written as a fill for ManicR's prompt over at Gayreign (gayreign (dot) livejournal (dot) com):
Character(s) or Pairing: Lester/your choice
Scenario: Lester is wanking and can't keep his head straight regarding what he's fantasizing about.
Kink (optional): filler's choice
and this is where my filthy pervy mind went. please be gentle, i'm not great at pornish things.
warnings: semi-graphic sex. het, slash, femslash. hints of dom and femdom. a little bdsm. some blood and snuff. technically, there's some voyeurism involved. language: r (for f***, s***, g**damn, and f*g).
pairing: Bullseye's happy fantasizing includes elements of Karla/Lester, Karla/Victoria, and Daken/Karla, but there's a heavy undercurrent of Daken/Lester.
timeline: some indeterminate time before the siege of Asgard.
disclaimer: all characters are property of Marvel.
notes: 1) fffffffffffffffffffff. i wrote this in 20 minutes, immediately after reading the prompt. i was really hoping for somebody with l33t p0rn skillz to take the prompt. *sad face*
A Brief Fantasy
Being cooped up in the tower gets maddening. Osborn's pussy little guards mostly mind their own beeswax, but it feels like everybody else is constantly underfoot. Mac hogs the TV with fucking QVC and the Lifetime Channel, Ares struts around like he's ready to bash somebody's head in by sheer force of testosterone, the fairy princess flirts and fucks with anyone, anywhere (the anywhere part being way more annoying than the anyone part)…
So when Bullseye manages to lock himself in one of the little office bathrooms a few floors down, it takes him a few seconds to calm down enough that he can get in any kind of mood to do what he's been dying to do for a week now.
He starts by picturing Karla. They've only fucked that one time, but she was good, and she's hot as hell. Spread out on a bed like a playboy centerfold, all flat belly and big tits and long legs. She smells like beautiful.
Hey, handsome, she'd say, mussing her hair and arching her back. I was just thinking of you.
Hm. Boring.
Maybe with Norman's pet dyke along for the ride.
Hand's got a good body, somewhere under those uptight clothes of hers. And that name…Victoria. It screams prim and proper. It screams 'lesbian secretary fantasy.' Bitch was practically made for this.
She's athletic…maybe a little more toned than Karla…she's just as curvy as Karla, except that her tits might be a little perkier (and Bullseye is a lover of almost any kind of rack, anyway, because tits are tits and they're God's second- or third-greatest creation). She'd be a pushy bitch in bed, too. She'd tell Karla what to do, maybe slap her around a little…or a lot…
That's more like it.
Bullseye leans back against the wall and palms himself through his jeans.
Gotta go slow, make it last, make it good, because there's no telling when he'll be able to get away from that leering Goddamn fag and his stupid mindfuck teasing and the way he licks his lips like a fuckin' gay porn star—
No. Not going there. Not thinking about that. Not now.
Where was he?
Oh, yeah, Hand—Victoria—and Karla. It calls for handcuffs and a riding crop, really.
Stop telling me what to do, bitch! Karla would snap, and That's 'mistress,' Victoria would reply with a crack of the riding crop on Karla's ass.
Bullseye sighs and unzips, burning hot against his own hand.
Yeah, it would be dove-soft cries and filthy deprecations over the whistle of leather through the air while pinkish-red welts slowly sketched a lattice over the soft curves of buttocks and thighs. Up on hands and knees, jerking with every impact, tits bouncing and eyelashes fluttering. She'd be begging for it soon enough, and Victoria would just arch an imperious eyebrow and stop.
Hell yes. She'd be an evil dominatrix. Fucking evil. It'd be beautiful.
Is this what you dream about?
Bullseye flinches—he's not sure whose voice he just imagined.
I know what you like.
That's definitely the fucking fairy princess. His traitorous cock gives an eager twitch.
This is what you want, isn't it.
Shit. Maybe it is.
And what would happen?
Stay and watch, Daken would urge. Victoria would pass him the riding crop and wander into the shadows, but she'd still be watching, playing with those perky tits of hers and licking her lips in anticipation. Karla would complain, would only go with it because of their audience. She'd still be cuffed, not that it would stop her; if she wanted out, she'd just phase right through.
But that wouldn't matter, because Daken can somehow make anybody want what he wants. Magic gay fairy dust or some shit, who knows…
You're too soft on her, he'd tell Victoria, and the muscles of his arm would tense. He wouldn't play, wouldn't be hitting to pull up pretty marks. He'd strike for blood every time, working his way up her back until she was painted red.
Bullseye can practically taste it. The air would be thick with it, copper-iron-tangy and Chanel-soft and Armani-smoky and sex-sharp.
Isn't that much better? Daken would purr, and Karla would be sobbing, but she'd nod. She'd nod because in tight quarters, everyone wants what Daken wants (and fuck, Bullseye would pay some damn good money to find out why). He'd wrench her head up by her hair, hold on tight and fuck his way into her.
This is what you want.
Bullseye shivers, tightens his grip.
Daken would dig his nails into the bleeding gashes on Karla's back, drag them down, tearing at the wounds and making her cry out.
Blue eyes and black ink and red blood. That Goddamn know-it-all grin and that low, teasing voice with its little hint of Eurotrash metrosexual accent.
This is what you want.
Fuck.
Somewhere along the line, this fantasy has gotten away from him. Stupid defective brain…
Bloody knuckles. Razor-edged metal sliding free inch by silent, lethal inch.
And Daken would pull back his hand, meet Bullseye's gaze, raise one eyebrow in eloquent question.
In real life, he'd stop Daken. Or someone else would. But this fantasy is a little out-of-touch with reality, and the point of fantasizing is to imagine all the wonderful things you'll probably never do.
"Do it," he breathes aloud.
The claws would sink in with a muted squish, and Daken would give a little twist—and they wouldn't hit Karla's ribs edge on, they'd hit flat against the bones and torque. Her ribs would sound like crab shells shattering. Her lung would fill with blood in seconds.
Would she start to struggle then?
She'd try. It wouldn't matter.
Daken would laugh, turn her over, cut her open. He'd smile, and his teeth would be stained red from the spatter. And he'd be fucking exquisite, covered in blood, in death.
Bullseye comes with that image burned into his mind.
"Stupid fucking fairy bitch," he mutters irritably, yanking toilet paper from the roll to clean himself up.
"Yes, dear?" Daken says through the door of the bathroom, and Bullseye will absolutely deny that he jumps like a startled cat at the sound.
.End.