#Men and Women in Blue

[heterorealism]

Truck comes first and if there is any money left over the kids may eat. - Modern Consumer Patriarchy

[jamespoeartistry]

27,796 INTERESTED

[kakushino]

The Queen

Ryomen Sukuna x F! Reader

He never orders you around - rather, he requests.

Tags: slight gore, suggestive, fem reader, true form Sukuna Word count: 1,7k

Masterlist

AN: Fanart used in banner made by the amazing @innaillus - be sure to check out their divine fanart Written as a Secret Santa's gift for @zoyakuna - Merry (early) Christmas! (and pls stop slandering Giyuu, it's causing me undue stress)

There was little to amuse you in your secluded throne room underground. 

Correction - there had been little to amuse you out of your throne room, so you had retreated back into your palace - and even then, was it a palace, when there were no servants, no great halls, no music, and no consort?

Just you - the Supreme Sovereign - and your throne made of roots and vines. 

Which made it odd to hear a sound echo in your chamber. You feared nothing, no one, and your heart remained steady, not a beat out of place, your eyes closed as you rested from lifetimes of exhaustion.

“Who goes there?” you called out, not moving from your reclined position. 

You were it to him, the holy grail of his searching - the Queen of Curses. Your name was feared enough that it had been scratched out from all written sources, the feats accredited to you terrifying… yet thrilling to Sukuna. He had needed to meet you, though he knew not why… A deep hunger for companionship, another who could stand at his level, who could reign with him from his Shrine, a craving so consuming he nearly went mad with his searching. 

And he did find you, though hardly in the condition he thought he would.

“This is what You have become? The cynosure of all mortals reduced to a wretch.” 

The voice was rough, forceful - distinctly male - though the tone held a hint of remorse and confusion. “All beauty is short-lived,” was all you said, a slight irritation churning your stomach for the first time in - decades, centuries, millenia? Who knows?

“Not for curses. We are eternal.” You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, and intense. It lashed out at your own, but like water parting around a blade, yours did too, accepting and redirecting the angry force, dispersing it, and eventually absorbing it. It was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated under the weight of the world, a drop of water quenching a soul-deep thirst in the desert of life.

You opened your eyes and sat up properly as you studied him.

The man - curse - was tall, broad, and regal. A king would be a title befitting his posture. His hair was a light color you could hardly make out in the darkness of your abode. The dark marks adorning his face stood out starkly against his skin, as did the shape of the disfigured flesh on the right side of his face. Four gleaming eyes were focused on you, four arms relaxed at his sides.

This man was fascinating, and beautiful; he could easily sway the hearts of humans, bring them to their knees. Too bad you were not human.

“Join me, your Majesty.” Despite the wording, it was a plea. How odd. 

“Who are you to ask anything of me?” You blinked slowly. You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, intense, … defensive, lonely. It enticed you, spoke to you in a language you understood all too well. It wasn’t in your nature to deny an honest request.

“Ryomen Sukuna, your Majesty,” he introduced himself. There was a sense of pride in the way he spoke, as if his existence was created, carved out, into the world by his own hands.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna would be the cure to your continued boredom. 

You stood up from your throne, your figure hardly atrophied as your cursed energy kept you in peak form. The roots and vines retreated into the cave walls, leaving no trace of your royal seat, the chamber empty again for centuries to come.

“Very well.”

Living with Sukuna was hardly boring. Each day, you felt your apathy falling away as you spent time with the King of Curses, until you smiled freely in his presence. The day you realized he softened you to this degree came all too suddenly.

His cruelty to humans who sought to undermine him was but a flimsy curtain of who he truly was. Like a displeased cat, claws exposed, he scratched up those daring to approach him, but with you -

With you he was as playful and borderline affectionate as the tabby you used to feed back in your human days. It warmed your heart, and your cheeks, to feel his eyes on your figure. It made you feel unsteady on your feet. It made you question who was the ruler of the other, who held the power over the other; the power imbalance slowly became a balance - your energy dimmed by the way he could play you like a puppet.

All these feelings weaved together and knotted around your heart, snaring you in a complex web too tight to escape, exposing your throat to him like a delicacy to be gorged upon.

Only if you let him know, that is.

