s bouncing your leg as well. Then it bounces again, and then stops. Christ, is he having a panic attack?
Are you, would be the better question. Your heart might just jump out of your chest and into his lap for how hard it’s beating against your ribcage. Your hands are starting to shake, and you clamp a hand against the back of the couch to try to steady it. It also acts as leverage for you to press yourself back into your seat, because the need stirring around in your core like a cement mixer has you wanting to crawl forward and grind on his lap.
Which, you know, might be a bad idea, considering.
You need to calm down. Think of something other than him, and how good it would feel to have him bouncing his leg between your thighs.
No, fuck. Concentrate. Cool off.
A wave of heat rushes down your arms and up the back of your neck, and you jump to start unzipping your jacket.
“Huuhhh oh my god? Wh- what are you…?” Vigilante rears back against the armrest like he’s rankled just by the sight of your arms.
“It’s just fucking blazing in here. Aren’t you hot?” You say to save face as you tug your jacket out from behind you and toss it to the ground.
“Oh… oh, yeah.” He thrusts the jar at you without having really touched it, and moves to shirk off the straps of his machete holster, and then the chest plate of his armor. It’s nearly half-performance, half-genuine struggle as he removes an obscene amount of weapons from compartments you hadn’t even noticed before, one shoulder pad and then two, and then, finally, he unlatches the thing across his chest.
You realize then how fucking easy he has it, keeping his face hidden from view. You’re staring, and it’s so painfully obvious that you are when your mouth drops open just a bit as his black undershirt is revealed, skin-tight and nearly pasted to his body with sweat.
You actually draw your legs back, knees toward your chest as he tosses the chest plate down on top of your jacket, and then starts undoing his arm plates. He fumbles with buckles and hooks, looking quite consumed by the act in itself.
“You need help?” You ask, your voice coming out smaller than you’d like it to.
“Nah, I got it. I do this all the time.” One plate hits the floor, and then two. And then the motherfucker rolls his sleeves up, and you can feel your cunt pulse between your thighs as your eyes trace up the line of his forearms.
Holy fuck.
You sit completely still across from each other, surrounded by a tension so palpable that you could cut a knife with it. You shift your hips once on accident, and then a second time on purpose, grinding hard down into the couch cushion and trying to stave off the aching need boiling in your gut and running hot through your veins at the sight of him.
Then, Vigilante reaches behind him and pulls a purple velvet pillow out of the corner by his hip, and places it directly over his crotch in the most non-subtle way he possibly can. You don’t think he’s looking at you, his head is tilted a little too far down, but he kind of clutches the pillow like a teddy bear against his navel as he resumes bouncing his leg.
“Dude, are you okay?”
“Huh?” He snaps his head up towards you, and then sucks in a sharp hiss through his teeth like it’s causing him physical pain to look at you. “Yeah… no, yeah I’m totally. Totally fine. One hundred percent. Nothing going on, nope.”
Tap tap.
“Goff! Shut the fuck up!”
A short little chuckle falls from your lips as you turn to look at the jar on the kitchen counter. The butterfly wiggles back on its haunches, watching the two of you like it’s getting ready for a show about to commence.
You blink twice, and then slowly turn your head to Vigilante, who is somehow clutching the pillow tighter against him with his gloved hands, and feel a twinge of white hot need surge up your spine and along the curve of your shoulders. And you look down at the jar of amber goo, glistening so tantalizingly against the glass and on the spoon as you raise it. And you look back at the creepy little alien that’s watching it all happen.
The smile disintegrates from your face as quickly as it formed. “Goff… you said this stuff wouldn’t make us sick. Does it still have side effects?”
Tap.
“Goff, you son of a bitch.” So, that’s what this is. It’s not just your inexplicable desire for him. It’s the raw amber fluid that’s making your mouth flood with saliva each time you glimpse his bare skin. God, you’re so fucking turned on by him already that it’s not even funny, and seeing his arms flex as he shifts his hips and tries to hide the fact that he’s being affected the same way isn’t helping you to calm down.
“I think-” he pants behind his mask, audibly out of breath as he sinks further back against the arm rest, “I think Goff is a f-fucking… pervert. Shouldn’t have trusted him. You were right.”
