Chapter Text
Sage's rescue goes off without a hitch.
It's all too easy for Banjo to sneak around the back of the cultist camp while the bulk of the robe-clad Mothman enthusiasts are tending to a jagged, sprawling shrine. Sage seems perfectly happy to wander off the moment Banjo quietly ushers him out of there, a fact that causes Banjo no small amount of worry.
(He thinks he can recall Sage saying something about how the torch has been passed, though for the life of him Banjo doesn't have a clue what that means. Thank God Beckett doesn't seem too worried about the guy going off on his own.)
And yet, ever since going there, he's had a bad feeling.
Paranoia is one of his oldest friends, and its recurrence isn't so bad. He knows what his brain does, he knows how to cope with it, riding the current wave until it breaks and he's given peace once more.
But there's usually a reason for it. Right now, as far as he can tell? Nothing. Nothing’s changed, except for the better. So what the hell is going on?
He chalks it up to his brain just being in one of those moods, and moves on. Beckett’s crusade against the Blood Eagles continues, Frankie goes missing, and by this point Banjo’s just gotten used to being a little more on-edge than usual.
And then the dreams start.
Running through the woods in nothing but a light, flowing piece of cloth, reaching for a distant light but never quite getting there before he wakes up; the need to survive, a horrible feeling that it's not just his life on the line should be fail to get to safety; the feeling of warmth and home, being wrapped up in strong arms and soft wings.
(The dreams that he's loathe to acknowledge after waking up for what they might imply about the kind of person he is. Banjo would try anything once, but… Surely this is too much. Surely there's something wrong with him for how often he dreams of being bent over a wooden altar and begging to be filled, his body and pleasure a sacrifice to an entity he's never given much thought to before now.
Maybe that's why he's thinking about it. Something distant and unknown makes a perfect target for experimental fantasies, and an idle mind will often find itself wandering.
That must be it. That has to be it.)
“I dreamed of the Mothman the other night,” Beckett says offhandedly one day, the two of them sitting at the bar for lunch. “At least, I think it was a dream…”
Banjo chokes on his coffee, face reddening as the bitter drink goes down the wrong pipe, hacking and spluttering as he unintentionally cuts off Beckett’s musings.
“Woah, slow down there, friend. You alright?” Beckett asks, giving Banjo a couple of strong pats on the back.
Banjo gives a thumbs up, using his other hand to drive his fist into the front of his chest. “Yeah,” he grits out, mind racing to come up with a reasonable explanation for his sudden reaction. “Just, uh— breathed at the wrong time, you know how it is,” he dismisses, shaking his head.
Beckett gives him a strange look, before something seems to click in his head. “Oh, you hate bugs, right? No wonder you’re losing your lunch!”
“Yeah,” Banjo lies with relief, latching onto the conclusion and running with it. “That’s exactly it.”
It’s a few days later when he wakes up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and sporting an uncomfortable tightness beneath the sheets. Waking up with a hard-on and finishing the job is one thing. Deciding he's going to give in to whatever weird kinks these dreams have been putting him through is entirely another.
Banjo spends a moment thinking his options through. He could just keep ignoring this. After all, he can’t control what he thinks, but he can control what he does. He grimaces as the bedsheets stick to his shoulders with sweat, pulling his torso off the moistened fabric to go and open the nearby window.
Now he can think.
The cool air from the open window sliding gently across his bare skin, Banjo peers into the darkness of the forest, hands leaning on the windowsill. There’s nobody around; just him in his room, and Beckett sleeping in the spare. Nobody would know if he got himself off to the idea of some cryptid, and if he’s listened to enough Rip Daring, fucking a cryptid isn’t the weirdest thing someone could fantasize about.
… Screw it. He’s been stressed enough recently; what’s a little harmless fun?
Settling back into bed, his left hand trails gently along the length of his cock. Closing his eyes, his right hand raises to his mouth to suck on his fingers. His hand wet with his own saliva, it trails down and runs a fingertip along the length of his perineum, and he shivers as he wonders what it would be like if those dreams became a reality. He can recall so vividly the feeling of something wide pressing inside him, which he mimics with a fingertip— but what kind of junk would a giant moth even have?
