Chapter Text
"Well, after that biopsy, we have a diagnosis for you." The doctor snaps the binder shut and gives him a sympathetic look.
Chad's arms are folded over his chest, and he does his best not to scowl with impatience. He doesn't want to go to yet another doctor for this, not when after years of issues, he's finally getting an answer.
"Power-exacerbated endometriosis."
Chad blinks. What the fuck is that. He voices the sentiment in a more polite wording, but not too polite. He has a reputation to maintain.
"Essentially, your body is growing uterus tissue where it shouldn't be. It's not cancerous or malignant, but it can cause the dietary issues you've noticed, and irregular and painful periods, even though you suggested that might be the testosterone interacting with your powers, and some other issues also match up. Not the rarest condition in the world, for women, and this level of severity at your age is only a little far on one end of the bell curve."
Huh. Chad feels a wave of revulsion, imagining fucking, bits of womb tissue spreading across his inner pelvis like fucked up little tree roots (one more reason to hate those things). Ew. He'd kept the plumbing in his youth mostly because he didn't want to spend the money on getting them removed. And now that he was a hero, SDN insurance would probably cover it, but, he hasn't really. . . Thought about it for a while. It was just part of him.
Chad takes testosterone because his body doesn't make enough, is a man, controls the fire and the flame and his skin does not burn, and thrice or twice a year at unpredictable times his ovaries tried to kill him like the freeloaders that they were. It was always over fast, within a couple days, but it was agonizing every time, and he bled enough to kill him if he were a normie, it seemed like. He'd known that probably wasn't normal, but he always figured it was his super powered body just putting its all into getting rid of everything at once.
"Can it be removed?" Chad asks, uncharacteristically sober. "I mean, it's not like I'm using any of it."
The doctor's face puckers, and then they say the sickest fucking thing Chad has ever heard a medical professional suggest to him. And someone has asked how much of his fingers he was willing to amputate, before.
"Are you sure? Pregnancy prevents a lot of the issues, and can pause growth. Sometimes it even seems to cure it altogether. Just try it out."
Chad gapes at them.
For one, he's pretty sure he's infertile due to how much T he's dosed in his lifetime, and his body temperature would kill any interlopers, at that. For two, what the fuck? Sure, Chad was hoping to maybe adopt one day, but having a kid just to get rid of a fucking illness? Isn't that a little callous?
He could try, just to say he had, and convince the doctor into performing the operation anyway since him getting pregnant is so unlikely.
For three. . .
Fuck. Now he's thinking about it. Chad considers the logistics. He's not out to anybody other than Alice or his hook-ups (none of which he never sees again, so those don't count), and he's not going to ask her or a random stranger to get him pregnant. If the others have noticed shit, they haven't shown any signs.
The doctor leaves the room to let him consider his course of action, and Chad doesn't even notice, rapidly descending into his own head.
The fucking alien and Golem are both right out, since he's trying to get pregnant. Even if Phenomaman is compatible in some roundabout way, like laying eggs in him (Chad. . . Shudders at how down he'd be for that), this needs to be an all-natural human pregnancy for it to have an affect, presumably.
Chad pictures fucking Sonar and immediately it derails into him killing him and then himself as soon as the clothes come off and bat-fucker's mouth opens to make a comment. Fucking murder-suicide.
Chad pictures himself fucking Waterboy instead, and immediately receives a scene of himself gritting his teeth through a date, some stuttering incompetence, proposals to be boyfriends or something, and ending in premature ejaculation. At least he wouldn't spread that shit around, even if he still wanted to kill himself after.
Colm. . . Well. At least he'd get someone experienced. But explaining this shit to him would take too fucking long. He'd be too. . . Fucking carnie about it. He wants to get this over with.
And if Coop found out Colm was moving on to someone else, even if it was just a one night stand, she might actually kill one of them. And she can't kill Colm, so he's the easier target for her particular brand of vengeance.
He's not actually sure if she intends on getting back together with the guy beyond fucking him every so often to scratch the itch, but, there's been signs.
That just leaves Robert. Mecha Man.
His nemesis, even though he hasn't actually antagonized him much lately after the reveal and the prompt boss battle that followed practically the next fucking day. His fucking rival, even though Robert hasn't really. . . Been in the field at all in the six months since then. His. . . Whatever he is to him, now.
Chad swallows and shifts his seat in the cheap-ass examination room chair from a man spread to pressing his legs together.
Could Robert even handle his ass? Sure, he knew in combat and spars the guy had stamina, but that didn't guarantee he was good at sex. And Robert might not even be willing to agree to try fathering a kid. If he does, he could end up arguing for Chad to let him induct it into the Mecha Man legacy (in which case, Chad might really set him on fire. No baby with his DNA is coming within ten fucking feet of that thing).