His head tilts back against the armrest, chest heaving as he softly whimpers up toward the ceiling. A thin strip of his throat is revealed in this position, drawing your eye as his hips threaten to lurch forward, and he shoves the pillow even harder against his crotch. He’s nearly fucking up into it at this point, and a jittery sound just this side of a laugh comes barreling out of your throat before you can stop it.
“Hey, no, it’s… you’re fine,” you breathe, spellbound as you watch him struggle to keep still. Maybe you could use a pillow of your own to grind on. It would probably help to keep the fucking heartbeat that’s kicked up between your legs at bay. You swallow back the rush of saliva in your mouth and continue, “It’s fine, I’m… I’m in the same boat as you. We’ll get through it together.”
“Together?” Vigilante’s voice cracks, and his head lifts just enough that you know he’s looking at you. God, what you wouldn’t give to be able to see his face right now, and read all the need in his voice written on his expression. The mask just barely moves with the flexing of his jaw, and his hands shake as they dig a death grip into the pillow between his legs.
“Yeah, I’m- I mean- fuck!” The glass slips in your sweaty palms. As you struggle to keep a grip on the jar in your hands, the spoon catches on the front of your tank top and slips out of the glass, smacking fully against the fabric over your cleavage and leaving a glob of fluid to slide gooey and thick in a line down your front. It drips, seeping into the fabric and leaving a wet trail against your skin.
You jump into immediate action, throwing your legs over the edge of the couch and placing the jar on the coffee table. Vigilante tosses his pillow aside just as you stand, straightening your top so that you don’t smear the mess any more than necessary across your front.
It was a good time for an intermission, anyways. Maybe if you get enough air being across the room from him, you can calm yourself down enough to not throw yourself at him the first chance you get. Maybe he can stretch out and get a little bit of rest, instead of nearly back-bending over the arm of the couch like he wants to get away from you.
You mutter a string of curses incoherently under your breath, and then, “God, fucking… of course. Do you want some water, while I’m up?”
Vigilante doesn’t answer. For how chatty he is, he’s particularly good at surprise attacks, like he’s secretly a goddamn ambush predator. He doesn’t even make a noise when he moves, silent as a fucking spider, so you almost yelp when you feel his hands on your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin for half a second, and then he pulls, bringing you down between his spread legs.
You stare directly forward at the window on the wall across from you, swallowing thickly. Here, with your back against his chest and his head so close to yours that they nearly touch, you can hear his labored breathing and how it nearly rattles in his lungs with his effort to keep it steady. You can feel the hard length of his cock against your tailbone when his arm snakes around your waist to press you harder against him, like he’s just replaced his beloved pillow with you. And when he holds you just a bit tighter, his small whimper resounds in your ear and makes your skin prickle.
You aren’t prepared for how shaky and thin his voice is in your ear when he says, “All I want is you, now.”
Your teeth catch on your lower lip, biting down harder than necessary. It takes everything in you not to squirm back against the press of his erection, to hear him whimper in your ear again. Your hand wraps around his forearm across your waist like a vise, everything below it wound up unbearably tight and aching, begging to be satiated. His skin is hot against your hand, nearly burning to the touch, and you can’t imagine how stifling it must feel to be under that mask now.
Your face contorts in desperation, fingers crooking forward and nails digging into his skin enough that he draws a sharp breath in. “I’m- I w-w-ant…”
Your breath catches loudly in your throat, your words hiccupping when his other hand comes up to your chest and, using one gloved finger, he collects the sticky trail of golden syrup, pausing just at the hem of your tank top to wipe it all off of the fabric. And then he lifts his hand, and brings his finger to your mouth.
“We don’t want to waste it,” he says quietly.
You suck on your teeth for half a second. It’s obnoxious how wet you are, how you can feel your arousal saturating your underwear and probably beginning to leak through the thin barrier of your leggings. You’re already fit to burst, sitting between his legs and pretending it’s not exactly where you want to be, alien-induced lust or no. But then you make the executive decision to open your mouth and wrap your lips around his finger, and he fully fucking moans in your ear.
Holy shit. You jam your hips back against his crotch without even trying to hold back. So much for the art of seduction.
A sharp breath hisses through his teeth behind the mask. His hand tightens down on your waist, his forearm squeezing you harder against his chest as he rocks his hips forward so slowly . You know that you’re not doing yourself any favors, but you can’t help it. This time he does press his finger further into your mouth, curling down and physically stroking your tongue as you suck the criminal aphrodisiac off of it.