His index and middle finger work their way back and forth, shallowly pressing in and out of his tight hole as his breathing grows heavier. Banjo vaguely remembers hearing that the Mothman might be some kind of mutated human, so maybe that's what it would have; just a regular cock. Bigger, given the creature's size.
He frowns, feeling dissatisfied with the conclusion he's drawn without knowing why. It doesn't feel right, but he can't put his finger on it.
He continues to play through the fantasy in his mind regardless. He presses past the first, then the second knuckle, stroking his fingertip in a curling motion to find his prostate. His other hand wraps around his cock as he throws his head back with a gentle moan, imagining himself being splayed across a large, bed-like altar.
A second finger joins the first, fucking shallowly in and out of his ass as he imagines presenting himself to the creature. He imagines a gentle touch, soft feelers roaming across his exposed, naked body, his offering finally accepted as his waiting, eager hole is finally filled.
The spit on his fingers isn't quite enough, so he withdraws, blindly feeling around beside him for a bottle of lube. His fingers curl around the plastic, bringing the bottle towards him and squeezing more lube onto his fingers. It's an action he's done so many times before, so he has no trouble running through the motions with his eyes closed, unwilling to open his eyes and leave the confines of his imagination.
He shivers as his fingers move back to his ass, the cold fluid making his hole flex around his fingers as he pushes them back inside himself. His legs move up, feet planting themselves on the bed as he uses the leverage to angle his hips, his head tilting back on the pillow as he pants quietly. Sometimes, he struggles to get it up, and he’s both gratified and concerned to realise that this particular fantasy is putting out dividends for him, cock hardening with each stroke of his wrist.
God, he wants to get fucked or fuck someone so badly. It's really hard to make the time between these errands he’s helping run for Beckett— a fact which he doesn't begrudge the man for in the slightest, but… God, it's been a while.
By his standards, anyway. For a moment, Banjo’s thoughts drift to Beckett, wonders what it would be like if the hands around and inside him were a little larger and rougher, the other man’s voice whispering in his ear as he brought Banjo to orgasm.
His cock noticeably leaps at the thought, something which makes him feel strangely guilty. Banjo likes having Beckett around for more reasons than he's willing to admit, but for now acting on any of that is a hard no. Not until Beckett's been able to work through some of the stuff his time with the Blood Eagles left him with, anyway; Banjo doesn't shit where he eats, and he's not going to fuck during his friend's ongoing pseudo-therapy session, either. The last thing he wants to do is make things awkward for their living situation— or, worse, for Beckett to feel like he owes Banjo this.
He needs to think about something else. Don't think about Beckett. Definitely don't think about how easily he could pick you up with those muscles of his, pin you to the counter and—
… Where did the draft from the window go?
Cracking his eyes open, his fist around his cock and the other hand knuckle-deep in his own ass, Banjo freezes.
The Mothman at the end of his bed stares owlishly at him. Banjo suddenly feels very, very small in comparison to the looming creature, its body easily three times the width of his own. His mind goes blank, eyes fixating on every little piece of shimmering dust that flutters off its wings and lands on the foot of the bed.
Oh God. Somehow it knows he's been jerking off to it, and now it's going to eat him. How the hell didn't he notice it getting in here?
He yanks his fingers out of and off himself, holding them up as a sign of surrender. Sticky lubricant trickles down the fingertips of his right hand, collecting in the gaps between his fingers as he pushes himself further up the bed. He wants to scream for help, but the thought runs smack into a solid brick wall at the back of his mind.
If he calls for help, maybe it would kill Beckett. Maybe this is Banjo’s fault. Did he… Summon it?
There's another thought, too. A curiosity that’s probably driven by all the blood in his cock, all the perverse dreams he's been having about a situation not unlike this. Each moment that passes, every inch the Mothman slowly creeps closer, yet more shimmering dust falls off its wings and suffuses the air with a mesmerising shimmer.
It's on the bottom of his bed, now, the poor wooden frame creaking under hundreds of pounds of chitin and insectoid flesh. Banjo yanks his foot back with a sharp inhale as one of its hard forelegs brushes over his skin, the texture significantly less sexy than he’d imagined it in his mind. What the fuck does he do. What the fuck does he do?
