Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12193590.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Mighty_Max
  Relationship:
      Virgil/Max, Mighty_Max/Skullmaster
  Character:
      Norman, Warmonger_(Mighty_Max)
  Additional Tags:
      Genderbent!Max, Bestiality, Kidnapping, Sexual_Fantasy
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-26 Completed: 2017-10-04 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 2362
****** Drunk On My Destiny (Paramount Love) ******
by citizenjess_(givehimonemore)
Summary
     Virgil's feelings for the Mighty One exist well outside the tenets of
     the Prophecy. Genderbent!Max.
Notes
     Title and section headers courtesy of the song “Clay Baby” by the
     band Lemuria (yeah, yeah). I have no excuse for this aside from it
     being a writing exercise that wouldn’t get out of my head until I
     obediently wrote it down. I don’t expect it to be to many tastes,
     hence sneaking it online basically in the dead of night. Sorry/thank
     you/you’re welcome/etc.
***** You Just Want to Feel the Love (The Same Love that You Give) *****
Chapter Summary
     Virgil's feelings for the Mighty One exist well outside the tenets of
     the Prophecy. Genderbent!Max.
Chapter Notes
     Title and section headers courtesy of the song “Clay Baby” by the
     band Lemuria (yeah, yeah). I have no excuse for this aside from it
     being a writing exercise that wouldn’t get out of my head until I
     obediently wrote it down. I don’t expect it to be to many tastes,
     hence sneaking it online basically in the dead of night. Sorry/thank
     you/you’re welcome/etc.
1. You deserve a convivial life.
You sneak into her bedroom. It's not the word you would prefer to use to
describe it, 'sneak,' but you've intentionally waited until well after midnight
to make this brief journey, your talons making soft, temporary impressions in
the carpet, your footfall heavy even as you try to be invisible, weightless.
The term is, alas, quite accurate.
She hears you come in, of course. Living a life fraught with danger - giant
insects, mad scientists, Skullmaster - has honed her reflexes, made her
perceptive in ways you wish she didn't have to be. Unfortunately for you, this
also makes it impossible to catch her by surprise. "Hey, Virg," she half-
whispers, and even though it's dark inside, her eyes gleam at you like twin
guiding stars. Obediently, you follow, letting them lead you to her.
She lies there, watching you, the small smile on her face characteristic. It's
the same expression she has when cracking a joke with Norman, often at your
expense, or taunting a bad guy. It's cheeky, you want to say, but that feels
lascivious on your part, at least theoretically; as though that matters
anymore. As though anything you do past this point is in any way appropriate.
Still, she's smiling as she leans into your touch, and if you push everything
else away and concentrate entirely on the way she beams, how she glows with
fated effervescence, and, mostly, how quickly her heart beats beneath your hand
as she uses her own to encourage it to travel from her face to the bare column
of her throat and finally, gingerly, to her breasts. You can almost pretend
that she consents, that this benefits the both of you.
2. Facing your back, I can always tell when you're crying.
You've never hurt her, would never dream of hurting her. You would agree
without hesitation to trade your life for hers, to assume any possible burdens
if it might ensure her safety or happiness.
You think about it sometimes, though. When her neck arches backwards, the back
of her head brushing the pillow, or even the occasion or two where she
encouraged you to make a perfunctory bondage device for her wrists with one of
her fashion scarves looped around the bedposts, you think not of taking her
yourself, but of watching her being taken.
Skullmaster is the obvious perpetrator, of course. You picture her having been
bound while in his possession, the materials and sense of urgency quite a lot
more savage than these late-night bedroom explorations. You picture watching
from afar as she kneels or stands, roped, chained, stripped, small, submissive,
in the middle of a bare rock quarry, illuminated by fire. Sometimes, Norman is
the one to fetch her, after bravely fighting off so many underworld minions.
She's tiny in his arms, not completely limp, usually, but always curled and
grateful and just frightened enough of the possibility of all that could have
been that she melts into her mentors' respective embraces upon rescue.
On other occasions, though, your imagination strays towards something darker.
Fortunately (unfortunately), neither is a mischaracterization where Skullmaster
is concerned, even as your aggressive, deeply in denial proxy. Sometimes, she's
tethered, in various stages of undress. Maybe you collect the tattered remains
of school clothing, discarded like debris on the ground. Maybe you are able
only to watch with horror, obligated to wait for the proper moment to stage a
proper rescue. Sometimes, the binds are mystical in nature. Usually, they're
linked metal, surprisingly in-tact considering their calculated age, yet
probably still cold to the touch of pale, naked, goose pimpled skin.