And, it doesn't help that he's nebulously supposed to be as straight as an arrow. Everybody's seen his ass having to stare holes in the cubicle wall instead of so much as acknowledging Blazer's tits when she comes by his desk for a casual check-in.
But come on. What straight guy turns down a fat, wet, eager cunt when it's being presented to him, even if it's attached to a guy? A fucking eunuch, is what. And Chad's abdominals and pelvic muscles are so jacked from kegels, he'll be able to milk the fuck out of him until he's crying and emasculated and can't even move to pull out. A one-pump, hell, zero pump chump.
Unnoticed, Chad's shoulders are starting to heat up to match the development between his thighs.
He could put up with Robert long enough to humiliate him in bed, right?
Chad notices the smell of melting plastic and yanks his hands off the arm rests. Short black strings follow them for a second before breaking off, and imprints of his fingers have been left in the shitty plastic surface.
Chad stands up abruptly and starts to pace the examination room to prevent any other damages.
His suit is starting to cling to his crotch, risking giving him a cameltoe, and he pulls it free from the surface of his cunt with a grimace before it chafes.
Is he really getting fucking wet, thinking of this? Of bitch Bob-Bob's tiny fucking dick trying to sink inside, practically just rutting against his entrance, until Chad helps him out? Or maybe instead of being tiny, he's just not thick enough for Chad to notice he's slid in until he clenches down and threatens to snap it off like a toothpick, much to Robert's distress.
He huffs, steam blowing from both nostrils like a pissed-off bull.
Somehow, the answer is yes.
Chad stalks over to the door and yanks it open. The doctor, standing outside and reaching out to turn the knob to hear his answer, presumably, blinks at him.
Chad raises a single finger on his bad hand, pissed off all over again at their fucking audacity to prescribe him a fucking pregnancy before they'll even think of just removing the problem outright. "I'll try to get pregnant and then come back when it doesn't work, asshole, because I'm practically infertile and shit. Never gotten pregnant even once, after thirty-six - fuck, thirty-seven slutty, slutty years. Get ready to eat your fucking words and schedule a surgery, bitch."
The awkwardness that followed his declaration in the middle of the doctor's office is palpable. Chad does his best to let it roll off him like water off a duck's back.
"Is that fucking everything?" He asks, so fucking tired of this, and the doctor nods, still clutching the binder like a shield, but blocking the way back to the waiting room of the clinic. "Then can you fucking move so I can go?"
They startle, then hug the wall. He nearly shoulder-checks them out of spite anyway as he passes, but only barely holds off. He still needs them for any referrals. He's probably leaving a trail of hot air in his wake and heating up the whole place and risking spoiling some fuckin', temperature sensitive medications or something but. Fuck them. Fuck this.
The one hundred and forty dollar copay he gets hit with in the lobby is just the fucking cherry on fucking top of the entire visit's shitty sundae.
Back at home, he impulsively texts Robert, Hey, can I come over to your shitty k-hole apartment one of these weekends soon? It'll be quick.
Is it that time of the month already? Robert jokes back after a couple minutes of silence, and that fiery, indignant, horny feeling that's been sitting low in his pelvis since the office responds by briefly winding itself up into a hot knot of friction, even though Robert's definitely just joking and doesn't actually know that's a thing yet.
Yeah, Robert FUCKING wished it was his time of the month. All the better to knock his ass up at. Like he wouldn't incinerate the bitch if he talked to him like that and knew what he was fucking saying.
He closes the chat to let Robert marinate a little and starts stripping his costume off. He's due for an everything shower, and maybe, afterward, while he's lounging in his bathrobe like a king, he'll text back.
Fucking bitch-ass. He can't believe he's planning on letting this pussy of a paper-pusher hit it raw, let alone cum inside.
Robert stares at the open message history on his phone.
He's heard way more off-color jokes from the team than that, is Chad seriously leaving him on read right now for that one?
Unexpected moral spine, from him. Or maybe it's just having a teenaged niece that made him take offense.
He follows up with, Yes, come over sometime, I'll take my punishment like a good boy, is that what you want to hear, you prick? Fine. Show up when you want, I guess. You do that anyways already.
At least this way of doing things kept it contained. If Chad punched him at work, he was liable to start a fistfight in the bullpen with all the hero complexes in that one room alone.
He doesn't get a response for at least fifteen minutes, so he just puts the phone down to charge and settles deeper into the blanket nest assembled around him on the bed. It's Friday night, Beef has long since been kidnapped by Chase for a merry fuckin' caper to who knows where, he's got nowhere to be. And Chad probably won't be coming over until next weekend, anyways.