There's a pause. Man stares at Mothman, and the Mothman stares back.
It's unclear who moves first. All at once, Banjo seems to come to the fuck it conclusion, both metaphorically and literally. He slides closer, his soft lips slackening and parting without resistance as the Mothman crawls over him, it’s tongue sliding into his mouth.
This is weird, he thinks to himself, a brief moment of clarity shining through the fog before it's swept away. Whatever it is that's in the dust this creature is shedding just makes him feel so… Relaxed. At ease. The solid weight of a giant bug-man-cryptid pressing him down into the mattress doesn't bother him in the slightest, his body tingling as his fingertips trail along the soft wings wrapping around him. His skin, wet with his own sweat, easily picks up the dust falling onto him, collecting in his pores and soaking through the tissue.
The creature presses its tongue further into his mouth, deeper and deeper until it's trying to force its way down his throat. Banjo can feel himself gagging, a couple of tears pricking at his eyes as the Mothman’s tongue stretches out his gullet and he swallows it down. It feels strange, each flex of the long muscle something he can feel further down his throat than he thinks should be possible. Were it not for how relaxed he is, he's pretty sure his throat would be too tense to be able to breathe around the intrusion, his breathing instead wet and raspy as he lays there, pliant and compliant. His throat compulsively tries to swallow down the Mothman's tongue, slick noises coming from his stretched out oesophagus as his body tries and fails to clear the intrusion. He's little more than a human plaything for this creature, but compared to the frequent paranoia he's experienced over the past few weeks, the pleasant bliss he's floating in right now is almost as good as the promise of finally getting laid.
His limbs are too slack to do anything as the creature moves itself, and he wouldn't dream of doing anything to interrupt, either. Spit bubbles up over his chin as the Mothman withdraws its tongue from his mouth, Banjo’s throat spasming with each gag as the long appendage is pulled free. His body instinctively tries to follow the pull of the Mothman's tongue, but the furry abdomen above him holds his torso down as its arms and legs grip and pull Banjo further down the bed.
The creature doesn't have to say anything about what’s coming, now the Mothman’s tongue has plumbed the depths of his throat, because Banjo knows instinctively what it wants— and, God, he wants it so badly too. “Please,” he begs breathlessly, saliva trailing down his chin that he's too dazed to wipe off.
The Mothman, the Great and Beautiful Mothman, obliges his request, and Banjo feels so happy he could cry. The bottom of its segmented body moves forwards, the ovipositor pushing past his open lips. Banjo's eyes affix lovingly upwards, basking in the beautiful ebony wings that fan out above him as the Mothman’s ovipositor thrusts deeper and deeper into his gullet.
The appendage is soft and fleshy as it slides further and further down his throat, Banjo’s tongue stroking at the underside and lips wrapping firmly around it, sucking it like he would a real human cock.
A chittering noise from up above suggests the Mothman is happy with the way Banjo’s throat spasms around its ovipositor, and Banjo is too. It doesn't matter that he can only breathe on the occasional backstroke, his head spinning from lack of oxygen, because it feels so good to be used like this. He knows he'd do anything to make the Mothman happy, and it fills his heart with sheer ecstasy that he's been chosen to receive this blessing.
But he's going to receive a lot more than just that. He feels a pressure at his lips, the ovipositor seeming to widen considerably.
Eggs, he realizes, his heart singing with joy. They're eggs!
Were it not for the tongue being shoved down his throat earlier, Banjo isn't sure he'd be able to handle this escalation. As it is, the combination of the dust in his lungs and the relaxing of his throat muscles helps him take it with little issue. The size of each soft orb varies, and while he struggles with the largest, he dutifully swallows each one. He's so eager, so willing, and the mental image of himself being loaded up with the Mothman's spawn just feels right in a way he doesn't know how to explain.
His throat aches by the time the last egg has been deposited, his stomach a little heavier than before, but Banjo still wants more. God, he's never wanted anything so badly, and he groans in displeasure when the ovipositor is pulled free of his throat.