She's scared, usually, but knows better than to twist out of his reach. Even
then, she would be so brave. He's grinning, almost always, groping, pinching,
running sharp nails with utmost intention over raised nipples, down the bare,
quivering skin of her abdomen. Perhaps Warmonger, his horned manservant, holds
her open, spread apart, her body treacherously ready to obey even the most
dastardly of whims. If he's feeling merciful, he might simply flick at her
womanhood with taunting, cruel fingers, over stimulating until she cries out in
surprise and pain, laughing at her when she nonetheless moistens.
Once, you thought about watching him shove himself down her throat, bemused
when she inevitably chokes, forcing her gaze up before she can get rid of the
moisture leaking from her eyes. He ordered her kneeling before his throne,
wrists laced behind her, her blonde ponytail bobbing jerkily. Fucking her, you
decided, would be but a variation of this, her propped atop his lap, squirming
minutely, whimpering as he spears her per his erratic whims. He might touch her
here, to show that he could do what he wanted with his possessions, until he
tired of them, at which case they would be broken, rather, joyfully ripped
apart, and then discarded at his feet. With hope, you and Norman would be there
to rescue her before that happened.
3. Your voice gets so positive, so compensating.
You wonder sometimes what you would have done had the Mighty One been a boy,
yet another young man to mold, five thousand years his predecessor’s junior.
Maybe, you consider, you wouldn't find him as soft, wouldn’t pontificate on his
vulnerability the same way centuries of subconscious sexism have encouraged
with her. Perhaps, too, Norman would be more willing to rough house with a boy.
Their bond would be greater, maybe even more so than that between her and you
now. Perhaps it would even completely eradicate these treacherous night-time
curiosities, as would, of course, be best.
(Some small part of you is pleased by the current status quo.)
4. She takes the air out of my world, I can't breathe without her.
There are things you would, could never ask her to do. It would be utterly
wrong, for one thing, even if she was agreeable to them, even though sometimes,
she seems more eager for you to be here than you do. You can extrapolate,
though, such as: What if the glint of her eyes belied a more sinister
personality, an evil twin, an essence whose body had been swapped in some
fashion with her own, who now inhabited, defiled, your precious heroine. "Show
me, Virgil," she might taunt, and even though you would be the one untied in
such a scenario, she would still be utterly in control of the situation. "Do to
me what you can't do to her. Hurt me. Fu-" she would rasp, but your hand over
her mouth would cut her off, every time.
5. Is it really that much to ask for? (Yes, it is.)
Spread minutely before you atop the mattress, her sheets have been kicked
towards the foot of the bed, though not quite bundled on the floor, her
clothing similarly raised, but not discarded. Her moans are nothing obscene,
nothing like what you can imagine, but you move to muffle them anyways, somehow
as ashamed of bringing her pleasure as pain. She smiles, gasps and giggles at
your ministrations - your feathers tickle, she admitted once - and then keens
when they tickle her (“oh, finally”) down there. The first time, her arousal
had been imminent, but not immediate. She's used to this, now, however, and
also how to squirm and press herself against you and mumble things to encourage
you to continue, to make good on the promise to bring her to completion that
your presence here and now infers. When you do, she cranes her neck and shoves
her face into a pillow so that it absorbs the auditory proof of her orgasm.
She's always sleepy afterwards, the energy of your recent activities mingling
with the air, swirling sweetly before it dissipates, slumber cocooning her in
its wake. It's a good way to keep you from lingering, and you resist all other
impulses but a fond brush of your hand across her forehead and down her cheek.
Her eyes, just hers, gleam in the dark. There's a small puff of air exhaled
against your hand when she plants a soft, grateful kiss on it just before you
draw it away. "Good night," she murmurs, sleep, for her at least, close on the
horizon.
"Sweet dreams, Mighty Max," you whisper, and wait until you're certain, given
the rumbling coming from his own quarters, that Norman is himself at rest,
before eking open the door and slipping into the darkened hallway and into your
own appropriately shadowed thoughts.
***** But I Don’t Want to Come Home to Grim Arithmetic *****
Chapter Summary
     Norman makes a shocking discovery.
Chapter Notes
     I had to. (Not really but, well, I think this has finally clawed its
     way fully out of my system at least.)
Norman being in on it helps. It doesn’t make it better, or any more excusable,
but when you consider all of the possible outcomes, all of the ways in which
destiny could have interfered, or vice verse, things could certainly be worse.