“You want to… want to handle it together? Yeah?” He whispers, slowly dragging his finger out of your mouth and leaving you panting. “Want me to- to help? God, I won’t do it if you don’t ask-”
You don’t know exactly what he means by ‘help.’ It could be that he’s saying he’ll push you face-first into the couch and fuck you senseless, right here. You’ve seen how unforgiving he can be to people, and he could probably wring you out and leave you wallowing afterwards. To be honest, you don’t really mind if that’s what he has planned. Your judgment is just clouded enough that you’d let him do anything he wanted with your body, as long as he screws this overwhelming need out of your system.
“Yeah, I’m- please.” You hear his breathing stop, and you reach back to place a hand on the side of his head, feeling the contour of his cheek through the slippery fabric of his mask. “Please, I… I want you to.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Vulnerable. He clears his throat, and then his gloved hand is dragging down your chest, fingers fumbling along the band of your leggings and wedging under them. “Yeah, okay. Fuck, okay.”
Once you realize what he’s doing, you know that it’s going to turn you on to no end that the leather of his gloves is so cold and impersonal, making his fingers bulkier and unyielding. To add to that, little ridges are moulded into the pads of them, you presume, to help with grip. What they’re really helping with right now is making you lose all sense of focus, when his finger dips through your slick cunt and drags long and so painfully slow over your swollen clit.
The moan you make is obscene in its volume and has nearly the same intonation as humming a high pitched and long mhmm. Your nails dig in and scratch up his forearm hard enough to leave four long claw marks, raising welts on his pale skin, to which he groans into your ear and presses his finger down just a bit harder for you.
“Fuck. Shit’s got you so wet. Feels good, doesn’t it?” He breathes. You swear you can nearly feel the heat of his breath on your neck as it punches through the fabric of his mask. “Yeah, I bet it does. I bet it tastes even better.”
“You can… you can taste-” you cut yourself off with a whine when drags the length of his gloved finger over your clit again, and your back nearly arches away from his chest. His arm crushes you back against him, keeping you from moving away even an inch.
You feel him shake his head. “Not yet, I wanna help you first. Let me?”
You give him a wordless whine in response, but you think he gets the message. His finger dips down and curves along the slope of your pussy to find your entrance, the leather of his glove slick enough with your wetness to provide only the kind of resistance that makes you crave more. Your head drops back onto his shoulder when he slides in and curls upwards, finding the pad of muscle that lights up with nerves when he presses it.
“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” you groan when he starts moving in a slow, smooth back-and-forth that makes your legs jerk and spasm alongside his. Your hips rock onto his hand to mirror that motion, but all you succeed in doing is grinding back against his erection even more, and his free hand presses down against your stomach to get you to stop.
“Please, I- I know you want more but if you keep doing that I’m gonna come so soon and I don’t want to do that before I’m inside you and I don’t want to be inside you until I kiss you,” he blathers, keeping up the repetitive movement of his finger into your cunt that has your body writhing against him. His mask presses hot and damp along your shoulder, and you realize that it’s his lips you feel tracing your skin through the fabric. You feel them move as he mutters, “I want to kiss you so bad.”
“Then kiss me.” You gasp, your cunt tightening down around his finger. God, it’s so thick with the leather, and you feel like grinding down on it despite his warning. “Kiss me, you fuuuu-cking idiot, don’t wait. I want to kiss you, too. Why are you waiting?”
“The mask, I can’t.”
You impatiently scratch your fingers along his neckline, searching for that bottom edge that he’s been fucking around with for the last hour. Your hips involuntarily rock down against his hand again, and he jams his palm up against your clit to give you a bit more of the friction that you seek.
He gives you a weak sound in the back of his throat when you hook your finger under the edge of his mask and pull, yanking it up to just past the edge of his nose. You hear it when he gasps, uninhibited by fabric, and it’s so fresh and clear, arguably hotter.
He curls his finger sharply, making you jolt against his hand and grab onto his neck for stability, his face bared for your hand. His skin is smooth, his jaw sharp and defined against your palm. “Shit, you’re so- so hot. So fucking-”
“J-just…” A gasp. “Shut up. I’m trying to Spider-Man kiss you.”