“No no no,” he begs, his weak limbs trying to grab onto the soft, fuzzy body above him. “I can take more, I can— please give me more,” he urges, the miasma his mind wades through only making him more needy and insistent.
For a moment, Banjo thinks he's being rejected, and it hurts. The idea that this thing is done with him, that it's got what it wanted and now it's going to leave him high and dry. Was he not good enough? Was this always its intent? Is he a fucking moron for assuming a cryptid would follow any of the normal rules for sex? He can't tell if it's the dust in his lungs or the principle of the thing that he wants more, that he's taking it so hard.
The Mothman presses into either side of his torso, its hard appendages pushing Banjo easily back up the bed before lifting his legs.
Oh. Oh.
The angle is difficult, his legs being forced to spread far wider than is comfortable to accommodate the wide body of the Mothman as its ovipositor rubs between his cheeks, but he doesn't care. His hands gripping his thighs to hold his legs up, he can feel the movement of the Mothman’s abdomen down below as its ovipositor searches for an entrance. Even with Banjo’s work on lubing himself up earlier, it seems to struggle to find purchase, so Banjo tilts his hips to meet the Mothman in the middle.
The ovipositor feels a lot bigger when it's prodding at his asshole, slick and wet from having Banjo’s spit all over it and yet unable to press in. Banjo's hands move further down, his left hand being used to spread himself while the right tries to guide the shaft to align more firmly with his entrance. “C’mon, yeah, just need to— oh—”
The words die on Banjo’s lips as the Mothman presses its abdomen forwards, the ovipositor applying pressure to Banjo’s lubricated hole before it gives way. A small moan leaves his lips as his ass suddenly feels so much more full than it did before, his inner walls parting and stretching out from the sheer girth inside him.
He feels like his breath is being taken away as the Mothman steadily, methodically works more and more inches into him. Banjo feels like he should be throwing his head back, closing his eyes and allowing himself to get lost in the sensation, but he can't. Not when that would mean looking away from those deep red eyes, the Mothman capturing him in its paralysing gaze as it fills him up so perfectly, like he was made for this.
The Mothman's name is one he moans like a mantra, the feeling of being filled by the ovipositor even more perfect than the abstract, rough fucking he imagined in his guilty fantasies. As it fucks deeper and deeper inside him, the anticipation of it getting wider for that first egg makes him whine with need, his cheeks flushed and his hair in disarray as he uses what little motion he can to buck his hips against the Mothman. God, he needs it, he needs this, he’ll do anything if it means being filled up and satisfied in a way he hasn't felt in so long— in a way he's never felt like this. His earlier masturbation session already left him close to the edge, and now he's getting fucked his peak is rearing its head with a vengeance.
As the first egg pushes at the tight rim of his asshole, his orgasm hits him, a couple of small spurts of cum splattering across his own abdomen and being picked up by the fuzz on the Mothman’s body as it bears down on him. It doesn't even occur to him to hold off, to delay his orgasm until later— and why would it? This is a gift. This is for him.
In this moment, Banjo doesn't think he's ever come harder in his life. Nothing else has ever felt more right than this, his body hungrily taking in the eggs being shoved deep into his digestive system as if he was made for it.
Maybe he was. Maybe everything else in his life before this has just been leading to this moment, to being a warm incubator for such a glorious, giving creature. Banjo wants to be filled up with the Mothman’s young, wants to be turned into a living incubator and spend the rest of his days being filled up with Mothman eggs.
He wants to be bred, and boy does the Mothman deliver.
The creature’s body makes small motions back and forth, its ovipositor thrusting in and out of Banjo’s ass to pave the way for more of its unborn young. His body twitches and his muscles tense as Banjo’s sensitive prostate is mercilessly worked over, painfully sensitive without a single moment to recover after his orgasm. In contrast to the man’s throat, with every swallow helping take the eggs further in, going from the other direction means working against the body’s natural processes. Inconvenient for the Mothman, but great for the human it’s using as an incubator, his prostate crushed up against his inner walls and making him groan at the cryptid’s insistent rutting. Banjo wants to do something, wants to give back in some small way for each moan and whine he lets out with each animalistic movement the Mothman makes inside him, but all he can think to do is to pull the Mothman’s furry head down to his face and try to take that tongue back into his mouth.
