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Nice knows fear. He knows Fear, too, and as much as he’d like to say it’s entirely against his will, he knows, intimately, that his own choices are what led him here.
All this fighting—the violence, the murder, the erasure of evidence and competition alike—it’s all in the name of Fear. He has no clue what’s really on this spacecraft (and what a mindfuck that was when he realized exactly where the director had sent him), or why the Director wants it so badly he’s willing to risk both Nice’s reputation and a whole squad of Phobiaclones. He’s learned not to ask questions, he’s learned not to want to ask questions.
But he knows this all ties back into experiments he’s been witness to. The Fear injections, the wild, crazed state of the animals subjected to it. Something here is worth quite a bit to Director Shang, and if Nice doesn’t deliver…
It’s not a matter of if. He has to show results. He has to be perfect.
Which is why the moment everything goes to shit comes so unexpectedly.
He knew they’d encounter some form of resistance. This was a research expedition, and for something like this, they’d bring on a ranked hero to act as guard dog. Ghostblade, while nerve-wracking given his high trust value, wasn’t Nice’s problem; E-Soul clashed with him the moment he entered the scene, leaving Nice free to direct the Phobiaclones towards the researchers.
The little girl in the robot suit was not remotely on his radar.
She puts up a fight, too—a real fight, no holds barred, desperation fueling every punch, every frustrated scream, every wild shot of her suit’s repulsor beams (and since when did they have a mini Iron Man on the scene?). She backs him into a corner and she won’t stay down no matter what he does.
He feels—off, fighting her. Like he’s not able to put his full strength into each swing of his fist. She even caught his punch like it was nothing, crushing his hand in her gauntlet’s grip.
If not for E-Soul’s distraction—if not for the Phobiaclones making a racket in the next chamber over—he doesn’t know how the fight would’ve turned out.
But he does. They do.
And then the entire space starts to shake like the earth itself wants to put a stop to their theatrics.
Debris crumbles from the walls around them, smashing into the floor, taking out Phobiaclones left and right. E-Soul’s quick to dodge, and busted up as he is, Ghostblade maneuvers himself out of the way, back towards the main group of researchers. Nice hovers in place, uncertain what direction is safest to move towards.
The girl picks herself up, discards her broken helmet, and half-runs, half-stumbles after Ghostblade, heedless of the chunks of metal and rock raining down around her.
Somehow, suddenly, Nice is alone.
He finally darts beneath an overhang, hovering still, too wary of the quaking ground to touch down yet. The high-pitched scream of metal rending makes him wince, and seconds later a three mere wide section of the roof crashes to the floor. At the far end of the chamber, a burst of blue electricity gives away E-Soul’s position, before a lightning fast blur zips around the edges of the space and into the open doorway to Nice’s left. Nice has a half-second to question if he should follow before another section of the roof blocks that path.
He peeks out from beneath the overhang, shielding his face with an arm over his head. He can fly out of here—there’s so many holes in the roof now, he’d have no trouble finding one he can fit through. But… leaving would be tantamount to admitting defeat, wouldn’t it? Leaving would be a failure, and Director Shang made it clear failure won’t be tolerated for this. This might be Nice’s last chance to prove he’s worthy of being the director’s protege, he can’t run away.
As suddenly as it began, the shaking begins to subside. Cautiously, Nice lowers himself to the ground, stepping out into the open space of the chamber. His attention swings to the blocked doorway, beyond which he can at last make out the muffled sounds of another fight. Depending on how many Phobiaclones survived the initial barrage of debris, it's probably close to a two-on-one match between E-Soul and Ghostblade and the robot girl. She didn't look like she had much fight left in her, but Nice isn't an idiot—he won't underestimate her twice.
There's no obligation to help E-Soul. Frankly speaking, it would only be to Nice's benefit for a Top 10 hero to die here tonight, whether it's E-Soul or Ghostblade. Even better if they manage to take each other down.
The problem is the researchers. If either hero survives and contradicts Nice's version of events—or, god forbid, the researchers make it out alive—Nice… Nice doesn't want to think about the consequences.
He turns towards the metal chunk wedged into the doorway, looking for some means of getting past it. Super strength isn't one of his powers; enhanced strength, sure, along with endurance and durability, but he's no Smile, or Firm Man. Lifting it's out of the question. He spies a gap between the top of the opening and the roof piece, and wonders if he could squeeze his way through, undignified as that would likely look. By the sound of it, no one would even notice him, but the thought of it alone makes him go tense all over.
Nice, Hero Nice, is perfect. Always. Everything has to look effortless—flawless. And wriggling his shoulders through a too-small gap and potentially falling ass over teakettle on the way down is so far from flawless he'd rather die than attempt it.
Which leaves him with very few options. He could take the long route. Fly up and out of the chamber, circle back around to where he entered from originally. If the fight's already finished by the time he gets there, he could… clean up, so to speak. Ensure no one who might say a word against him leaves the craft.
What if I'm wrong, though? Nice's mouth flattens into a tense line. They might both survive. Ghostblade has nothing to do with my job here, but if he doesn't die, there's no guarantee the researchers will. Not with all of them in the same chamber. I should—
The sound of metal groaning is the only warning Nice gets before something grabs him by the ankle and yanks.