You pull at his cheek, turning your head to awkwardly kiss him over your shoulder. His nose bumps yours, his breath hitting your mouth in a heavy, nervous rush. Then he tilts his head just slightly and he’s on you, lips parted and tongue brushing yours.
Oh god, the heat of it could burn you alive if you let it.
He pulls his finger slowly out of you, and you whine into his open mouth with the loss of contact. He shushes you, quick to smother your mouth once again, and his fingertip turns to rubbing gentle circles around your clit.
You make a series of desperate noises, pawing at his face and trying to draw him further into your mouth. Your body shudders against him, hips pushing downward onto his finger like that will make him touch you more.
He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes yours, and you crane your neck to try to find his lips again. His breath hits your mouth, and it tastes nearly as sweet and seductive as the alien syrup was.
“Shit, I-I didn’t think this was how it would happen,” he sighs, his lips just brushing yours as your hips seek friction in his hand.
A long, wordless whine leaves your mouth, and then you wheeze, “You thought about it?”
“All the time. When I see you. When I try to go to sleep. When I jerk off.” His hips grind against the curve of your ass, his soft grunt meeting yours in the air. “I wanted… wanted to- wanted you to see my- ah, fuck it.”
His free hand comes up, and you just barely see him rear back and slip his hand under the edge of the mask, giving it a swift yank. It makes a quiet thunk on the ground with the rest of his discarded armor, but you’re too strung out to pay much attention.
Your hand plunges back into a mess of curly brown hair as he stretches forward to kiss you again. Your eyes meet a flash of green, and your cunt throbs forebodingly against his fingers.
“You h-have-” you suck in a shaky breath, nearly struggling to take in air properly. Exhale… exhale inhale? Inhale?? Ex...exhale… “Green eyes. I love- love-”
You come with a strangled noise, painfully clenching down on nothing as he kisses you, continuing to stroke your clit even though your legs jolt and your heels push and kick against the couch cushion like you’re trying to get away. His free hand presses against your chest, keeping you flush against him- you catch him squeezing at your breast through your thin tank top, but you can’t fault him for it. He’s been so patient, so attentive. More than you’ve been.
“That’s good,” he whispers against your mouth. “Pretty. You’re so pretty.”
You’re out of breath, panting heavily towards his face. “You… you.” You’re not able to form a more coherent sentence just yet, so you sort of pat the side of his head and hope he understands.
He slows his fingers gradually to a full stop, letting it rest dormant against your throbbing clit. His forehead pressed to yours, he lets you take a few cleansing breaths before he says, “Can we…?”
He leaves that open-ended, but you guess that you’re both just taking your cues from the context at this point. You smack your hand down over his and pull it away from your chest so that you can move forward. He whines.
“I’m just trying to take off my clothes,” you tell him plainly, lifting your tank top up over your head. “You could do the same, y’know.”
“You could help.” His hand touches the middle of your back- his bare hand, now.
You freeze, tank top hitting the floor. He took off the gloves. His skin is on yours. Your brain short circuits, a small shiver running up your spine.
You take your sweet time turning around, your hips twisting with the movement. You sling a leg over his, your toe just barely brushing the carpet as you try to maneuver the odd position you’re in. You almost feel like you’re trying not to look directly at his face, like it’s improper to get anything other than an indirect glimpse of brown hair, green eyes, sharp jaw, pale skin.
Your eyes land on his thigh first, tactical pants stretched taut across hard muscle. Then they shift to his bulge- which honestly looks like something painful, at this point, straining ungodly hard against the front of his trousers. You trail your eyes up his torso, over the black shirt that made you nearly lose your mental faculties. You hesitate when you reach the neckline of it, but finally, your curiosity wins over.
You find his face, and you don’t know why you hesitated. You want to stare at his face for the rest of time.
He watches you with a shy, almost nervous expression. His lips are pressed tight into a thin line, his jaw twitching as he clenches and unclenches his jaw. His hair is flattened over his head in matted curls, a bit damp with sweat and hanging across his brow. He blinks, and long eyelashes catch the light.
You take a few swift breaths, steeling yourself to look directly into those round, green eyes. “You know, it’s really fucking criminal that you hide your face, Vigilante.”
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“My name is Adrian,” he admits softly. His eyes fall to where your legs are thrown over his thigh. “Also I wear glasses and you’re kind of sitting on them right now.”