You somehow felt that a man like him wouldn’t settle, and more importantly, he was a man; just another one of the hordes who wanted a demure consort, you could bet. You were not a dainty flower he likely sought; you were a weed - growing strong despite the harshest of conditions, clawing out a place for your existence where there had been none before. The Curse of Curses.

So you buried those feelings like a female buried herself under layers of junihitoe - though you refused to wear that monstrosity despite the latest fashion in Japan, as all the fabric was too heavy for comfort. You made do with the yukata you stole from Sukuna’s wardrobe. It was definitely not because it smelled like him. 

You kept away from the humans and the ruling in his Shrine, spending time with Uraume, him, or alone in the gardens - until you could not. He’d left you in charge of his Kingdom when he had business to do. 

Human men were deplorable, thinking you were just a weak curse to be manipulated and slandered. You didn’t raise your voice at all, yet it shut everyone up in the hall - save for one local lord thinking himself too mighty to listen. No amount of flattery would have kept him alive after that. A wave of your hand made vines grow out of his guts - burrowing through his flesh as easily as tearing paper apart; sweet-smelling white flowers bloomed from the mess of red-coated plant matter in the middle of the chamber. 

You sat in Sukuna’s throne of bones, regal and untouchable.

That was how he found you - presiding over his subjects like the Goddess you were, and bloody Spring sprouted in front of him, rubies glinting upon the stone floors like a grotesque decoration. 

At first, he had wanted to study you - the Queen of Curses, the Supreme Sovereign, older than him, wiser, more powerful. Forgotten, yet not forgotten enough for him not to find any sources mentioning your title. He had been curious about you, and then he became curious about the feelings you evoked in him. Your presence in his home converted from an adornment into an emollient to him, smoothing the rough edges and softening the spikes of his defenses against you, yet you remained the centerpiece of his attention, even when you weren’t in his presence. He found himself thinking about you in all his waking moments.

“Everyone, out.”

He could not hide his devotion to you if he tried now - it had grown roots in his soul and fed off of his life-force, yet strengthened it twice as much. His heart was set ablaze every time he laid eyes upon your form, the blood in his veins searing hot, branding him from the inside - a slave to you forevermore.

And so he knelt at your feet, the bottom two of his arms supporting him as he leaned forward, his top pair carefully reaching for your foot and raising it to his face.

The King of Curses kissed your ankle, closing his eyes in silent worship to his Goddess, his World. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted you in a whisper, his lips caressing your skin.

Your eyes grew soft as you studied him, your posture proud but your expression fond. “Sukuna.”

Wet, hot tongue darted out to taste your skin, making you jolt and tear your leg from his grasp with pursed lips. The tabby was particularly impertinent today.

“You have no respect for your Queen, do you?” 

“On the contrary, I hold all the respect for you.” His smirk was mischievous, he knew as well as you did neither of you were serious about this. Just a harmless teasing, if a bit skewed. 

You used your foot to lightly push against his chest to tip him over onto his back - which he let you do, for he could have as easily resisted. Even falling down, he looked graceful. It made you feel warm inside your ribcage as you pushed a joyous smile down.

Sukuna turned the fall into a backwards roll, ending up on his knees again.

“At least you know your place - on your knees before me…”

“I-” he licked his lips, “I would gladly be on my knees for you all day, Your Majesty.”

Oh? It was your turn to give him a smile full of mischief as he slowly moved back to you. You remained silent.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” 

Sukuna shuffled forward on his knees, his top pair of arms resting on the bones of his throne as he came even closer. Palms trailing to your thighs and covering them with his hands - an easy feat with his size. 

You could do naught but marvel at the contrast of your limbs and his - each powerful and deadly in their own right, each in a different way. There was no tremor of fear in your muscles, only anticipation, even while he lightly spread your legs to fit his torso between them as you lounged on his throne.

“Let me feast on your nectar.” His voice, smooth like silk, a plea rather than an order, the nuance of his tone telling all you needed to know. He appeared unreadable to others, but he was as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn babe to you at this moment.

Even so, your lips parted in surprise at his request for you didn’t expect him to say it out loud at last. “Forward, aren’t you?”

His carmine eyes - all four of them - focused on yours with an intensity you were only just getting used to with him. Sukuna said nothing as he waited for your response.

The devil didn’t bargain, after all.