Between one blink and the next, he smacks into the ground chest-first. All the air in his lungs rushes out in a broken gasp. He tries to twist, to kick himself free, but whatever has him is strong, and it drags him across the floor at a breakneck pace. Nice scrabbles at whatever he can reach, desperate for a handhold—forgetting, for a harried moment, that desperation isn't something he's allowed to show, not when there might be eyes on him.
The grip on his ankle tightens—another gasp, this one pained—and then suddenly he's airborne. Meters off the ground, upside down, his cape fluttering uselessly around him. He instinctively bends himself into a half-crunch, reaching for whatever it is that's wrapped around his leg, but—
His fingers brush something… damp. He processes that it's warm, and smooth, and slimey, which is as far as his brain gets before he's shaken like a fucking rag doll.
Nice spits outs a garbled, "Fuck!" and nearly bites his tongue in two.
The shaking stops. Nice's eyes and teeth take another few seconds to stop rattling around in his skull. His stomach turns over, nauseated. Blood pounds in his ears, louder even than the heartbeat he can feel throbbing in his neck—his fingertips—his chest.
When his vision settles, and he manages to choke down the bile crawling up (down?) the back of his throat, he gets his first look at his attacker.
Something—seizes in Nice's brain. He feels, abruptly, like he might be having a stroke. He has to be, he must be dying, or on the verge of it, all his neurons exploding in one final light show of nonsensical bullshit. Because what he's looking at—what's standing in front of him, what has him by the ankle, what overpowered him as easily as he would a newborn child—can't be real. It can't.
What it is, is a nightmare.
A writhing, heaving mass of black, limned in an eerie violet. Limbs—his brain won't accept it, but the only word that comes to mind is tentacles—twisting in on themselves, around each other, sprouting up from a hole in the center of the chamber that wasn't there when Nice entered. The metal around it is a jagged, warped lip, forced open by brutal strength.
Somewhere in depths of Nice's subconscious, his hindbrain screams at him, klaxons blaring:
They woke something up. Something that should've stayed buried, in stasis, within this spacecraft.
Nice wants to look away. He needs to look away. But his eyes remain fixed on this—thing as it heaves itself further out of the broken hull of the ship, undulating limbs slithering across the floor like a thousand snakes.
Something within it seems to yawn open—a deeper, all-consuming darkness that draws Nice's gaze like a flaming car wreck—and it might be a mouth because in the next second it emits a noise that—
Nice tastes blood. Smells the iron as it drips down from his nose, dribbling over the bridge and down towards his eyes. His ears might be bleeding, too. What he's hearing isn't words—he'd hardly classify it as anything other than pure sound. In a pitch he can hear but not understand; undercurrents of things that make no sense, color, sensation, emotions that feel as though they're welling up from within Nice, but not like they're his, like they're a parasite, almost, growing inside him, feeding off all the nasty, insecure thoughts he's tried so damn hard to keep under lock and key, getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger until they're all threatening to burst out of his chest and—
Abruptly, the noise cuts off.
Nice's awareness returns in degrees—the clammy feel of his hands over his ears, placed there god knew when in a vain attempt to shield himself from the assault on his senses; the cooling blood starting to crust around his nostrils; his throat, scraped raw and burning. Had he been he screaming? Was he still screaming? The ringing in his ears drowns out everything else, and it only grows louder—or seems to—when Nice's hands fall away from his ears.
His arms hang uselessly at his sides, fingertips scraping the ground. Which—he's lower than he was before. The black tentacle still has his ankle in a vice grip, but he's no longer dangling from a precarious height. Instead, it puts him at… what Nice's brain is desperately trying to rationalize as eye level with the thing he's encountered.
Looking at it hurts in a way he can't describe. He can feel his thoughts racing, skipping over one another, in a bid to coalesce into some kind of understanding that never comes.
He registers movement. The coil of limbs extending outward from the central mass. He registers sensation. Warm, damp contact where those questing tentacles slide over the fabric of his suit.
He registers an ache somewhere deep in the core of him, an emptiness that may as well be his oldest friend. He's gotten by well enough by ignoring it. Playing at being satisfied with what wins he can eke out of his career. Filling himself up with expensive liquor and his nutritionist-approved diet and the occasional fuck with a stranger too wasted to recognize him—so long he has them facing away, on hands and knees or their stomach, eyes glassy with intoxicated pleasure.
Looking at this thing—whatever it is, wherever it's come from—Nice is forced to reckon with the truth.
It'll never be enough. Never.
Oh, god. Fuck.
Nice closes his eyes, because suddenly he can, he's allowed. His body's listening to him in this one respect while disobeying every other command he throws at it. Tears gather on his lashes, hot and overwhelming, too much, too much, too much.
There's pressure in his head—in his chest—like too much air in a balloon. One quick jab and he'll just—
Something swipes over his closed eye, whisking away the tears that nearly spilled over. Nice sucks in a sharp breath—but his stretched-thin skin doesn't pop.
Another swipe across the opposite eye. Soft. Gentle. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Until the last of the tears are gone.
The pressure in his head doesn't lesson, but it—shifts. Pushed back, almost, by something like a… like a knock. And it makes no fucking sense but he doesn't have the words for it, this is as close as he can get to what feels like a polite request for entry that he's helpless to do anything but grant.
It's not words at first. It's noise. Different from before, nowhere near as painful, but it's nothing Nice can understand. Until suddenly it is.
Why are you holding the air in like that? Your physiology doesn't allow for it. Let it out.