“Oh.”
You awkwardly shuffle back, bracing yourself on your knees between his legs as he reaches down to open a pocket on his thigh and pulls out a pair of aviator glasses. He puts them on, pushing them up to the bridge of his nose before he looks back at you. Or, he makes direct eye contact with your tits.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” You roll your eyes, sitting back on your feet.
“What? You have a really nice rack. I mean, I’ve been able to look at your face this whole time and you’re gorgeous.” He reaches out like he means to grope your chest, but pulls back at the last second. “Like, all of you. Perfect.”
You hum, leaning forward to straddle his legs and push your chest into his outstretched hands. His breath hiccups in his throat, his eyes finding your face when you cradle his cheeks in your hands and tilt his head up toward yours. “I’m gonna get you naked now, Adrian.”
He nods eagerly, his hands squeezing your breasts almost instinctively. “Okay. Okay, yeah, good idea.”
You kiss him once, and then your hands yank his shirt up over his head without any flourishing. He scrambles to catch his glasses before they fall, fumbling to get them back on his face. You reach down to undo his belt, but then you stop, and cast a glance back at his somewhat complicated-looking boots and padding.
“Dude, could your armor be any harder to get off?” you grumble as you scooch back to lift his boot into your lap.
“That’s kind of the fucking point,” he says as he pulls his other leg up to start undoing the other. “I mean, can you imagine if I was fighting someone and my boot just fell off? That’s a safety hazard. Also, this is a nice bonding experience for us.”
“Oh, is it?” You yank the boot after loosening the laces, and it’s still not coming off.
“Yeah, I mean, you’re getting to see how my armor works. I’m getting to have you undress me. Careful, there’s a-”
“OW!”
“-knife in there, sorry.”
You huff a sigh as you pull a long dagger out of the ankle of his boot and toss it down onto the coffee table, then lifting your hand and sucking at the cut on your thumb. “This is like trying to get you out of deep sea diving gear. Look, I just want you to fuck my brains out before I do it myself.” You lose your patience and drop your hands from his boot. “Or I could just sit on your face. You want me to sit on your face?”
He groans as he roughly tugs his boot off, then starts working on the one in your lap. “Christ- You want me to cream my pants? I will, I’m so fucking hard right now. I already almost did when I had my finger in your pussy. Don’t talk to me about it- don’t.”
He throws his second boot so hard that it plops down on the other side of the coffee table. You swallow hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. You scoot back further on the couch, crushing your back up against the arm again to muscle your way out of your leggings. Your legs bump his as he lifts his hips to slide out of his own, and with a graceless snap of elastic, you fling your leggings back against the window behind you. Your bare legs plop down over his, leaving you naked and spread-eagled across from him.
He gets his pants down- fucking finally- kicking them off roughly and discarding them with the rest. You glance at his cock; hard, impressively long, swollen and looking like it desperately needs attention. He surges forward, clambering over you and pushing you back to lay against the couch cushions.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he babbles as he strokes a shaky hand up your thigh, “You’re so hot and I’ve wanted to do this for so long but you’re so soft and I don’t know if I can be gentle right now-”
“So don’t.” You’re just as breathless as he is as his hand finds your face and his thumb traces your bottom lip with a touch of innocence. You part your lips and suck on the end of it, finding his eyes wide and dilated as you pull back. “You think you’re the only one who’s been wanting this? Don’t be nice. If you’re nice, then I won’t be.”
He gulps. “But I don’t want to actually hurt you.”
“Adrian, just wreck my shit. Do it.”
He slips into you in one fluid motion, the stretch your body makes to fit him nearly overwhelming despite how wet you are from your first orgasm. He groans fantastically loud into your shoulder, and just stops. Stops moving, stops breathing, maybe even stops thinking as you shudder and wrap your legs around his hips.
“Adrian-”
“Don’t.”
Your hands find his hair, soft and pliable between your fingers. “Are you going to come already, baby?”
“Don’t- don’t call me that- I don’t want to-” He gasps, his muscles tensing up as he struggles to hold still. He breathes out with a sharp blast of air against your skin. “You’re so perfect you feel so good oh my god oh my god-”
Your face burns. You draw a hand up his spine, fingers dancing along his smooth skin. You didn’t imagine he would be the one unable to hold on. “If you need to, you can. It doesn’t matter, I’m not finished with you yet.”