There's a chittering noise as the Mothman seems to figure out what it is Banjo’s trying to do, and there's no argument as its tongue extends towards Banjo's mouth once more. This time, rather than simply letting the Mothman’s long, curled tongue fuck his throat, he tries to reciprocate. He sucks on the appendage to muffle his groans, his hands digging into the fuzz on the Mothman’s body as his head bobs on the Mothman’s tongue to the same rhythm as the ovipositor fucking his ass. His knees come up, squeezing on either side of the Mothman’s abdomen to try and hold it close, unable to fully wrap his legs around it as the large wings splay out like a guardian angel. “Please, please, p-please,” he chants brokenly into the Mothman’s beak, his mouth full of the Mothman’s long tongue and his abdomen heavy with all the eggs being packed into his large intestine. “I want it, I want it all, I can take more, I can— I can take more, oh God, please, please,” he begs, shuddering as he feels another egg pop past the ring of his asshole.
Banjo clenches down as hard as he can, jolts of pleasure dancing along his cock as he feels every inch of the Mothman’s length dragging along his insides, packing his guts with some kind of viscous fluid in its wake. He doesn't want to let it go, doesn't want it to stop filling him up with its eggs and whatever other fluid it’s packing into his guts, too.
It's not enough. His body is too relaxed and he's too human to put up a real fight, and Banjo sobs as the Mothman’s ovipositor is slowly pulled free of his ass, the unrealised need to serve and be filled grinding his heart to a dust finer than that which fills his lungs with empty promise. His hand moving to his stomach, he can barely feel the eggs inside him.
Surely he can take more! Is he not good enough? Is he being cast aside, his ultimate purpose in life nothing but a pipe-dream?
How the hell has he spent so much of his life fucking and being fucked, and yet he can't get this right?
Banjo feels worthless. He feels worse than worthless— but before he can wallow too much, his body limp beneath the Mothman, he feels its tongue brushing softly across his cheek, licking away the salty tears that begin to trickle down his face.
His breath hitches, eyes opening and vision coming into focus. All he sees is bright red pools of color, swallowing up all light that hits them and boring into his mind like a beacon.
The tension in his body melts away, replaced with a soft warmth. It's okay. He did well. The Mothman knows how much he can handle.
His fingertips uncurl from the tight balls his hands made, instead trailing softly across his stomach much more gently than before. He was so caught up in his own grief, his own needs that he couldn't see the bigger picture. Each shift of his body makes the soft eggs inside him press against each other, distending his flat stomach ever so slightly under his hands. Each one a tiny life, waiting for him to give birth to them.
He gets it, now. And even though he doesn't really get it, the enchanting gaze of the Mothman is enough to make him believe he does.
“... Thank you,” Banjo breathes quietly, unsure if the Mothman can even understand him as he caresses its face.
He doesn't get the chance to find out. The bedroom door slams open, Beckett dressed in nothing but a dressing gown and holding a shotgun. “Banjo, I heard something, is everything— WHAT THE FUCK?!”
The Mothman rears up, letting out an awful screech that blasts Beckett backwards. Banjo startles in alarm as Beckett’s body hits the opposite wall with a heavy thud, the shotgun in his hand clattering to the floor. In the time it takes Banjo to recover, his ears ringing and vision swimming from the sudden noise, the Mothman has completely disappeared, leaving nothing but a flapping curtain in its wake.
Beckett stumbles up, eyes wide as he collects the shotgun and holds it protectively to his chest.
Banjo, the covers thrown off, legs spread and cum on his abdomen, is very, very naked. There's little deniability about what just happened here, and now he's no longer inhaling the Mothman’s mind-altering dust, he can already feel his head starting to clear. It helps that the situation is very sobering, too.
“... Weird question,” Banjo begins, politely covering his cock with the bedsheet.
“Situation can't get much weirder,” Beckett replies, a little dazed and eyes wildly scanning around the room as he goes to close the window. “Shoot.”
Banjo pauses. “... So, uh. How do you feel about kids?”