Nice gasps more than he exhales, but he listens. He breathes out, and the band around his chest loosens a bit.
Good.
Such a simple word. Meaningless, really. The kind of thing you say to a dog who finally learned to stop shitting on the carpet.
It hits Nice like a punch to the solar plexus.
Movement again—sensation, too. At the same time as he's being maneuvered upright, tentacles creep over the wings of his shoulder blades, circle around his knees, trace the contours of his torso as they wind their way up from his waist. They're slow, deliberate touches, as though they're mapping out the shape of him, all the bits and pieces of his anatomy.
He doesn't mind the exploratory prodding as much as he probably should.
His arms and legs are spread slightly, providing the tentacles with better access. He's held aloft, trapped in the grip of a being ludicrously stronger than him, but—the danger feels like it's passed. Instead, restricted like this, powerless yet held as gently as a porcelain doll, he feels… safe. At least like this, while he has this entity's attention, no one else can lay a hand on him. No one of this earth, anyway.
It's a ridiculous thought, one he has the inexplicably urge to punish himself for, but there's that noise again, accompanied by the phantom feeling of something warm washing over him.
Don't fret. You're right. I won't let anyone hurt you.
Nice goes boneless in a way that would be embarrassing in any other context. Giving in as the tentacles continue to leisurely creep over his body, curiously tugging at his collar and the clasps holding his cape to his jacket.
Hm. Your heartbeat is still abnormal. And you're in pain. Is my presence upsetting you?
He wants to deny it—why, he couldn't say, but the thought of expressing any more signs of discontent and possibly being released from this… weird, many-limbed embrace causes his pulse to skyrocket, which the being before him picks up on immediately.
What's good is that it can also apparently read his damn mind, so it knows where the reaction is coming from.
Hold on, I can fix this. I just need a moment. Close your eyes, little hero. It won't do for you to see this.
Nice does as instructed, shutting his eyes tight for the second time. The tentacles twined around his arms and legs quiver, then go slack briefly before tightening again just as Nice bites back a wordless complaint.
Alright, eyes open. This should be good enough for now.
When Nice blinks open his eyes, he's met with the sight of his own face staring back at him.
He almost flinches, but he's too absorbed in his desire to avoid giving this creature the wrong idea so instead he merely clenches his hands, fingernails digging half moons into his palms.
Where before there was that gaping black maw surrounded by writhing tentacles, there now stands a man—or something shaped like a man—that bears an uncanny resemblance to Nice. The closer Nice looks, though, the more he can identify the differences.
His hair is brown, and messier than Nice's, as though he merely rolled out of bed without bothering to brush it into submission. There's a streak of white in his bangs that Nice stares at for a long, breathless moment, before he moves on.
The man's eyes are less angular than Nice's—softer, somehow, and while one of them is sky-blue, the other's a warm, chocolate brown. A smattering of freckles is dusted across his nose and cheeks, and there are smile lines around his mouth. His brows arch in a way Nice can only interpret as playful as Nice's gaze drifts lower and his breath catches in his throat.
He's naked. Not a stitch of clothing to be seen, nothing to cover his broad shoulders, or the defined swell of his pecs, or the narrow hips that taper down to strong, athletic thighs and chiseled calves.
And between all that is—
I pulled a lot of this from your memories, it—he—whatever—says, gesturing with one of his large hands, as if presenting himself with a ta-dah! Humans standards for beauty are more varied than I would've guessed. But you're considered very attractive by your own standards, so I borrowed a bit of your form. I also noticed you gravitate towards darker hair and eyes, and adjusted accordingly. I wasn't sure about the anatomy—you don't copulate very often, at least not in recent memory—so I defaulted to your own genitals. Not bad, huh?
Not bad is an understatement.
Why is he hung like a fucking horse? He didn't copy that from me…
A split-second memory flashes through his mind—himself, idly scrolling through his private FOMO account and stumbling across a very R-rated art piece that would surely be taken down by the end of the day. It featured a hero Nice couldn't recall the name of, stripped down to nothing but his pants around his ankles, hands fisted around his dick. Both hands, because he needed both. A strange mix of arousal and shame had shot through him at the sight of it. Like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to look like that man or be fucked by him.
Heat licks at his cheeks now as he stares at this creature, who took on a human form seemingly just to please Nice, and chose that memory when emulating a specific part of human anatomy.
The creature grins, stepping forward to cup Nice's face in his hands. It's only then he notices that the tentacles still holding him spring out from the entity's back, twisting and curling around his shoulders and his own limbs to reach out for Nice.
I would have abandoned my other appendages altogether, he says, tilting Nice's face up with his thumbs pressing to the underside of his chin, but I hardly need to skim your thoughts to see you're… into this. The word you'd use is freaky, right?
The word Nice would use is mortifying, actually, but he still hasn't found his voice, and anyway, he is infinitely more invested in the tentacle currently wriggling under the collar of his jacket to slide over his bobbing Adam's apple.
I'm a little confused by human mating rituals, the creature says, smoothing his hands down Nice's neck (pressing slightly against the tentacle as they pass, as if giving it a good job pat) to trace his finger over Nice's collarbone, then down the line of her sternum. The tentacles wrapped around his torso squeeze a bit tighter, just beneath his chest, and Nice can feel them pushing up his pecs, making them stand out far more than they usual do in this costume. The creatures' fingers follow the curves of his chest as they glide along the edge of the topmost tentacle, and even through his jacket Nice feels them brush against his nipples. They're not very straightforward. And they're not strictly for reproduction. I can see in your memories that you're sensitive here, though, and as far as I can tell that's a good thing. If I get something wrong, let me know, yeah?