“I’m not- not usually like this,” he admits in a high, weak voice. His hips instinctively grind into yours, and he reaches the end of you and presses up against something absolutely devastating that has you moaning up toward the ceiling. “It’s the fucking- ah- iridescent… butterfly shit. Fuck butterflies.”
“It’s fucking fffffff-” your eyes nearly roll back in your skull when he fully pulls out and slams back in, jolting you up toward the headrest. The couch creaks, a warm breeze sweeps in through the open skylight, somewhere across the room the voyeuristic alien titters in the confines of its jar, but you don’t care. You feel stifled, like you’re drowning. It’s even harder to breathe when he’s giving something between a sob and a whimper into your shoulder, the rim of his glasses digging into your skin. “It’s fi- huuh. Fine. Oh god.”
You told him not to be nice, so, he’s not. You don’t think he’s being particularly mean, but he’s jackhammering into you so hard that you’re seeing stars at the end of every hard thrust. Your nails scratch down his back, likely leaving more welts like they did to his arm. All at once, your muscles clamp down around him, and he shouts into your shoulder. His hips snap into yours one final time, and his entire body shakes against you. He pauses for a drawn out moment, hovering over you, and then you feel him squeeze your thigh twice.
You take a steadying breath, hardly able to think past the ache in your core, halfway to orgasm and just sitting idle on that plateau. “Did you just…?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it enough?”
“Absolutely fucking not.” He pulls back to look at you, and confusion is written all over his expression, along with something that looks close to concern. “I’m still… still…?”
He’s still hard. You can feel it, pulsing within you, hard and thick like you’re still just getting started.
“What the fuck is in that stuff?” He casts his eyes gravely toward the jar on the table, like he has a bone to pick with it.
“I’m gonna take a guess and say something not from Earth.” You reach up to tilt his face back toward you. His eyelashes flutter, and he sucks in a ragged breath when you whisper, “Keep going, baby.”
He draws out slowly this time, and eases carefully back in like he wants to treat you gently now. His eyes stay fixed to yours, his nose nearly brushing against your own as he rocks his hips, moving in small circles that make your toes curl and your hips buck up toward his impatiently.
“Don’t go slow,” you whine, arching your back when he moves smoothly into you, all the way to the end and back, “Why are you… don’t be gentle, I-”
“No, I read somewhere that most of sex is mental, like it’s the teasing that turns you on the most,” he says clinically, continuing to move within you. A short puff of air meets your lips, and then he adds, “Plus, if you asked me not to be nice wouldn’t it make sense that I do the opposite of that? It’s like a double negative.”
“Adrian, shut up. Please, shut up.” You thump your hand down on his shoulder blade, trying to buck your hips up into his again and ultimately failing.
“No, because it’s hot when you lose your patience with me like that.” Your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, and his face is close enough to yours that the lenses of his glasses fog up. He reaches up a shaking hand to tug them off, and they clatter to the floor with the rest of his clothes. “It’s also cute when you try to hurt me. I get stabbed regularly. Turns me on when you do it, though. You should try to stab me sometime, it would be fun.”
He speeds up for just a second, just enough that you moan and grab onto him, but ultimately slows back down to that languid pace that keeps pleasure winding up tight in your core.
“I h-hate you,” you stutter out, weaving your fingers through his hair just to yank on it. He hisses through his teeth, and after another sharp tug you feel his hand grab yours and pin it against the armrest above your head. “I hate you.”
“Really? But you’re so wet for me right now,” he mutters with that chipper, happy note to his voice that’s just shy of infuriating. “Mm, and tight. God, I love your pussy.”
Your free hand grips his shoulder so hard that you know you leave crescent moon shaped dents in his skin. He lets out a groan, a soft sound vibrating from the back of his throat, and you just barely process it before he kisses you, giving you one hard thrust to make you squeak against his lips.
He bites down on your lip as he pulls back. You feel his hand skimming your hip, your stomach, reaching down between your bodies. “You think if I rub your clit again I’ll make you come quicker? I think you’ll last ten seconds.”
You snap your eyes open and hiss a warning, “Adrian…”
“Hm. I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Adri-”
His thumb touches your clit, and a loud moan punches out of your lungs, your head rolling back and legs spasming on either side of his hips. It feels so fucking good, too good, and you can barely comprehend him releasing your arm above your head and bringing it down to hook around the back of his neck.