“Very well… Show me how you would worship your Queen, my King.”

dividers by the divine @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[the-royal-blue-network]

For decades The LaVine family has ruled the lower-income neighborhoods of New York City. To them, Pauly LaVine and his daughter, Paula, have done more for them than any governor, officer, or any government-assisted program has ever done. To the lower-income population of the Concrete Jungle Pauly LaVine is a God-sent. But not everyone would agree with that statement. 

Down at the precinct Pauly LaVine, more commonly known as ‘The Faceless Man’, and his daughter and minions are a group ‘the peeps in blue’ have been tracking for years. Many officers have penetrated the LaVine circle, only to be distracted by; money, greed, drugs, and women, or ended up as dead bodies, thrown out with yesterday’s paper.  

But Detective Dani believes she’s different. Having grown up with a cop for a father, and watching as he attempted to catch Pauly and his men, Dani wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps and help put an end to the tight hold The LaVines have on the city. But does Dani really have what it takes? Can she really do what the men and women before her tried so hard but eventually failed at doing? Or will Dani end up like the rest of her fellow brothers and sisters in blue?

START HERE AND FIND OUT!

[idle-teen28]

Loving a fictional character is like marriage

You fall for the character, become obsessed with them to the point where you think that they're the only fictional character you've ever loved, like if they were real, you'd marry them in a heart beat

Then you fall for a new fictional character while still being obsessed with the current one, it feels like an affair, but you accidentally became too obsessed with the new one, so you start to ignore the current one slowly, until you completely ignore them, and start to focus on the new one, falling for them now, it's like divorce and remarriage

The cycle continues until you have at least 10 fictional characters

Then you remember your previous fictional crush that you were obsessed with 2 years ago, and then you fall for them again, and become obsessed with them like you used to, it's like falling in love and marrying your ex-spouse again

And then you break-up

And the cycle continues like this, FOREVER

[aishabellasbigblogofeverything]

I love it when women hate men. I love it when women are allowed to vent to each other about how horrible and creepy men are. I love it when women form friendships with and prioritize each other over relationships with men(whether they're attracted to them or not). I love it when women put men dni in their bios and on their nude photos and on posts on their blogs. I love it when women refuse to mollycoddle and accommodate entitled male feelings with "but this doesn't mean I hate all men, I know a few men who are great, I love my father/sons/brothers/uncles/male cousins/guy friends" I love it when women complain about men WITHOUT "not all men" being a disclaimer. I love it when women avoid socializing with/refuse to be around/befriend/get close to men because they know men can't be trusted. I love it when women make "kill all men" jokes. I love it when women offer absolutely no concern or care for men's feelings and if their misandry offends men whatsoever because why should we, men are the oppressor class who have raped and killed and abused us and kept us as subjugated as second-class citizens for millennia, they regularly mistreat us and the women in their own marginalized communities still every single day and make this world so much harder and more awful for us to be in, and if we choose to hate them and not spare them any sympathy then so be it, and I don't just mean "men as a class" either, you can be a woman who doesn't want to have anything to do with any man on an individual basis and completely cuts off men from her personal life too and ykw I will love and fucking support you in that because men deserve absolutely NOTHING from us. If they're so tough and strong then they can handle it just like they can handle being lonely. If you are a woman who hates men, ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE A LESBIAN AND/OR A TRANS WOMAN, then just know that I love you. I love you, I support you, and you are safe here.

[scrawnytreedemon]

some picked-mins i doodled, alone in a server vc :}

[elvencantation]

[archivedhaven]

[daisy-mooon]

"I want Annabeth to be blonde :(" then pick up a PJO book and read it you dumb fuck

[marierosevalentine]

guess I won't be sitting down in my jeans anytime soon!

[arieswritez]

me & you; i do | perfect fiance!mark x lovesick gn!reader

cw; DARK CONTENT!! MDNI! rape, drugging, cucking, non-con bondage, gun play, death threats, degradation, cum play, manipulation, blackmail, sacrilegion (?), religious trauma, non-con filming, somnophilia, the graysons are normal™ (aka nolan never tried to murder mark el oh el), one (1) mention of undereating due to stress, breeding mention (more or so in a petplay context), so, petplay (if you squint), unspecified genitals for reader, this one's crazy nasty sorry xx

about; you & mark are perfect for each other. newly engaged, the two of you are starting your perfect, little lives. you've moved in together. you're looking into buying a home once the two of you marry. of building a home. unfortunately, his job interferes with your picture perfect fantasy. (3.6k words)

each day you wake next to mark is a good one.