It takes three tries for Nice to get the words out, but he's tingling all over now, and his nipples are hard beneath his jacket, and his dick (his stupid dick, which regularly refuses to work on the rare occasion he gets an hour alone to himself) is starting to perk up, straining against the confines of his pants. He needs—he needs an answer.
"Why… why are you doing this?"
There's nothing accusatory in his tone. Just bewildered curiosity. That feeling of safety hasn't dissipated in the slightest; if anything, even as his heart's begun pounding in his chest, the feeling's only grown.
The creature emits a noise that sounds vaguely close to a human hum as the tentacle sliding under Nice's jacket creeps further downward until it meets the other tentacles banded around his chest. It pauses for a moment—long enough for the entity to say You were scared. I don't want you to be scared. Things like this release endorphins, right? They make you feel good. I want you to feel good—then abruptly moves sideways, flicking at his peaked nipple, and Nice moans.
Smile widening, the creature says, There we go. Now let's get rid of all these layers. They're in the way.
Suddenly there are more tentacles—so many Nice can't keep track of them, can't trace them back to their source—and they're tugging at his clothes, tearing, rending, pulling the scraps away from his body and flinging them into the darkness, and Nice is down to his underwear, his hard dick painfully obvious, the damp tip fighting to poke free of his waistband
He's exposed, vulnerable. The tentacles swarm for his newly-bared skin, and they're damp with something that's faintly sticky, something that, embarrassed as he is to admit it, reminds him of lube. The substance they secrete drips down the length of his torso, his arms, his legs—and he isn't disgusted. He's conscious of it, overly conscious, but it isn't tacky, it doesn't make his skin crawl; it makes the glide of tentacles along his body so much smoother, and when the creature puts his hands on Nice's pecs again and squeezes experimentally Nice feels warm. From the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers and toes. Flushed and squirming and eager.
He swallows, and it's more to feel the resistance of the new tentacle that's wound itself around his throat than an involuntary reaction.
Whatever's happening is beyond his control. His reactions to it, likewise, aren't his fault.
At least that's what he tries to tell himself when a shard of doubt cuts through the overwhelming pleasure like a rusty knife.
You're trembling, the creature observes, leaning into Nice's space to nudge his nose against Nice's in a bastardized mimicry of a kiss. He kneads at Nice's pecs all the while, leaving enough space for two thinner tentacles to wind through his fingers and prod and flick lightly at Nice's nipples. Little hero. Are you feeling good?
Whatever noise Nice makes in response—high pitched, wanting, desperate—must be sufficient, because in the next moment his briefs are gone and the tentacles have his dick in a vice grip.
"Oh," Nice gasps, reflexively trying to thrust his hips forward to fuck up into that tight channel only to realize, restrained as he is, he can only manage pathetic little jerks. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, his eyes pleading with the creature before him—the tentacles aren't moving, simply holding him, and they're slick and smooth and wonderful but there's no friction.
He can't remember the last time someone touched him. At least with the intent to get him off like this. There were a handle of teenage romps, pleasant enough for naturally fleeting. And there was Wreck—Wreck, who loved him to the point of submission, who gave and gave and never expected anything in return. But that was in the past, when they were nothing but naive idol trainees, unaware of the sharp pivot their lives would take once Treeman took notice of Nice.
He isn't the same person Wreck loved. He's not sure he can ever be that person again.
But here, now, there's a creature who knows simultaneously everything and nothing about him. He has Nice's thoughts, his memories, sifting through them like someone panning for gold, plucking out the choicest of tidbits so he has context for Nice's wants. He's made no comment about what else he's likely glimpsed while trawling through Nice's consciousness. The horrible things, the desperate things he's done to survive—to climb the ranks.
He isn't human, no matter how he looks right now. Maybe that means he won't pass judgement on Nice regardless of what he sees in him.
I wonder if you should still be thinking this much, the creature muses, biting lightly at the hinge of Nice's jaw to elicit another sharp intake of breath. You're leaking—and the tentacles undulate as he speaks, rippling around Nice's cock as pre-cum drips steadily from the tip—so I'm doing something right. But there's way too much going on up here.
A tentacle raps at Nice's temple before it slips down to poke curiously at the corner of his bitten-raw mouth.
Nice parts his lips instinctively and the creature's smile turns sharp.
Is that it? he croons, lips skating over the shell of Nice's ear before a clever tongue darts out to trace the same path. Earlier, I think I caught something about you feeling empty…
A jolt of not-quite-panic shoots through Nice, but its fleeting, there and gone in the space of a heartbeat. The creature pulls back and looks at him through lowered lashes, waiting. No words materialize in his mind, no gentle demand for an answer. Just that steady, patient gaze, giving Nice the chance to reconsider.
He opens his mouth wider.
Permission granted, the tentacle delves inside his mouth. He's expecting the sensation to be off-putting—that the same slippery substance will coat this one as well, and Nice has never been fond of the taste or feel or lube on his tongue. But this tentacle is dry, and just thick enough that Nice feels the stretch of his lips around it in a faint, stinging ache. It rests against his tongue, heavy and cool, the tip tickling at his palette—just shy of breaching the back of his throat.