It’s your fault that you were caught. You were a little too foolhardy one
night, a little less cautious than the situation warranted, emboldened perhaps
by previous successful bouts of getting in and out unseen; nonetheless, once
was all that it took. You should have known, in complete honesty: Norman is not
a stupid being. For all of his barbaric overtones, he possesses a remarkable
depth, and more importantly, a warrior’s perception of the world.
You would never blame her, is what you’re saying, even if it’s possible that a
bit too breathy of a gasp was ultimately what caused Norman to stop in his
tracks, to pivot towards the closed bedroom door that you had painstakingly
practiced noiselessly maneuvering for the past several months. You’re certain
that his discovery took all three of you by surprise, if there is any
consolation to be had; the ‘o’ of shock on Norman’s ruddy face, the alarmed,
widened eyes on hers, your own small, barely audible, guilty cry; no one has
been left unrattled by this turn of events.
He could have walked away; he could have closed the door, hunkered down in his
usual spot in the sitting area, and passively schooled his face, prepared for
when you finally mustered the ability to face him. It’s the most likely course
of action, to be sure; that is, it almost positively would have been the
outcome, had she not, as per usual, changed the course of destiny, for all of
you.
“Wait. Don’t ... go.” Her voice is soft, and less sure of itself than you’re
used to, but Norman’s attention is grabbed instantly. “Please,” she continues,
and kind of pats the bed a little. “Please, it’s okay, we, all of us ... stay
with us, Normy.”
The nickname, uttered in a breathy hush, is what cinches it, is what draws you
behind her, propping up her already bare torso, draped across your lap. Norman
himself begins between her legs, quivering excitedly. She squeezes one of your
hands, and you squeeze back, and her other hand drags down Norman’s face,
cupping his chin at the end of its journey. When she takes it away, his head
dips downwards. It’s big, her “Big Guy” nickname for him is quite accurate,
enough to obscure precisely what he’s doing. The way she bucks up, however,
wildly, keening, makes it quite clear what is transpiring.
He laps at her down there, manipulates her folds with a carefulness difficult
to imagine him being able to ascertain, were you not witnessing it with your
own eyes. Overwhelmed by arousal, her chest heaves. She writhes atop you,
gripping your hand, moving it almost subconsciously lower, below her shoulders.
When you reach her chest, brush across her breasts, across her pert nipples,
she gasps, and it’s honestly a good thing her mother is away on one of her many
business trips, given how long it takes for her to stifle herself. Norman looks
up at the sound, but she shakes her head and gestures pleadingly, and he
returns to her nether regions.
His tongue is large and able to cover a lot of territory; his facial hair
probably sends yet another pleasurable sensation along her innermost thighs.
Given her already aroused state, even prior to Norman’s unwitting arrival, her
release bubbles up quickly. She shakes, and you continue strategically toying
with her breasts. Norman’s head bobs in a way suggesting his mouth’s
ministrations are slower now, deeper, intentionally swabbing over her clit and
everywhere else that might respond to it, which it certainly is. “Oh!” she says
at last, and her mouth splits into a surprised grimace as she tilts her head
back and lets out a silent scream.
You watch her heave in the aftermath, continue caressing her face and
collarbones and upper body until she sags against you. The inevitable eye
contact with Norman is yet awkward, but he does not look angry. Probably he
trusts that you can and will punish yourself plenty for this transgression
without his help. Perhaps he can guess that in your mind, this is a travesty on
par with her falling into none other than Skullmaster himself’s clutches, with
her being taken advantage of in ways designed purely to bring her pain and
suffering. Even if he ordered his servant, Warmonger, to take her first for an
audience of underworld servants, to perhaps ravage her roughly and unyieldingly
with his teeth and tongue, not stopping even when she sobbed and screamed from
the overwhelming intensity, it’s intent would be entirely to brutalize.
This is utterly different, Norman would most likely say to you in that no
nonsense manner of his; and you would nod, and help him help her back into her
carefully removed night clothes and tuck her, exhausted and smiling, sated,
under soft bedding. You would simultaneously cast a glance at the dresser top
where the Cap sat, untouched, bearing silent witness to all that had just
transpired, and then you would both shuffle to the sitting area after shutting
that destiny forsaken door behind you, and that would be that. It wouldn’t
really be, of course, not at all, but now is also not an opportune time for you
to attempt to wrestle the moral high ground away from Norman. And so you sit,
side by side, bathed in sinful moonlight, and wait for dawn to bathe this
exquisite secret between you in bright, obscuring day.
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