you find yourself waking before he does just to have enough time to analyze his features: softened with sleep.

does he know he sleeps with his mouth open? is he embarrassed when he comes to, and finds crusted spit from where he'd been drooling on his side? does he find his hair - sticking out at every angle - annoying to style in the mornings?

you wish he knew. and you wish he wasn't embarrassed. or annoyed. because to you: mark is absolutely perfect.

mark is divine.

you've known it for a very long time. and it's been something that many have pointed out to you: you were built to worship. you knew it early in childhood: when you'd kneel in corners until your blood pooled, dark and tender. when you'd walk in the downpour and beg for mercy. when the wooden crosses above your bedroom door burned into your retinas: so much so, that to this day, you swear you still see their silhouette before you fall asleep.

mark is worth worshipping. and you make it so he feels that way. each morning, you sneak out of bed hours before he does. you brush your teeth and slash water on your face, you make sure to spritz on some soft perfume/cologne and slip back into bed. refreshed. watching.

he lays on his side: eyes closed in blissful sleep, but still, eyes on you. always, always, always. and your stomach feels fuzzy with the feeling that your worship is reciprocated. even subconsciously. you watch as mark's shoulders slowly go up and down with his breathing.

you don't know how long you watch.

long enough for him to stir.

you and him play this little game each and every day. a little tango, as to say. but you're the only one dancing. because, when mark stirs, he hums sleepily, then he slowly cracks his eyes open before letting out a loud yawn. you've memorizes his route. stir. hum. open. yawn.

stir: gives you enough time to wriggle into a flattering sleeping position (mirroring him. hands folded beneath your head, lips parted).

hum: you snap your eyes shut.

now, you assume, his open. your heart races with anticipation.

yawn. a stretch that moves him closer. a wet press of a kiss against your forehead. and you pretend to fuss at first when he peppers your face with kisses. playfully pressing the palm of your hand against his face. but you don't want him to stop. you want him to keep going. forever, and ever. ever and ever, and ever and ever. and sometimes, you wish you didn't have to play coy. because you know he'll have to crawl out of bed. because you'll have to face the day.

you'll have to wait. countdown every second, minute, hour until you see him again. but you play your part in your daily routine. and he murmurs, good morning, and rolls out of bed. and when the door to the adjoined bathroom shuts: your eyes snap open. wide awake. and stare at the indent he's left on your now empty, cold bed.

superhero life is hard.

you knew what you were getting yourself into. you knew. still, it doesn't calm the knotting in your stomach when mark comes home later than usual. when he's gone for days and no one will tell you where he's gone. not even cecil. well, specially not cecil.

but the two of you are engaged now. you deserve to know.

it's not fair.

it's not.

and you spend days in the grayson household, hoping his parents have heard something from him.

nothing.

you can hardly sleep.

you wish you could.

every waking moment is misery. a tightening in your chest. a paralysis in your stomach. a seizing anxiety so great it threatens to make you sick. you try to swallow it down, but the lump forms anyway, and your eyes grow tired of checking your phone for messages or missed phone calls from him.

nothing.

zero.

nada.

you can hardly eat.

you wish you could.

you love the graysons' cooking.

debbie's bibimbap got more delicious each time she made it and nolan's chili was to die for. but everything tasted bland without mark there.

you couldn't make light conversation and laugh alongside him as debbie talked about how mischievous he was as a child.

it's not the same.

you find yourself picking at the food. wishing mark was next to you, his hand on your leg, acting as if he wasn't tracing patterns over your clothing beneath the table. you touch yourself, instead, as debbie's usually exciting stories begin to sound more and more like background noise.

you try to concentrate.

no.

it's not the same.

a break-through in the form of a vision.

you hardly believe it's him.

your bed shifts with the weight of a body, crawling, softly, slowly, as not to rouse you. your eyes snap open, unaware of when you'd passed out from exhaustion. you're sure your eyes are swollen from all the crying. and you don't dare speak, less your voice is hoarse from un-use.

you wish you would've known. you wish someone would've warned you. then, you realize, you only have yourself to blame. you should've been awaiting his return: polished and pretty, presentable. not a shell of a person.