Nice's eyes water, and he hastily blinks the tears away. It hurts, just a bit, but it's that good kind of hurt he's rarely experienced. Pain and pleasure on a knife's edge, tipping from one side to the other as he adjusts himself, setting his teeth against the smooth surface of the tentacle, tonguing at the underside of it to taste. And it's almost like the brine of sweaty, salty skin—almost familiar.
Heat pools in his stomach, and his hips give another aborted thrust, finally remembering the thinner tentacles currently massaging his cock.
That calmed you right down, huh?
The creature's eyes crinkle at the corners as he exhales a soft laugh.
Well, he adds, trailing one of his hands down the planes of Nice's stomach, almost everywhere.
He palms over the head of Nice's cock, making Nice jump in his bonds. His skin is rougher than Nice would've expected—calloused, as though he actually works with his hands. Hands he didn't have ten minutes ago. Is this another preference Nice didn't even know he had, cherry-picked from his scattered memories of one-night stands?
He can't deny it's working.
Humans are interesting, the creature goes on, casually tweaking Nice's already abused nipples as more tentacles lap like a dozen tongues at all the sensitive bits of his body. His ears, his neck, the backs of his knees. His armpits—another new discovery. Everything is that funny sort of ticklish that makes his dick jump like a dog learning tricks. I've been asleep for a long time. Didn't realize how long until you showed up. And I didn't, ah, socialize? When I was awake. So I'm learning all kinds of new things from you, little hero. Like the fact that you have multiple orifices—er, holes, sorry—that you can derive pleasure from.
Nice lets out a muffled curse as yet another tentacle detaches from its place around his waist to slide along his crack. Light, teasing pressure as it traces a line down to his taint, where it pulsates rhythmically (in time with the goddamn tentacles on his dick) until Nice nearly bites down on the intrusion in his mouth before slipping back up to press against his hole.
He almost wants to scream, and it's anyone guess whether it's out of arousal or sheer frustration. This creature—this strange, otherworldly thing—has admitted repeatedly that this is the first time it's ever encountered a human. Which makes this definitively the first time it's tried human sex. And yet it can play Nice like a damn fiddle within minutes of touching him for the first time.
He wants to cry foul. He wants to file a fucking complaint.
He wants to come so badly his teeth ache with it.
The creature's mouth curls slyly, fingers tap-tap-tapping just at the tip of Nice's dick. He laughs as Nice's hips jerk with every not-enough touch. You want to come? That's… an orgasm, right? You should've said something, he adds, pointedly shoving the tentacle in Nice's mouth a few centimeters deeper, until he gags on it, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. The whimper Nice can feel in his throat is thankfully drowned out by the wet sounds of the tentacle fucking in and out of his mouth. Mm, I'm curious what this is like for humans. Let's try it.
He moves his hands again—laying them on Nice's hips, fingers curling around the sharp points of his pelvis. The restraints on his arms and legs tighten, opening him up further, as the creature lowers Nice and sticks his thigh between Nice's legs, allowing his cock head a brief flash of glorious friction. Tentacles curl around his balls, fondling them the way Nice might with his own palm.
The tentacle circles his hole, teasing, testing. Pressing in just enough for Nice to feel it before pulling back, smearing that lube-like substance everywhere it touches. He arches his back as much as this position allows, straining for the first time in a while—his strength isn't enough to break free, he knows that, he knows. He can writhe and squirm and struggle and all that he'll accomplish is earning himself a chastising hum from the entity before him and lips pressed to his sternum.
There's something… freeing about this. He could muster all his strength, every last ounce of Trust he's garnered over the years, and it wouldn't move this creature even a centimeter. It wouldn't pry the tentacles from his limbs, or force them to move according to his will. He's utterly at this creature's mercy.
He's never been harder in his life.
Maybe take a breath, the creature suggests blithely, right before the teasing tentacle finally plunges inside him.
Nice comes with a soundless cry, eyes squeezed shut, his bound body futilely trying to curl in on itself and held inescapably open by those steel-like tentacles. The ones still playing with his cock milk him through the aftershocks, rippling around his length as he comes in spurts across the creature's naked chest. They keep keep at it long after Nice is finished—bringing him back to that knife's edge of pain-pleasure, his entire body buzzing with overstimulation, gagging around the tentacle in his throat and clenching down on the one plugging up his ass and there's no give in either of them but it's not enough, or it's too much, or maybe it's just right but he's—
He thinks he might black out for a minute there.
When he comes to, the tentacle in his mouth has retreated, saliva dripping all down his chin. His dick is still being firmly held, but the grip is looser now, more relaxed. Simply holding on rather than tortuously jerking him off. The tentacle penetrating him hasn't moved yet—it's warming up with his body heat, and it reminds him, vaguely, of the toys he once kept on his floor in the Tower, before Moon moved in. This, at least, he doesn't have to worry about snapping in half if he clenches a bit too hard.
He pants, open-mouthed, his tongue hanging out like the goddamn dog he is. His vision's blurred by tears, but he can make out the creature standing below him, head tilted as he studies something in his hand.
That's cum, Nice's brain helpfully supplies, his eyes widening as he connects the fat, sticky puddle pooling in the creature's palm with the mind-shattering orgasm he just experienced. My cum. Oh, fuck. Fucking—
The creature licks delicately at Nice's seed, getting a taste for it, then hums appreciatively and swipes his tongue across the whole of his palm in long, languid strokes. Lapping up every last drop.