He liked to catch Robert off guard, and make him wait for it. The longer he saw him sweat, the better.
Which Robert fucking hates.
Robert wakes up the next morning to the sound of knocking on the door.
"Hey, Chase - "
It's not Chase he opens the door to, in his usual pajamas of boxers and a ratty, soft shirt.
In an eerie mirror of that first punch at the party, Flambae stares down at him, practically heaving with ill-contained energy. Fists clenched at his sides, jaw muscle jumping at the hinge.
His hair is loose, and a bit wind-swept, probably from the flight or drive over.
Robert does his best in a short period of time to brace for the punch.
Instead, Flambae shoves past him into the apartment, leaving Robert wrong-footed and a bit poleaxed. There's the sound of a pair of boots being taken off and chucked with dangerous force into the corner designated by the team as the 'Shoe Pile' when they came over, if they didn't keep them on.
"Uh." He turns, and Flambae is aggressively pulling the futon away from the coffee table he'd picked up from the side of the road a few weeks back, barefoot on the concrete floor. "What's going on?"
Flambae straightens up from his work and glares straight ahead outside the windows, presenting his back. He reaches out and pulls the curtains shut, shading the room into dimness.
"My fucking doctor," Flambae grits out and starts sliding one side of his super suit off his shoulder, "Told me I need to get pregnant. And you're the least objectionable asshole out of the available options."
Before Robert can even try to process that, Flambae finishes shucking off the one-piece and steps backward out of the pile of fabric around his ankles like he's trying to hide something on his front. Naked as the day he was born. In the middle of Robert's apartment. Next to his fucking futon.
Robert's eyes immediately lock onto the pair of thick, rounded glutes in front of him. Fuck, those squats at the gym weren't just for show, were they?
"Oh, you like that, straight boy? You an ass man, too?" Robert wrenches his eyes off them and back up to Flambae, giving him a smirk over his shoulder. "You'll love this."
He turns to face him, and Robert's gaze darts down without his permission to ogle at —
Where is his dick.
The word 'pregnant' finishes sinking in and clicks together with the sight before him to finish the puzzle in Robert's head, and he sucks in a shocked breath.
Flambae's thick, slightly wavy treasure trail transforms into a forest of wet curls over his genitals, and yet it is barely obscuring the presence of a pair of flushed, juicy-looking folds, and what he assumes is a modest (how large would be normal, for a man like Chad? It's at least five times the size of a normal clit—) pink and swollen clit poking out from their apex. His thighs are shiny with smeared fluid.
Had he been wet the whole drive here? Did he normally go commando, or was this (Flambae coming over to get fucking naked in his apartment without provocation IN FRONT OF HIM—) an exception?
Flambae widens his stance, and just a sliver, the slightest bit of clearish fluid that's still visible to the eye, drips out of his briefly exposed, moistened hole onto the concrete. Thick enough to cling to itself.
Robert's mouth waters. His dick is already starting to rise to the occasion, as slowed as its progression has been by his unease.
"Helllloooo, Mecha-Bitch still home?" Flambae snaps his fingers a couple times, and Robert swallows. "I need you to fuck me, here? I can see your little dick getting excited in those plain-ass boxers of yours, what's the hold up?"
"Why," Robert croaks, "Are you talking to me with your pussy out?"
"I need you to cum inside me. Duh. Are you deaf?" Flambae mocks him, and moves around the futon to sit on one of the arms. "And it's my cunt, none of this 'pussy' shit. If we're doing this, you can at least call it the right shit."
He spreads his legs and leans back, one hand pulling a fold to the side until wet, winking pink is exposed.
Robert chokes on his own tongue.
"Cunt, cock or dick, and hole." Flambae touches each part of him and lists off the labels with a long-suffering air. "And I'm Chad. Introductions done. If you agree to fuck me, you'd better be okay with impregnating me too, or the whole thing is pointless. I'm not coming out to any of those other fuckers at work and asking them for this shit. I'll get laughed out the building."
"I mean," Robert can't resist from pointing out, far too busy putting his all into fighting against the magnetic draw of the smell of sex starting to perfume the air, "I have a choice. I could pull out, why would you trust me to—"
Flambae—Chad rolls his eyes. More fluid seeps out and drips down, darkening the fabric underneath his ass, but inexplicably Robert can't bring himself to care about that. "No, you don't, and you won't, and no one will believe you."
Robert absorbs the implication that he in fact will not have a choice once this starts, a cold bolt of fear striking him in the gut and making his face pale. In sharp contrast, his dick throbs insanely hard against his boxers, jerking wildly to full fear-boner status. Chad grins like a jackal.