You come with another loud cry of his name. It pours over you in waves, burning brighter than the sun and making your body jolt up against his. Your hands scramble for a hold on him anywhere they can get, one finding the curve of his lower back and giving it a weak push, urging him deeper into your spasming cunt.
He fucks into you harder, making you sob into the open air as the pleasure turns raw and sharp, a cutting edge on a cathartic kind of pain. And then he heaves a heavy breath, and his teeth sink into your shoulder as he groans and stills his hips, a flood of warmth leaving you full and wetness leaking from you onto the cushion below.
His teeth leave your shoulder once he stops moaning, a warm cloud of breath making the sore skin there tingle. He kisses the marks he left, and then he fully slumps down on top of you, his sweaty skin sticking to yours.
You lay still, your hand still pressed into the dip of his lower back. You take a sharp breath through your nose. He smells so… distinct. Like fennel and pinewood and maybe a little bit of sea salt. Vigilante.
You just fucked Vigilante.
You blink up toward the ceiling. You just fucked Vigilante… on Peacemaker’s couch.
Again, he seems to read your mind. His voice cracks in your ear when he whimpers, “Peacemaker’s gonna fucking kill me.”
“Us. He’ll have to go through me first.” You playfully squeeze his ass, and he shivers as he pulls back to look at you with an obvious fucked-out haze in his eyes. It makes you smile, and you twist one of his tousled curls around your fingertip. You give him a taste of one of his own crazed giggles. “No super sex magnet powers, huh?”
He blushes. After all that, you still manage to make him blush, as he gingerly pulls out of you and braces himself on his elbows in order to kiss you on the nose. There’s something so cute about it that you grin, another giggle threatening to spill out as he rests his chin on your chest, staring up at your face through his lashes.
“Can I take you on a date?” He blurts out, his words still a little shaky. “Like, a real date. Without Goff’s weird food fucking us up. You like pizza? I know this really neat pizza place that has a bunch of old arcade games, we could go… I’ll give you all my quarters.”
“Yeah.” You sigh, pulling him up by the neck to give him a swift kiss. “I won’t even puke on your shoes.”
As there wasn’t an official Kinktober prompt list last year, we’ve put together an unofficial one for 2025, along with an AO3 collection. The graphics were all made by @latte-cucumber, and she's also made a banner that you’re welcome to use for your Tumblr Kinktober posts:
More information
Kinktober is an October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.
Our askbox is open for questions about how the challenge works or what the prompts mean.
A priest who fantasizes about being kidnapped and sacrificed by cultists. Being laid back across a stone altar by several pairs of hands, feeling someone settle between his legs and pin him down completely. A sharp ceremonial dagger pops the buttons on his cassock and trails up his chest and neck. The person between his legs tells him that if he can hold back from cumming while he's being fucked maybe they'll keep him as a pet instead of driving that knife between his ribs.
i hate giving handjobs.. you can literally do this yourself do you want me to brush your teeth for you too? cut up your food for you? is that what you want? good boy.. wait what were we talking about
Yandere saying "I'mma knock you up so you can't ever leave me" or "Do as I say or I'll cum inside you" before proceeding to cum inside you anyway either because he's a liar or because he just can't help it.
Yandere fucking his cum back into you as it leaks out post-orgasm.
Yandere whispering obsessively about how many times he's dreamt about cumming inside your cute cunt.
Yandere saying things like "Take it all" and "Don't waste a single drop" or "This is all for you" and "There you go".
Yandere boyfriends punching holes in condoms and hiding your birth control.
Yandere stroking your stomach while completely enchanted by the thought of there growing a little product of your love inside you.
Yandere always dumping his load into the deepest parts of your pussy his cock can reach, making sure he's completely balls-deep while holding your legs to your stomach in the tightest mating-press.
Yandere desperately thanking you while blissfully crying as he spills rope after rope of hot cum inside your womb.
Yandere clamping a hand over your mouth when you start begging him not to cum inside. Shushing you while he concentrates on blowing his load.
Yandere promising to buy you a pill later, but then never getting around to do it, or lies and gives you another pill.
Yandere keeping lists of baby names he's thought of. Especially if they're creepy mutations of his and your name.