Nice's brain might be melting—leaking right out of his ears like the cum still dribbling from his cock.
People don't like this? the creature muses, squinting curiously at his spit-slick hand. You've got a loooot of memories of people spitting it out after they've… blown someone…? You did, too, actually.
Of course he did. Nice has never enjoyed the bitter, earthy taste of cum. He vastly preferred when he partner wore a condom, but given the only one who really cared enough to do that was Wreck… he tried to pull off before the other person's orgasm surprised them both.
That so? Another contemplative hum. Nice watches as the creature looks down, his eyes roving over the ropes of cum painted across his chest. A tentacle peeks over his shoulder, swaying back and forth for a moment before it crawls across his collarbone, then downward to scoop up a smear of cum. With his thoughts still staticky, unfocused, Nice assumes he's going to feed himself more of his seed.
But then, in a flash, the tentacle climbs around his throat, up and up until he sees it hover in front of his face—then pops into his own mouth.
He doesn't choke—the creature's considerate enough for that. But the tentacle laves incessantly across his tongue, forcing him to taste himself, and—
I like that expression, the creature says, grinning. He reaches up to thumb away the drool spilling from the corner of Nice's stretched mouth. You're flushed and sweaty, leaking from everything that can leak. You never look like this, even when you've copulated—oh, no, when you've fucked before.
Nice swallows instinctively, his tongue wrapped around the tentacle, cheeks hollowing out as his suckles at the tip of the appendage in his mouth. He tastes himself, and frankly, it's not great. It's never great. But when it's served to him like this… he finds he doesn't mind it as much.
As the creature smooths his hands down and over the wings of Nice's shoulder blades, threading his fingers together at the nape of Nice's neck, the tentacle still sitting snuggly in his ass—twists. He breathes in sharply through his nose, trying to make sense of the sensation. He's played with himself before, fucking himself on toys, testing out angles and motions until he found whatever combination made his eyes cross. But this is different. It's—the tentacle doesn't just turn, adjusting its position, it corkscrews in on itself, changing the shape it carves out inside of him. He can feel each individual curve pressing against his walls, and it's more pressure than he thinks he's ever experienced in his life, and—and then it thrusts.
He moans around the tentacle in his mouth, his spent dick perking right up again as he's fucked slowly, relentlessly, the tentacle pulling out and pounding back in at a steady, rhythmic pace. Twisting with each thrust so that no two feel exactly alike. There's a rhythm but he can't get used to it—can't match it the way he would with a human partner or a toy. He wants to shove himself down, he wants to meet each thrust as it comes, but he can't move.
The thin, finger-width tentacles around his dick suddenly tighten again. Nice thinks, distantly, that he might be able to come again. Not a half hour from now, and not the piddling little spurts of cum he sometimes manages when he pushes himself to his limit. Another orgasm, a real one—two in the span of fifteen minutes, when he hasn't been able to even get hard in months.
Oh, humans have a refractory period? Interesting. My kind rarely has sex except to mate, and it's a… well. It's kind of a long process. We don't have a reason to keep going once we've successfully mated. But humans fuck for fun, right? I thought maybe you could just… go for as long as you liked.
Blinking rapidly, Nice fights past the fuzzy haze overtaking his thoughts, tracking the creature as it presses close to him. His dick—his very human dick—slides alongside Nice's, and even with the barrier of tentacles between them it's such a welcome feeling sparks crackle down Nice's spine. The creature noses into Nice's cheek, dragging his plush bottom lip in his wake, and Nice wants— he wants—
Should I be careful with you, little hero? the creature asks, his voice—or whatever you'd call this telepathic bullshit—shot through with sincerity. I don't want you to break.
And if I want to be broken?
The thought startles him. Shakes him down to the marrow of his bones. Because as much as he might instinctively rail against it—as much as he might try to shove it down into a box and slam the lid closed on it—he can't deny it.
That's… maybe Moon is right. Maybe he does need a therapist.
And, privy to all of this and more, the creature pulls back enough to meet Nice's eyes, brow furrowed.
He doesn't stop fucking him, though; doesn't even slow down. Nice can even feel a second tentacle prodding at his entrance, seeking permission yet again. He's terrified of saying yes—more terrified of saying no.
Right. Therapist. I'll… look into that. If I don't die here.
You won't die under my watch, the creature says firmly, curling fingers into Nice's sweat-damp hair and tugging until his head tilts back. You won't. I'll only hurt you if you ask for it, in the ways that make you feel good. All you have to do is tell me what you want, little hero. And if you can't string the words together, I'll do it for you.
That sounds… good to him. It sounds nice.
The creature's smile turns positively incandescent, like he's lit up from the inside out. He scritches at Nice's scalp, and Nice really can't shake the comparison between himself and a devoted dog, but he can't bring himself to care, either, because it feels good.
Okay, the creature says, nose scrunching up with the force of his grin, let's continue, yeah?
The second tentacle breaches his hole just as the one in his mouth is abruptly removed, replaced instantly by the wet heat of the creature's lips. Nice seizes up, toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch, but the creature coaxes him with lips and tongue, secondary tentacles massaging his cock until he goes a just the right amount of boneless, and the other tentacle pops inside at last, twining around the first one as it fucks into him again and again and again.