"Ignore that." Robert spits, and briefly closes his eyes in exasperation at himself. Jesus. That hasn't happened since the first time a woman with sharpened nails the length of his hand grabbed him by the mandible, leaned into the open mech cockpit, and whispered in his ear while the points began to penetrate the topmost dermis layer of his face.
He doesn't remember whether that was a threat thing or a whistleblower thing, to be honest. It's been years, is the point.
"Nah. You like being used for your cum, Bob-Bob?" Chad uses his filthy mouth to full effect, smirking and spreading his legs a little wider to beckon, one hand on the back of the futon for support. Lightheaded from how much blood has gone south, Robert stumbles towards him, nothing more than a fish on a hook. "I think I could lead you around by your dick, wring you out and walk out of here as many times as it took to put a Mini-Man in me, go back to punching you, and you'd thank me."
Robert stands between his legs, now, still in nothing but a shirt and boxers, and feels his ankles close behind his back in the world's oldest snare. It's like he's been hypnotized.
All the things he's ever liked in a man from afar. All the things he liked in a woman up close. Attached to a person he couldn't fucking stand.
Truly, in his last life he must've been a fucking bandit king who died crawling and trading frantic kidney-stabs in the mud of a burning homestead to earn this torment.
As attracted as he is to the fantasy, the idea of the legacy getting passed on for real almost kills his erection. He can only pray this is just an excuse, or dirty talk, or something Chad needs from him for some third reason that's beyond him. Because if Chad comes by in the next couple of months, tells him that it worked and that it's a boy, he might just spiral into an actual mental breakdown.
He gets his dick out numbly, utterly consumed by the disdain in Chad's eyes. Surely. Even if it does happen, Chad wouldn't keep it. Not from him.
The ankles press against his lower back, force him forward, and Robert grunts as he sinks in, just a few inches.
"Jesus Christ, you're so fucking warm."
Going in raw after only ever using a condom in his life is simultaneously the best he's ever felt and the most anxious.
"Come on, Robert," Chad's lips sneer like he's using a slur instead of his name, "Soak your dick, if you want, just fuck me already."
He tips them both back into the futon proper, Chad on his back, holding himself open. With his other hand, he plays a bit of ass-grab with Robert, and pulls with inhuman strength. Robert is helpless to do anything except slide in to the base with a startled yelp.
Chad clenches like a hydraulic press, locking them together, and suddenly Robert is very concerned for his dick as he wheezes out a half-hearted protest. Fuck, that feels good.
He plants his feet, and starts to thrust. The pushback, the friction, even with the slick, is immediately mind-numbing. Sharp electricity zings up his spine, and he hangs his head in shame. At himself, for having so few questions before fucking a man he knows hates him? At his stamina, which will surely draw this out? At the situation in general? Impossible to know which.
Maybe all three.
But it's not enough to stop. The futon legs scrape loudly as he endures the sweet burn just barely starting in his muscles, and then Chad starts moving his hips to meet him. God, he's so wet it's like he could bury himself in there and drown. It makes them even louder together.
The next snap of his hips is violent with the yank in his guts at the sudden idea of getting his mouth on him, still leaking out cum.
What if he's a creamer?
God, that'd be too much, on top of the rest of this. His dick would just pop right off his body like a cartoon.
"There we go," Chad's grin has gone smarmy and self-satisfied as he melts, lips curled into that catlike configuration he seemed to favor. His ankles unlock, giving Robert the slimmest hope of resistance. It's absolutely a deception. "You're already losing it. Fucking pathetic."
He really is.
"Ohhhh my God." Robert lets out a miserable little whine, little more than a rutting animal looking to put its subpar seed in a hostile womb.
That's the comparison that does it.
"I'm close, please, please Chad, fuck, lemme out—" Robert moans, loud and strangled. Panicked, at how fast the ledge is approaching. Chad groans back, long and shuddering, sounding like a damn dream. They fuck like Chad's trying to bruise his cervix on Robert's dick, the slam of their hips so achingly good that Robert can't even think in more than four words at a time, a frantic, instinctual chant of, don'tcuminhimdon'tcuminhimdon't—!
Robert feels it peaking, an urgent tightening in his stomach, behind his balls. He slams in to the root, and goes to pull out of this sucking hole and cum on Chad's stomach.
Wise to his cowardice, Chad clamps down on him like a vise, head lodged in the little pocket where the front wall curves and meets his cervix. Wet, clenching, milking. The type of cunt that could have men killing themselves on behalf of the owner for another taste.
"Ough, fuck! Shit!"