not this pathetic thing, who's eyes immediately fly open. who's lower lip quivers with emotion. who lunges towards an exhausted mark, who welcomes you with open arms and a soft, hey.

a muffled laugh.

your stomach twists.

you don't know why.

is it you?

it's you.

he's seen through the facade. finally, he's seen through the facade you've put on for him all these years. through college: the chance meeting that wasn't really chance. the re-occurring running into each other that you'd carefully put together. your likes, that so happened to be his likes. your friends, who so happened to be his friends.

it took one mistake.

one moment of weakness. of distress for your facade to crumble.

a laugh.

he's laughing at you. at how pathetic you are.

you're sure of it.

you find your tears dry as you hook your chin over his shoulder, listening to his voice in your ear, sounding so far away now that you know. your fingers curl into his worn shirt - he's changed out of suit. . when did he? why hadn't you noticed? idiot. idiot.idiot. - and you hope your grip isn't so hard to give away your panic.

your anger.

at him.

at yourself.

you have to make sure this slip up isn't the end to you.

you have to find a way to make sure mark never, ever thinks about leaving your side.

not again.

mark's had a good childhood.

you've seen the pictures. changing seasons, and growth spurts. gummy smiles turned into slightly filled out smiles, some teeth missing. before they turned into broody looks at the camera. before, once again, they transformed into bright grins. a full set of teeth this time, of course.

you? not so much. which explains a couple things, maybe. but still, this explains a certain behavior that's more fitting for you than it should be for him.

despite his superpowers, mark's paranoid. he's got motion sensitive lights and cameras out on the patio of your apartment. front and backyard. there's a ring door camera. cameras in the home. . even a few weapons locked away in a safe. you'd teased him about it once, finding it silly. saying, you do know you're the weapon, right?

but despite all your teasing, you found it cute: how mark was taking every precaution in the world to make sure nothing ever hurt you. his protectiveness was one of the many things you loved about him.

you also found it annoying.

you found it inconvenient.

so you knew you had to do something about those. you had to make sure nothing got in the middle of your plan.

as the world knows him: invincible, they would've never imagined him to be malleable. an intimidating figure, capable of destroying enemies 10x stronger and bigger, no, malleable wasn't something that the public would describe him as.

but they didn't know him as you did.

they didn't know a goddamn thing.

mark wasn't intimidating. not to you. he took everything you gave him without worry. without a care in the world or a question. he was too kind to hurt your feelings. which is why he doesn't say anything when his drink tastes funny.

you had a taste yourself, from the spoon. too salty. still, he doesn't even pull a face.

the two of you are watching television on the couch. . just some new horror movie everyone's been raving about. it's his day off and you begged and begged to stay in. so, he stayed in.

you barely paid attention to the movie, disinterestedly listening to the protagonist's screams while you stared at mark through your peripheral vision as he took tentative sips of his drink. perhaps you added too much and the taste was obvious. maybe he wouldn't drink enough because it was nasty and it wouldn't do anything to him. maybe his powers made him build a tolerance and it wouldn't do jack shit at all but make him sick.

you fidgeted. your eyes flickering towards the tv. back to him. tv, mark.

tv, mark. tv.

mark: his head fell forward slightly before he caught himself.

tv. the corner of your lips quirked up.

mark. sway. tv. mark. tv. mark. tv.

mark: red illuminated the otherwise darkened living room, undoubtedly caused by a spray of blood, if the ear aching shriek of a character on the screen was anything to go by. not that it mattered much, as mark's head had lolled back, resting against the backrest of the couch.

out for the count.

perfect.

an awful sound.

an injured animal? a sob. a mewl. a squeal.

a cry of his name, soft, whispered: a secret. it's you. his vision swims when he opens his eyes. a wave of nausea as the room spins, tilted on it's axis. a piercing pain at his temples. then, the darkened edges of his vision begin to clear. the small pinprick in which he'd been seeing through expands until he can finally take in the entire room.

the first thing to become clear - or at least blurry, instead of pitch black - is you. you're on the couch, terrified, shaking, tears streaming down your face as you try to speak between babbles. mark realizes he's not next to you, head swimming, as if remembering being moved elsewhere, and now his body is making up for the vertigo the movement should've caused at the moment.