Nice can barely tell up from down, can barely breathe even when the creature gives him the space for it. The tension in his frame is like a rubber band stretched taut, the unrelenting assault on every last one of his senses kindling for a fire he thinks might turn him to ass in an instant.
His breaking point is the addition of one final tentacle. Much smaller than the rest, slimmer. It snakes around its brethren, a light, ticklish touch that pauses at his cockhead. He's too caught up in the creature's mouth and the tentacles scrambling his insides to pay it any mind—until it digs into his slit and shoves.
It's pressure and pain and alien—a probing tendril that mimics the ruthless rhythm of the tentacles thrusting in his ass. He's never been so full, he can't even tell if he likes it, this squirming, inexorable slide of something into a part of him he never throught to fill. But the creature doesn't stop—he doesn't withdraw from any of his holes, doesn't leave him empty. So he must want it. He must need it.
Nice bites down on the entity's tongue, copper flooding both their mouths, as his second orgasm rocks through him like an earthquake.
He's conscious through this one. Every centimeter of him trembling, unable to return the kisses the creature still hungrily devours from his mouth. It's almost like he's been electrocuted—every nerve ending on edge, alight with pure feeling in a way that makes him want to tear his flesh from his bones just to be rid of it. But it doesn't stop. He doesn't stop. There's constant contact between them. Hands framing his face; tentacles mapping out the creases of his skin; teeth set against his tongue in faux retaliation, nipping playfully. The tentacles that have held him in place all this time haven't released him, meaning he can only take what this creature deigns to give him—trust that it's in line with the deep, dark thoughts he's plucked from the depths of Nice's subconscious.
He doesn't know how long he spends like that. Floating, suspended by innumerable limbs and a pair of calloused human hands, his thoughts spinning through his head like a carousel. He breathes, and the creature murmurs words of praise like he's done something worthy of them.
By the time he feels present again, there's a fine layer of cooling sweat across his body, and the creature's shifted them both to the ground—him cross-legged, cradling Nice in a nest of overlapping appendages as he strokes a warm hand through his hair. Nice hears only the sound of his heartbeat for a while—gradually tapering down from a crashing roar to a steady one-two beat.
The tentacles haven't withdrawn from his ass, he realizes. Wriggling in place now that the restraints have transformed into something resembling an embrace, he feels them still writhing inside of him. No longer pistoning but very much forcing him to feel every centimeter of their reach.
For a moment, Nice mourns the fact that he doesn't have an especially sensitive prostate. He can't imagine what this would've felt like if he did.
And then the doubt those helpful endorphins had kept at bay hits him like a stray baseball crashing through the window.
"Oh, fuck," he says, twisting in the creature's hold, trying to get eyes on the cavern entrance. The rocks blocking his path are there, obviously, but—even when he strains himself, he can't make out the sounds of fighting on the other side. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The creature hums a questioning note, though it must already know exactly what's put Nice right back into that state of panic.
"I need— I have to go," he grinds out between clenched teeth. All the lingering warmth's starting to drain away, leaving him cold and clammy. He spies his tattered suit a few meters away, and though he knows it's a lost cause he still thinks about gathering up the scraps to preserve his nonexistence modesty. "I have a job. I had a job. My boss, the Director, he's—"
He's waiting for Nice to return with results. He's waiting for proof that Nice isn't hopeless—that he's capable of breaking into the Top 10. If Nice doesn't deliver, if he's failed, again, then— then—
Fingertips tap at his breastbone, quick and arrhythmic, just enough to draw Nice's attention to the way his lungs have constricted in his chest. He breathes in shakily, exhales a hiccuping gasp. The band around his lungs only seems to tighten further.
His eyes flick back towards the creature's face. The creature, in turn, flattens his mouth into a thin line, eyes narrowing. Something in his expression makes the hairs lining the back of Nice's neck stand on end, sweat be damned.
I don't like this, the creature tells him plainly. You were so relaxed a second ago, and now you're more tense than when I strung you up originally.
"I had a job," Nice repeats quietly, and if it sounds like a plea, and if it sounds like an apology, and if it sounds like a death knell—there's no helping it.
Then quit.
Nice's eyes widen. They widen to the point he recalls the ridiculous adage his mother would tell him when he was a child—any wider and they're liable to pop right out of your head. A laugh rumbles through the creature's chest at the sight of it, reverberating through Nice where his shoulder leans into his torso.
What, that never occurred to you? A job like that, that runs you ragged and makes you feel like shit even when you succeed? The creature rolls his eyes, unimpressed. Quit.
"I—" Nice's mouth won't work. His heart pounds against his ribs so fiercely he's sick with it. "I can't. I'm a hero. I'm… I'm supposed to be a hero. And Director Shang is the one who made me. I owe this to him. I owe it to myself. If I quit now, then—"
Then how can he possibly live with himself? After all the things he's done in the name of furthering his career, cementing his place in the rankings. The people he's hurt. The lives he's helped cut short, even if he was never the one to deal the final blow. Perfection always a price, and for so long, Nice was willing to sacrifice anything to obtain it. Selling his soul only seemed appropriate with his future on the line.
If he quits now, all of it will have been… meaningless.
Hm. Talking you out of this seems like it'll do more harm than good… Humming to himself, the creature pats at Nice's chest again, almost absently. Despite everything, Nice finds himself savoring those small points of warmth every time they make contact with his icy skin. Alright. Don't quit.