Yandere always feeding you things that supposedly increase chances of pregnancy and not allowing you certain poisons like caffein, smoke and alcohol.
Using yandere boyfriends phone to play a game only to find that he has a million windows open, all searches of ways to quicker make you pregnant.
Yandere putting a pillow beneath your back while fucking you missionary style.
Yandere making you lay with your thighs to your chest and your legs up after sex to better insure that his cum runs into your womb.
Yandere cuddling you tight afterwards, musing dreamily about how perfect your family will be while shushing you as you cry about not wanting to be pregnant.
Yandere asking you things like "You want my cum?" and "You want me to finish inside you?" before forcing you to say things like "I want your cum" and "Please cum inside me" and "Thank you for giving me your cum".
Yandere propping you with a plug so that none of his cum leaks out of you.
Yandere charting your cycle and fucking you almost relentlessly in those windows where you're most fertile.
Yandere in soft moments fucking you lovingly, slowly and passionately with a million kisses to your forehead and cheek as he strokes over you pearl with one hand and rubs your nipples with the other. Wanting the sex when you conceive to be the most perfectly romantic sex ever despite your hands being tied above your head and your legs parted by a spreader-bar.
i want a guy to dom me but like...in a really pathetic way. like sure he's whimpering my name as soon as his cock enters me even a little bit and squirming and biting his lip as he fucks me and hiding his face against my neck and crying a little when he cums, but at the end of the day, i'm still tied up and completely at his mercy as he uses my body for his pleasure. y'know?
Yandere who breaks into your home and just won't leave.
Tw. Stalking, Yandere, nsfw themes, blackmail
You came back one day from work, tired as hell, only to find some strange man sitting on your couch with some boxes scattered around him. You threatened to call the cops, to scream and get him out, but he remained strangely calm if not a little boyishly eager.
"H-heh, I knew you'd be kind of upset. Don't worry, I already paid your rent for the next few months. T-took a bit of time to scrape together, but you're worth it babe."
When you then persisted on throwing him out, he simply took out a folder with shaking hands and showed you a mile wide stack of compromising photos that he'd somehow taken while you were completely unaware.
"Don't worry. I won't release them unless you make me."
So now you lived with your stalker now turned roommate.
It was strange. You couldn't kick him out, so you were forced to tolerate him. At first, you thought you could just wait until he left so you could hastily change the locks, but he just never left. He worked on his computer saying he had a remote job, and all of the groceries were delivered to the door. You didn't even have a chance to try and stop him.
He would creep his way into your bed at night, cook you breakfast, and act like nothing was wrong.
Yandere who likes to take photos of you openly now.
He snaps his camera at you while you brush your teeth or put on shoes. Every angle of you has been painstakingly catalogued and printed out in the albums now scattered on every table. He especially liked having pictures of the two of you together.
"Hehe, I used to have to edit myself in..."
You really didn't like mulling over what that could've possibly meant, so you just chose to gloss over it.
Yandere who likes to bathe and pamper you. It's so domestic that it's almost sickening. He makes homemade soaps to lather your skin in, and he's not half bad at making scrubs either. He learns how to do your hair in every style you like, and if you like getting your nails done, he learns that too. You asked him if it was to help save you money, but his reply was... less than ideal.
"I just don't want anyone else to touch you," He said sheepishly as he stashed the strands of your hair to use for god knows what.
Yandere who doesn't stop you from going out and living your life, but the second you get home, he's all over you. he's like your second skin, and even though you try to push him off, he just keeps nuzzling into your neck and practically humping your leg.
"C'mon! I was so good today... I cleaned and everything! At least kiss me!"
He becomes more and more comfortable in your apartment, and you slowly start to live with it as well. After all, a clean home, good food, rent paid and he pampers you like crazy: It's not exactly the worst deal in the world. Plus, he hasn't actually made any moves on you yet. No, most days he sits there smiling at you with a dopey grin and an obvious, untouched bulge in his sweatpants. He never touches himself around you, so at least he had the decency to not do that.
All in all, he's not the worst thing that could've broken into your home. Sure, it's not what you'd ever have wanted, but your starting to grow fond of this strange intruder. After all, it's hard to not be just a little bit endeared when he's snuggling up close and seeking your warmth like it was the only thing on the planet that mattered.