then, more of his vision returns. slowly, an oozing crawl of throbbing colors, the room illuminated a strange greyish blue (the television?). behind the couch, behind you, is a massive, masked man with his hand on your shoulder. more of his vision comes back. and there's another.

mark immediately thrashes, wanting to be near you. but he's bound. he won't budge. and his vision returns enough for him to realize he's bound to a chair: hands tied behind him in a thick rope. and his brain is far too mushy to do a goddamned thing about it.

he can barely let out a let them go, without a stream of saliva dripping from his lip.

someone - something? - speaks. maybe it's one person speaking. maybe the strangers speak in unison. the voices are jumbled together, identical, despite the changes in tone. a clear voice, an echo, a wave of sound, faint and booming all at once. as if. . harmonizing.

yes, that's exactly it.

a maddening, harmony. an echo of voices.

whatever it is, the sound is otherworldly.

his thoughts feel as if they're sliding on oil. he has to fight his failing senses in order to understand.

"i hope you're comfortable. you'll be there for a while.-i hOpE yOU'RE coMForTabLE. you'Ll be tHerE foR A whILE.-i hope you're comfortable. you'll be there for a while~"

mark thrashes again, despite the vertigo that wracks through him, and a massive mitt clamps down on his shoulder, squeezing, keeping him in place. there must be another man.

his head lolls to the side, confirming his suspicions. but this time. . his eyes catch sight of something strange.

off in the distance, is a blinking, red orb.

on and off.

off and on.

he doesn't know what it is.

or why it's trained directly on him.

but the echoing cry that comes from you drags him back down to reality.

mark helplessly watches as your clothes are torn off. as you're pinned by a large hand: smothering your face into the couch the two of you were just snuggled up on. mark thinks the stranger has his fingers inside you. your face screws up in pain. the stranger only begins shoving putting so much force into fucking you with his fingers that your body jerks back and forth.

"i'll - kih-ll - you-" mark manages to drawl, eyes rolling, head lolling, fists weakly clenching behind himself. if he tries, really tries to concentrate, he could be on them in a second. he just needs a minute, he just needs-

a hand closes around his jaw in a vice grip, forcing his head upwards. forcing your attention back towards your limp body. his vision swims. the whiplash blinding him for a second. his face is held so roughly his lips are smushed together, forced into a pout. if he were lucid enough, he'd be able to tell the moan you let out at seeing him like that was of pleasure, instead of a cry from pain. still, you manage to play it off with a sob.

something glints before mark's eyes, the item winking against the pale, barely there lighting of the television, close to your head. it takes a couple of blinks to realize it's. .

"be good, pretty boy, or you'll have to clean their brains off your walls-be goOD, pReTty boy, or yOu'lL hAVE tO CLEAN tHEIR bRAINs OFF yOUR waLlSS-be good, pretty boy, and you won't have to clean their brains off your walls~"

a gun. their finger's on the trigger.

and there's nothing mark can do.

he'll never be fast enough. not like this, anyway. and he's forced to watch. his face is held in place so hard his jaw aches. and when he tries to shut his eyes, their actions become so violent, he opens them back up just to slur at them, trying to get them to stop hurting you.

he's forced to watch as you're pinned down by a hand at your nape. as your underwear is shoved down and tangles at your ankles. as you cry out and babble. as these strange men drape their bulk onto your back and hump into you like savages.

he's forced to listen to the harmonizing voices, making bets on which one of them can make you cum. and mark has to concentrate on trying to hear your screams over their voices. over their sounds. over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. because if you're screaming: you're alive.

he's forced to watch as one guides his cock into your mouth. as they spit roast you. and your gags and retches are so loud in his overstimulated mind he flinches at each one, they might as well have been gunshots. like fireworks to a veteran.

they pinch your nose shut and force you to swallow their spunk. only pulling out once they're done and shoving your face into the mess when you cough up the slime.

the intruders threaten to fuck him. even undoing his bindings and bending him over the coffee table. they bring you down with him, over the coffee table so the two of you are face to face.

mark doesn't even know when he stopped fighting. a fist is in his hair. they mock you. they tell you they'll fuck mark if you don't beg them to cum inside you nicely.

if you don't beg to be bred like a bitch in heat.

and you're so sweet.

you're so kind when you don't need to be.

and they keep mark on his knees, bent over the coffee table, as you beg to be used over and over and over again. begging the strangers to leave mark alone.