Nice exhales, closing his eyes. Right. Of course. This is what he asked for. He'll just… pick himself up, dust himself off. Scavenge around for whatever remains of his dignity and go make his report to Director Shang. He'll accept the punishment for failure. He'll learn his lines for the next fight, memorize the steps of the dance he and Moon will have to enact for their public appearances. And all this will be—
I'll just go with you.
What.
"What," Nice says, his eyes snapping open to find the creature grinning at him smugly.
I'll come along, he says with a shrug. I already know I'm the only one of my kind left here. I guess when the ship crashed, only I survived, in that annoying state of suspended animation. I don't wanna be lonely, and you're the only human I know… so you'll have to put up with me a while longer, little hero.
"It's Nice," Nice corrects, reflexively. It's not at all what he should be reacting to out of that statement, but it's the only thing he feels equipped to handle.
The Director guy calls you that. So I won't. Besides, you didn't have any objections to my nickname earlier.
"But I…" What does he even say to that? To any of that?
There were others here with you, right? The creature glances around, his eyes lingering on the blocked doorway before tracking the flickering moonlight filtering in through the open ceiling. I don't sense anyone else right now. Nothing living, at least. They must've have left while we were fucking.
Nice chokes. "Do you have to say it like that?"
Snickering, the creature rubs soothing circles into Nice's sternum, and Nice can't help but reach up to wrap his hand around the creature's wrist. To hold on, to anchor himself—he doesn't know why he does it. Just that it feels right.
Tentacles hover in the air behind the creature, curling and twisting as though they have a mind of their own. The ones still attached to Nice are much the same, seemingly moving independently from the creature's will. Nice follows their movements with his eyes, mesmerized.
For the first time, Nice lets himself acknowledge what this creature—this entity—this alien—really is. An immensely powerful being, awoken within the ruins of an extraterrestrial ship that Director Shang had eyes on long before he sent Nice to do the grunt work. Something here is crucial for the experiments he's been carrying out. Something here is intimately connected to the oozing black liquid that Director Shang wants so desperately to control.
This creature is at the heart of it. Not this human-shaped version with the devilish tentacles—the original, the otherworldly mass of concentrated feeling that would've brought Nice to his knees had he been standing at the time.
Nice has spent years obsessed with what ifs. What if Director Shang tired of him. What if Director Shang decided he'd have more use as a test subject than a sterling hero. What if the next living being injected with that black liquid was him. He'd seen the impact of it firsthand—it was why he never stood too close to the Phobiaclones during a fight, careful to sidestep any spray of blood-like substances. The horror of that possibility—that awful, nauseating what if—has driven him towards becoming number one just as much as that fleeting childhood dream of the man he wanted to be.
He hasn't lived a day without it since Director Shang first ordered him to accompany him down to Treeman's sub-basement laboratory.
And yet.
Looking up at this creature, who even now treats him with absurd kindness, he finds he's not so terrified of Fear.
(Whether or not this effect is permanent is something for him to deal with down the line. Not here. Not now. Not when the final echoes of panic are draining out of him, like a wound expertly lanced.)
He carefully sets aside his misgivings. His fear. His disbelief. None of them will help him now. And Nice has always been good at knowing when to rid himself of dead weight.
We'll go soon, the creature decides, drawing Nice out of his thoughts. I wanna enjoy this afterglow thing a little more.
"You're… really going to stand out," Nice points out, because it's about the only coherent thought he can string together right now. He raises his brows meaningfully at the tentacles writhing around them when the creature turns a baffled look on him.
Oh, these? No worries. Like I said before, I can get rid of them. Or, uh, hide them away, at least. People won't notice. I can claim they're my power, too, if I need to bring them out.
"Uh-huh." Nice decides he can, in fact, worry about the implications of that later. "Alright, aside from that…" His face flushes as he clears his throat. "What afterglow are you even experiencing right now? I'm the only one who got off during all that."
Watching you enjoy yourself was enough.
Nice blinks, uncomprehending.
Honestly! Also, I wasn't really used to this form, and… yeah, I definitely figured out the mechanics of an orgasm from you, but it's different trying to apply that to a body I'm not familiar with. I'll make it work next time, I promise.
Nice shuts his mouth. Okay. Okay. Sure, whatever. There's a next time somewhere in his future. Because this weird, fearsome creature… likes him? Enough to sexually ravage him and then choose to accompany him out into the world after he's stained them both with excessive amounts of cum. Why not?
"Do whatever you want," Nice murmurs, closing his eyes again. "I can't exactly stop you."
A moment later, a kiss is smacked to his lips, and the creature hums against his mouth, pleased. Aren't you a good boy? You learn so quickly.
Nice shivers, refusing to open his eyes and acknowledge that. He doesn't need to, anyway; the entity knows everything, after all.
You can't go again, right? Or can you? Judging from what I've learned some people like to keep fucking even when there's no chance of them orgasming again, and I have a few more things I wanted to try. I think I can get this dick working properly if I simulate the blood flow your circulation system exhibits—
The creature's chatter washes over Nice, stirring the faintest swirls of arousal in his gut. Not enough to get his dick up again, not yet, but… soon, maybe. For now he does his best not to think of the consequences they'll face the moment they leave these ruins.
I can't remember the last time I indulged in afterglow, he thinks, burrowing deeper into the creature's hold, ridiculously amused when the tentacle still plugging him up shifts to accommodate the movement. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.