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Nightmare Encounter

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Black Mask waits until the Flash finishes up with a sweet little kiss and a ruffle of the hair. Then waits a little longer, just to be safe, until the nonsensical whimsy-world of a human’s regular dreamscape starts to swirl around him. He doesn’t think anyone else will come. The three who’ve been are the only ones Nightwing has told and Deathstroke isn’t really the kiss and tell type. But better safe than caught.

“So, you’re the little mortal whore everyone’s talking about?” Mask asks, letting his disgust drip off his words. It’s been so long since he’s bothered with a mortal. For the life of him, he can’t understand why the gods like to play with the weak creatures. What fun is there in fragility? Where’s the challenge in delicacy?

He knows the human perceives this as another dream, perhaps a little more real, that it seems to the mortal that its thoughts and feelings are emanating from the form its subconscious has conjured for it to inhabit. But Mask can feel the indignation swirling all around him. He licks his lips, tasting the delicious, doughy flavored appetizer of a bruised ego.

“I’m getting pretty tired being called a ‘whore’ and a ‘slut’,” the boy snaps, to Black Mask’s surprise. He doesn’t often invade human dreams, dismal and petty as they usually are, unless, like now, he’s told to. But most humans don’t have much control over their subconscious, it’s easy for a god or spirit to influence the course and the mortal usually just goes along for the ride. Even when the dream turns into the nightmare that it inevitably does when Mask gets involved.

He grabs the mouthy worm by the throat and slams it against an invisible wall that comes out of nowhere. He likes the way this one kicks at him and claws at his hand trying to get air it doesn’t need. So, he slams his fist into the human’s gut, pulls back, then punches it in the genitals… hard.

The atmosphere ripples with the spicy zest of pain as he removes his hand and allows the mass of soft, squishy flesh to collapse to its knees.

Where it belongs.

“No one cares what you want,” Black Mask snorts, walking around behind it while it coughs and wheezes, “I would have thought that had been made very clear to you. Then again, you don’t seem too terribly bright.” He kicks between the muscular thighs with enough power to kill a human, if this weren’t a dream. Mask smiles when the ripples of pain turn to waves of full-bodied agony and continues, “Just a slightly above average looking life-support system to keep that hole tight and warm. That’s the only thing insects like you are good for, after all.”

The general sense of excruciating anguish is now seasoned with peppery humiliation in just the way Black Mask likes. He manipulates the dreamscape so that the human’s hands and knees are sucked into the ground, trapping it even as it thrashes to free itself. He keeps going on the arms until they’re swallowed all the way up to its shoulders so that its ass sticks out into the air.

“This, everything I’m going to do to you, is just the tip—hah—just the preparation,” he whispers into its ear.

Then he presses the dry pad of his inhumanely big thumb past the twitching ring of muscle now presented to him. The acid flavor of fear is the final ingredient. But when Mask withdraws, he still spares a moment to crush the mortal’s fragile balls.

When it screams, he uses his power to force its mouth closed and tape it shut, denying it even the small mercy of venting its pain.

He spends the next several minutes viciously beating first the right, then the left, buttock an ugly, mottled, purple and yellow to the sound of his favorite music, stuttered, wet gasps, choked sobbing, and muffled, tortured, wails.

When he finally shoves his thumbs into its hole and pulls it open wide enough to at least get started, the helpless little animal starts whimpering louder and fighting even harder, twisting and tugging on the magic that holds it in place, to no avail.

Black Mask knows that its physical body is full of Deathstroke’s and Nightwing’s come, but here, in the playground of its mind, its passage is as bone-dry as Black Mask’s cock as he presses the god-sized head to the tiny little opening. The sweet, rich flavor of terror floods around him.

Black Mask feels blood as he thrusts in, feels the way the delicate flesh rips like tissue as he impales the weak little bug which tries to shriek. Connected like they are, so close to the source of all that delicious suffering, he remembers why he enjoys it when Joker asks him to torment mortals.