they still shove mark's pants down, but he doesn't feel an unwelcome press against his ass, instead, he feels a rough hand close around his soft cock.

and the worst part is, mark finds himself twitching at the sound of your begging. he feels a breath next to his ear, flinches away from it, but a hand stops him from getting too far. the voice whispers, finally one now that it's close enough to really listen, "i'd put on a good show if i were you. i dont want you boring me when i watch this back."

mark knew he wasn't crazy. his vision might swim. nausea might wrack his body. but he's technically a celebrity now.

he's able to tell the flashing - off, on, off, on, off, on - of a blinking red light in his peripheral vision anytime.

one of the men gets on his knees right behind you, and mark can tell the moment he forces himself inside of you by the way you whimper.

mark doesn't know when he's started crying. . when tears began to roll down his face but he can taste it: intermingling against your lips when they force your heads together in a brutal kiss. your teeth clang against his, bite into his bottom lip, and he pulls his lips back in a snarl, angry, anguished, disgusted, when the hand pumping his cock starts to get him hard.

the two of you cry in unison. sobbing. then. . moaning.

whining.

harmonizing voices, echoing.

mark cums at the same time your rapist does. spattering across the floor, spraying some on the coffee table, as the stranger finishes deep inside your hole.

they shove mark to the side.

and he takes the beating with empty eyes.

he hardly feels it.

you should be catatonic.

but you still cry out and beg them not to kill him over the white noise in mark's ears.

when they relent, the last thing mark hears is the harmonizing voice saying, "don't come looking for us. we'll leak the video."

superhero life is hard.

you know that.

mark's meant to take a punch and then smile with blood stained teeth.

he does just that.

they're gone.

and despite the drugs, he tries to help you. he's still really fucked up on them but he manages to guide you to the bathroom, one arm placed around his shoulder and one of his arms around your waist.

he manages to draw a warm bath for the both of you. he slips into the water and sits behind you, kisses your wet shoulder as you sniffle and cry and pretend to flinch away from him.

mark mindlessly, numbly, follows your every command. when you tell him to help you wash up. when you lead his hands to your used holes and ask him to get rid of all their cum. to make sure you're not soiled from within.

mark wordlessly scrapes the cum out of you. he wipes wet hands across bite marks and scratch marks. his fingers drunkenly rake and dance across blooming contusions.

mark takes you to bed and lays you down.

the two of you are silent.

he's the first to speak.

the slurring is slowly getting better.

the panic's not yet set in. you're not sure it will tonight. maybe not even tomorrow. maybe not even a week from now. but it will.

he says, "i'll get a doctor from cecil. he'll check you out in the morning."

because, really. . what would everyone think of him if the compromising video leaks. if a headline drops reading:

invincible?

superhero lets significant other get gangraped.

no.

you won't go to a hospital.

he won't go to a hospital.

you both can't.

he gets into bed alongside you.

and for the first time, mark turns away from you. he gives you his back. vulnerable. tired. a trusting pup: sleeping belly up.

you sidle up behind him and feel him flinch. suck in a breath. he's drawn so tight he's shaking. but you hook your chin over his shoulder and shush him.

the panic sets in.

mark cries, sobs, retches, heaves until he exhausts himself. until he panics himself to sleep.

and you're glad he let you get this close.

you're glad he's tuckered himself out because, now, you can slip your hands into his clean underwear and make him cum again. you can convince him he came in his sleep, thinking about the rape of his significant other.

you can roll over once you finish and make a money transfer to a bank account for a job well done.

the two of you are bound by tragedy now. mark will never be the same. no one will get him like you do. no one will be able to understand why he is the way he is . . or why he does what he does. . without learning about you first.

it'll take time, but he'll learn to appreciate this night as the night that bound your souls together. as the night that showed him how important you are to him. how dependent. how weak. you've successfully planted the seed of making him feel guilty about leaving you alone. about not protecting you enough.

anxiety will grip him whenever he's away on a mission.

and just like you, he won't be able to think about anything, anyone, else.

his brain will blank, conjuring up only images of you.

he'll fidget and count the seconds, minutes, hours until he sees you again.

and the thought makes you so, so happy.

[urfavsillydoll]

This gives me Lana del rey vibe 💋

[myvoteismyvoice]

I feel the same way honey