Cum shoots from his trapped cock hard enough to make Robert's back bow dramatically, not even allowed to thrust. Instead, Chad works his cock expertly, rolling his hips and grinding in circles, never giving up enough grip for an escape.
He collapses forward. Frantic nails claw at Chad's sides wildly as he does his best to hump and contribute. This is so fucked. Chad laughs through his moaning. Robert growls and turns spiteful, mean, and starts biting at his tits, his neck and clavicle, the struggle of a dying beast, and those deceptive ankles settle behind his back, gentle like death's repose.
They were never the real trap. Chad had planned to use just the power of his internal muscles to force him to cum inside since long before he'd walked into his apartment.
"Good boy."
Chad's rumbling voice sounds condescendingly dismissive as he blows his hair out of his face now that Robert has nearly served his purpose. The frantic rocking turns firm, and gentle. The sweat is starting to go tacky, sticking them together. He shudders through another harsh spurt into Chad's core.
"Stop, stop, your dirty talk and your cunt teaming up is going to fucking kill me." He gasps out, barely even breathing through the aftershocks. Despite the visibly devastating effects on his well-being still Chad refuses to release him, even as he droops in place like a wilting plant. God, it's hot in here.
His eyelashes flutter. The beautiful, sneering face in front of him falters as his vision wobbles.
"Ay, don't pass out on me." Chad warns warily, glaring down at where he's splayed over his ample chest. Reddening bruises in the shape of his teeth dot the hairy landscape, and Robert manages to scrape enough energy together for a frown. "Stop fucking. . . Wringing my brain out of my cock with your goddamn molten hole. . . If you don't want me to pass out, asshole." Robert replies, because even Chad doing this to him isn't enough to shut down the most basic part of his psyche; being the most dry, bitchy man in any given room.
Probably why Chad hated him still. Couldn't stand to have the spotlight off him.
Chad grins, with the air of someone who's just won an argument. "Gladly. I got what I wanted, anyways. I can tell the doc me getting pregnant isn't in the cards, and they'll fucking listen, this time."
He rolls them over, and then keeps clenching as he lifts off. It hurts. One hand pins Robert's hips to the bed when he tries to jackknife up to avoid the pain of the tight sheathe choking his sensitive cock. The other brackets the dick poking out of his folds with two fingers and jerks it as he rises, increasing the pressure. It feels genuinely fucking awful, like he's stripping Robert's cock of moisture as he goes, and tears well up thanks to his mounting sensitivity. He can't do much but pant and snivel and groan miserable little fuuuuucks until it's over.
Somehow, the blatant disregard and greediness for his cum gets him heated enough for his groin muscles to clench again tiredly, but he's completely spent.
The head pops free at last, and his dick crumples down against his stomach, faintly moist and limp. An unfortunate casualty on the field of war.
A couple drops of cum escape and follow it out, landing on his stomach like pearls with a patter against meager abs. Even without direct contact from Chad, they still steam.
When Robert recovers enough to speak, he grumbles, "Jesus, you nearly sandpapered my foreskin off there, you, you freak. Was that necessary?"
Chad, still effortlessly hovering over him in a straddle and jerking off, flicks the attachment point of skin under his head with a zing of electric pain. It's barely even a punishment. "Not my fault your little normie dick couldn't handle the heat, bitch."
Robert let his head fall back. Big fucking talk from the guy who'd seduced him for the products of said little normie dick.
"Can I eat you out when you're done." He asks the pitted popcorn ceiling.
Out of sight, Chad snorts through gritted teeth, ugly and manly and mean, and then hisses a moan so loudly it's almost a scream. When Robert shifts to watch, he looks almost like he's in pain as his pleasure crests, he shakes apart, and all the muscles in his body lock up.
Robert thinks it's probably for the best, because if all that earlier was manual control, Chad's cunt in an uncontrolled state would probably bite his cock clean off.
Chad collapses on top of him like the gradual demolition of a skyscraper. Each joint unlocks one at a time, until he's resting against Robert's chest, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. His arms are trapped by his sides. He feels the wetness of his cunt ooze out and soak into the front of his boxers, likely staining them irreparably.
Chad's still naked. Robert's flaccid dick is still poking out of his boxer's side slit. His shirt will probably need to be thrown out thanks to the new layers of sweat baked into it by the heat.
And after all that scraping and yelling, there is absolutely no way he's going to be let off the hook without a complaint from the neighbors.
But for now, he buries his face into the warm, loose hair in front of him. Breathes in smokiness and cloves and something fruity, probably the smell of Chad's conditioner.
He's happy with existing in the moment and not worrying about what comes next, just this once.